In the small, forgotten town of Eldridge, nestled deep within a dense forest, there stood an old, decrepit house known as Blackthorn Manor. The townsfolk spoke of it in hushed tones, warning their children to stay far away. The house had been abandoned for over a century, but its dark history lingered like a shadow over the town.

The story went that the original owner, Ezekiel Blackthorn, was a reclusive man who dabbled in the occult. He was said to have summoned something unspeakable within the walls of his home, something that drove him to madness. One night, the entire Blackthorn family vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a cryptic message scrawled in blood on the dining room wall: "They are in the walls."

Over the years, a few brave—or foolish—souls ventured into the house, hoping to uncover its secrets. None returned. The house remained silent, its windows like hollow eyes staring out into the forest, waiting.

One cold October evening, a group of four friends—Mia, Jake, Sarah, and Ryan—decided to spend the night in Blackthorn Manor as a dare. They were thrill-seekers, drawn to the macabre, and the legend of the house was too tempting to resist. Armed with flashlights, a camera, and a bottle of whiskey for courage, they pushed open the creaking front door and stepped inside.

The air was thick with dust and the scent of decay. The floorboards groaned under their weight as they explored the first floor. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper, and the furniture was draped in yellowed sheets. Everything was eerily still, as if the house itself was

another

Title: The Hollowing

In the remote village of Veylock, surrounded by jagged mountains and endless fog, there was a tradition known as "The Hollowing." Every fifty years, the villagers would gather in the town square at midnight, carrying lanterns and wearing masks carved from bone. They would chant in a language long forgotten, their voices rising into the cold, still air. At the center of the square stood an ancient stone well, its depths shrouded in darkness.

The ritual was said to keep the village safe from The Hollow, a nameless entity that dwelled in the mountains. No one knew exactly what The Hollow was, only that it hungered. Those who spoke of it too often would wake to find their voices gone, their throats raw and empty, as if something had reached inside and taken what it needed.

The last Hollowing had occurred fifty years ago, and the village had been peaceful since. But now, the time had come again.

Ellie, a young woman who had grown up in Veylock, had always been skeptical of the ritual. She had left the village years ago to study anthropology in the city, and now, reluctantly, she had returned to care for her ailing grandmother. Her grandmother, a frail woman with eyes that seemed to see too much, had begged Ellie not to come back.

"The Hollow knows when outsiders doubt," her grandmother had whispered, clutching Ellie's hand with surprising strength. "It feeds on doubt. On fear. It will come for you."

Ellie had dismissed the warning as the ramblings of an old woman. But as the night of the Hollowing approached, strange things began to happen. She would wake to find her bedroom door open, though she was certain she had closed it. Her reflection in the mirror sometimes seemed to move on its own, its lips curling into a smile she didn't make. And at night, she heard whispers—soft, insistent, and just beyond comprehension—coming from the woods.

On the night of the Hollowing, the villagers gathered in the square, their lanterns casting flickering shadows on the cobblestones. Ellie stood at the edge of the crowd, her arms crossed, watching as the elders began the chant. The sound was low and guttural, rising and falling like a heartbeat. The air grew colder, and the fog thickened, curling around their ankles like tendrils.

Suddenly, the chanting stopped. The villagers turned as one to face the well. Ellie felt a chill run down her spine as she realized they were all looking at her.

"Ellie," one of the elders said, his voice trembling. "You must make the offering."

"What offering?" Ellie asked, her voice shaking despite herself.

The elder pointed to the well. "The Hollow has chosen you. It wants your voice."

Ellie backed away, shaking her head. "No. This is insane. I'm not part of this."

But the villagers began to move toward her, their masks grotesque in the lantern light. Ellie turned to run, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. The whispers grew louder, filling her ears, her mind. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her throat burned, and she clutched at it, feeling something cold and wet slithering inside.

The villagers watched in silence as Ellie collapsed to her knees, her mouth opening in a soundless cry. Her reflection in the well's dark water smiled back at her, its eyes hollow and endless.

When the fog lifted, Ellie was gone. The villagers returned to their homes, their lanterns extinguished. The well stood silent once more, its depths undisturbed.

But in the mountains, the whispers grew louder. The Hollow had been fed, but it was still hungry. And it would return.

reincarnate story

Title: The Threads of Eternity

In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills and a shimmering river, there lived a young woman named Lila. She was known for her vivid dreams—dreams so real that she often woke with the scent of foreign flowers in her nostrils or the taste of unfamiliar spices on her tongue. But these were no ordinary dreams. Lila was remembering her past lives.

It began when she turned twenty-one. One night, she dreamed of a bustling marketplace in a desert city, the air thick with the scent of incense and spices. She was a merchant, haggling over the price of silk with a man whose face was obscured by the sun. When she woke, she found her hands still smelled of sandalwood, and a faint scar on her palm—a scar she didn't remember having—matched the one from her dream.

As the weeks passed, the dreams grew more frequent and more vivid. She saw herself as a warrior in a distant land, her sword gleaming under a blood-red moon. She was a healer in a snow-covered village, tending to the sick with herbs she could still name. She was a poet in a grand palace, her words weaving tales of love and loss. Each life felt as real as the one she was living now, and each ended in tragedy—a battle, a plague, a betrayal.

Lila began to piece together the pattern. She was not just dreaming of random lives; she was reliving them. And in every life, there was one constant: a man with piercing green eyes. Sometimes he was her lover, sometimes her enemy, sometimes a stranger who passed her in the street. But he was always there, his presence like a thread connecting her across time.

One day, while wandering the forest near her village, Lila stumbled upon an ancient stone archway covered in moss and ivy. As she approached, she felt a strange pull, as if the archway was calling to her. She stepped through and found herself in a vast, shimmering meadow. The air was thick with golden light, and the ground was covered in flowers that glowed faintly.

In the center of the meadow stood a woman with silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold the stars. She smiled at Lila and said, "You've finally found your way back."

"Who are you?" Lila asked, her voice trembling.

"I am the Weaver," the woman replied. "I weave the threads of lives, connecting them across time and space. You, Lila, are one of my chosen. You carry the memories of your past lives because you have a purpose that spans them all."

"What purpose?" Lila asked.

The Weaver's smile faded. "In every life, you have been drawn to the man with green eyes. He is your soul's counterpart, but he is also its greatest challenge. In each life, you have failed to save him, and in each life, you have paid the price. But this time, the cycle can be broken."

Lila's heart raced. "How?"

The Weaver gestured to the flowers at their feet. "These are the threads of your lives. Each one holds a memory, a lesson, a piece of who you are. To break the cycle, you must find him in this life and remember what you have learned. Only then can you change your fate."

Lila returned to the village, her mind reeling. She began to search for the man with green eyes, following the faint traces of memory that lingered in her dreams. Weeks turned into months, and just as she began to lose hope, she saw him.

He was standing in the village square, his green eyes scanning the crowd as if he, too, was searching for something—or someone. When their eyes met, Lila felt a jolt of recognition, as if a missing piece of her soul had finally clicked into place.

But as she approached him, a shadow passed over the sun, and the air grew cold. She remembered the Weaver's warning: this was her last chance to break the cycle. The man's eyes widened as he saw her, and for a moment, it seemed as if he remembered her too.

"Lila," he whispered, his voice filled with both hope and fear.

She reached for his hand, the scar on her palm glowing faintly. "This time," she said, "we'll get it right."

And as their fingers touched, the threads of their lives began to unravel and weave anew, their fates intertwined once more. But this time, Lila was determined to rewrite the ending.