The town of Black Hollow was a place forgotten by time. Nestled deep within a dense forest, it was a maze of narrow streets, crumbling buildings, and an oppressive silence that seemed to swallow sound whole. Locals spoke of strange occurrences—whispers in the night, shadows that moved on their own, and a pervasive sense of dread that clung to the air like fog. But no one dared to leave. Black Hollow had a way of keeping its people tethered, as if the town itself were alive.
Elliot Harper wasn't a believer in superstitions. A freelance journalist chasing his next big story, he arrived in Black Hollow with a skeptical mind and a camera slung over his shoulder. The town's eerie reputation had piqued his interest, and he was determined to uncover the truth behind the rumors. What he didn't know was that some truths were better left buried.
Elliot checked into the Hollow's Rest Inn, the only lodging in town. The innkeeper, Mrs. Greaves, was a gaunt woman with hollow eyes and a permanent scowl. She handed him a rusty key and warned him not to wander the halls after dark. "The walls have ears," she muttered cryptically before shuffling away.
Elliot dismissed her words as the ramblings of a superstitious old woman. He unpacked his belongings in Room 13, a dimly lit space with peeling wallpaper and a single flickering bulb. The room felt... off, as if it were watching him. He shook off the unease and began reviewing his notes on the town's history.
As night fell, the silence deepened. Elliot sat at the rickety desk, typing away on his laptop. The clock ticked loudly, the sound echoing in the stillness. Then, he heard it—a faint whisper, so soft he almost thought he imagined it. He froze, straining to listen. The whisper came again, this time clearer. It was a voice, speaking in a language he didn't understand, but the tone was unmistakably sinister.
Elliot stood, his heart pounding. He followed the sound to the wall, pressing his ear against it. The whispering grew louder, more insistent, as if the wall itself were alive. He stumbled back, his breath quickening. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice trembling.
No answer. Only the whispers, growing louder and more frantic. Elliot grabbed his camera and began snapping photos of the wall, hoping to capture something—anything—that could explain the madness. The flash of the camera illuminated the room, and in that split second, he saw it: a face, twisted and grotesque, emerging from the wallpaper. Its eyes were hollow, its mouth open in a silent scream.
Elliot dropped the camera and bolted out of the room. The hallway was pitch black, the only light coming from the faint glow of his phone. He ran blindly, the whispers now echoing all around him, as if the walls were closing in. He reached the stairwell and descended as fast as he could, his legs trembling with fear.
The inn's lobby was empty, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock. Elliot pounded on the front desk, shouting for Mrs. Greaves. No one came. He turned to the door, but it was locked tight, the key nowhere to be found. The whispers grew louder, filling his ears, his mind. He screamed, clawing at the walls as if to silence them, but they only grew stronger.
Hours later, the whispers stopped. Elliot sat slumped against the wall, his hands bloody and his mind shattered. The town of Black Hollow had claimed another victim. And in Room 13, the wallpaper shifted once more, a new face beginning to take shape.