Chapter 1 — Prologue: The Vanished Village

Third Person

The air in Hollow’s End weighed heavy with unspoken dread. A brittle wind swept through the cobblestone streets, carrying the faint scent of decay and pine needles. Lanterns flickered nervously, their flames casting trembling shadows on the warped wooden walls of the small village. Hollow’s End had always been isolated, nestled deep within Blackhollow Forest, but tonight felt different. The usual sounds of nocturnal life—the chirp of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl—were conspicuously absent. Instead, a silence hung over the village like a smothering blanket, broken only by the occasional uneasy murmurs of its inhabitants.

The villagers had gathered in the central square, drawn by the summons of Elder Thorne. The old man stood before the bonfire, its flames licking up into the cold night air, illuminating his deeply lined face. His eyes, sharp despite his many years, scanned the crowd. Men, women, and children packed closely together, clutching shawls and each other, their faces pale in the firelight. Fear was etched into every expression, though no one dared to voice it.

Elder Thorne raised a gnarled hand, commanding silence. “When the pack calls, do not answer,” he intoned, his voice steady but low, as if afraid the forest might hear him. “It has begun again. The signs are clear.”

A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Mothers pulled their children closer, and men exchanged anxious glances. Near the edges of the gathering, a skeptical voice broke the tension. “What signs, Elder? What proof do we have?” It was Garret, the blacksmith, his broad shoulders squared and arms crossed over his chest. “You’re scaring people with old stories. We’ve survived these woods for generations. What’s different now?”

Elder Thorne’s gaze settled on Garret, his expression unreadable. “And how many of those generations have vanished?” he asked quietly. The crowd stilled, as if a collective breath had been held. “The whispers have returned. The howls echo through the trees. Symbols mark our homes, our paths. You’ve seen them, Garret.”

The blacksmith shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Around him, murmurs began to rise. A young woman in the crowd spoke up, her voice trembling. “I saw them... the symbols. Carved into the trees by my house. They weren’t there yesterday.” Her words sent a shiver through those closest to her.

“And the animals,” another voice added, this time an old man hunched against a cane. “They’ve gone quiet. The birds, the deer. Even the wolves. It’s like the forest is holding its breath.”

Elder Thorne nodded solemnly. “The forest watches,” he said. “It waits. But it will not wait long. When the pack calls, do not answer. If you hear them, cover your ears. If you see them, shut your eyes. Do not run, and do not follow.”

The crowd stirred uneasily, the fire reflecting in their wide, fearful eyes. Somewhere in the distance, the forest rustled—not the natural movement of wind through leaves, but something deeper, stranger. A sound like branches snapping underfoot, though no one had ventured into the woods that night.

A child’s voice broke the tense silence. “What happens if we do?” All eyes turned to the boy, no older than eight, clutching his mother’s hand. His innocent question rang out like a challenge to the darkness beyond the village.

Elder Thorne hesitated, his mouth tightening into a grim line. When he spoke, it was with the weight of years behind him. “You will not return the same.”

The fire cracked loudly, spitting embers into the night as a wave of panic rippled through the villagers. Some began to cry softly; others whispered prayers under their breath. Garret’s skepticism faltered, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the forest’s edge.

“Enough,” Thorne said, raising his voice above the growing chaos. “Hollow’s End has faced this before. We will face it again. Stay in your homes tonight. Lock your doors, your windows. Do not stray from the light.”

The group began to disperse, though reluctance clung to their movements. Families huddled together as they retreated to their homes, lanterns bobbing in the dark like will-o’-the-wisps. The cobblestones echoed faintly with hurried footsteps, each sound quickly swallowed by the oppressive silence of the forest.

Elder Thorne lingered by the fire, his gaze fixed on the treeline. He seemed to be listening, though for what, no one dared to ask. When the square was empty, he finally turned and made his way toward his own modest house. He carried no lantern, trusting the fire’s glow to guide him. As he walked, his shoulders sagged under the weight of an unseen burden.

***

The village fell into a tense quiet as the night deepened. Doors were bolted, curtains drawn tight. The bonfire continued to burn in the square, its flames visible from nearly every window. Inside their homes, the villagers whispered in hushed tones or sat in silence, ears straining for sounds they hoped would not come.

The first howl broke the silence just as the clock in the chapel struck midnight.

It wasn’t the sound of an animal—it was too layered, too human. It carried an unnatural resonance, as if the trees themselves were crying out. One by one, the villagers froze where they sat, their conversations and prayers dying on their lips. The howl rose again, closer this time, reverberating through the cobblestones and rattling the fragile glass of the windows.

Inside his home, Elder Thorne bolted the heavy wooden shutters over his windows, his hands steady despite the pounding of his heart. He muttered a prayer softly, though he doubted it would help. The symbols etched into his walls pulsed faintly in the firelight, as though responding to the sound. He knew the forest’s mark when he saw it.

In another part of the village, Garret sat rigid in his chair, staring at the dying embers in his hearth. The room felt colder with each passing moment. He clenched his jaw as the howls grew louder, closer. His wife clutched his arm, her fingers digging into his skin. “Garret,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “The elder said—”

“I know what he said,” Garret snapped, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. He stood abruptly, pacing toward the door. “I won’t cower in my own home like a frightened child.”

“Garret, no!” his wife hissed, her fear palpable. But he ignored her, unbolting the door and stepping outside.

The cold night air hit him like a slap. The village square was empty, the fire still burning in its center. The howls had stopped, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. For a moment, Garret hesitated, his bravado faltering. Then he saw it—movement at the edge of the forest. A flicker of golden eyes among the trees. His breath caught in his throat.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice trembling. He took a step forward, then another. The eyes remained, unblinking. And then, from somewhere behind him, a whisper. Soft, compelling, like a breeze brushing against his ear.

“Garret...”

He turned sharply, but no one was there. The whisper came again, this time from the forest. Against every instinct, he stepped closer. “Who’s there?” he demanded again, the words shaking as they left his lips.

“Come,” the voice urged, coaxing. “We’re waiting...”

Back in their homes, the villagers cowered as more whispers filled the air. They slipped through cracks in the walls, curling around their ears like poisonous vines. Some sobbed openly; others pressed their hands over their ears, desperate to block out the sound.

The bonfire in the square flickered, then dimmed, as if the forest itself exhaled. By dawn, Hollow’s End was silent once more.

When the sun rose, its light revealed an empty village. Doors hung ajar, meals sat untouched on tables, clothes lay scattered on floors. The bonfire had burned out entirely, leaving only ash. Strange symbols marked the cobblestones and the trees, pulsating faintly as if alive. The forest loomed, still and watchful, as if it had swallowed the village whole.

And deep within Blackhollow, the howls continued.