Chapter two
1637 Words
Her eyes were green, sharp, and too knowing. “The ‘I woke up covered in blood and don’t know if I killed a raccoon or a neighbor’ look.”
He didn’t answer.
“Thought so,” she said.
Elias sat across from her on the edge of the fountain. “Do you… believe in curses?”
She smirked. “That’s like asking if I believe in gravity.”
“What’s Whitlock Hill?” he asked.
“My family’s land. Sort of. Long story. Short version: Hollow Ridge is cursed. Always has been. And some bloodlines are closer to the edge than others.”
“Like mine?”
She studied him. “Definitely yours.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw you last night.”
Elias stiffened.
“You were in the woods. No shoes. Eyes glowing. Something was following you, but… it kept its distance. That’s rare.”
“What was it?” he whispered.
She stood and zipped her journal shut. “Whatever’s hunting you… is waiting for the right moon.”
A howl split the air. Not distant. Not animal. Closer.
Lena grabbed his arm. “Come on. Before it decides tonight’s the night.”
That night, Elias’s wounds itched. Burned. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the moon through the window. It hung low and swollen. His chest throbbed.
He lifted his shirt.
A black mark swirled beneath the skin—like ink, or a brand alive with heat. He touched it and winced. It pulsed.
And far beneath the house, something howled back.
The floor creaked outside his room.
Footsteps.
He stood.
“Uncle Silas?”
No answer.
He opened the door slowly.
A shadow passed the stairwell.
Not Silas.
Something taller. Broader.
Its eyes caught the moonlight.
And they glowed
The Girl and the Grave
It wasn’t a dream.
Elias stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted, staring at the gouges down his sides. They stung like fire. His skin was pale, the marks raw and scabbed. But it wasn’t just the wounds. His eyes looked wrong—too wide, pupils sharp as pins. Almost... feral.
He blinked, and they were normal again.
“Get it together,” he whispered.
His voice sounded too loud in the quiet house.
Downstairs, Silas was frying something. Bacon, maybe. The scent should’ve made Elias hungry, but it didn’t. It turned his stomach.
Silas didn’t mention the screaming, the scratches, or the fact that Elias looked like he’d wrestled a bear in his sleep. He just slid a plate across the table like it was any other day.
“Eat.”
“You hear anything weird last night?” Elias asked.
“Every night’s weird in Hollow Ridge.”
“So that’s a no?”
Silas took a long sip from his coffee mug—Elias was starting to think it was never filled with just coffee—and muttered, “You want answers, go talk to the Whitlock girl. She knows all the ghost stories.”
“Who?”
“Lena. Lives near the graveyard. Red hair. Smarter than she looks. Stay out of trouble.”
Elias didn’t promise anything.
He found Lena Whitlock sitting on the edge of a broken fountain behind Hollow Ridge High. Her boots were caked in dried mud, her jacket lined with patches: crescent moons, skulls, tangled trees. Her red hair caught the sun like fire. She was sketching something in a leather-bound journal, the pen moving with quiet purpose.
“Hey,” Elias said.
She didn’t look up. “You’re the new blood.”
“That obvious?”
“You’ve got the haunted look.” She finally glanced up, eyes green and sharp. “Let me guess—bad dreams, weird scars, maybe you woke up naked in the woods with a craving for raw meat?”
Elias blinked. “Close.”
Lena smirked. “Welcome to Hollow Ridge.”
He sat on the crumbling ledge across from her. “How do you—?”
“Because I read. And because it always starts the same way.”
She snapped the notebook shut and stood. “Walk with me.”
They took a winding trail behind the school, leaves crunching underfoot. The deeper they went, the quieter the world became. The trees stood close, too close, and the light filtered down like through stained glass—gray, green, gold.
“People here believe in old things,” Lena said. “Curses. Bloodlines. The Whitlock Curse, especially.”
“What’s that?”
She shrugged. “Depends who you ask. My family’s tied to the land. Same as yours. You’re a Grayson, right?”
He nodded.
“Then you’re part of the story, too.”
Elias gave a dry laugh. “I didn’t sign up for any ghost stories.”
Lena stopped. Her voice turned serious. “You think it’s just stories?”
She pointed toward the woods. “They say things live out there. Not ghosts. Not quite human. Wolves that walk like men. People that howl at the moon and wake up with blood in their teeth.”
“Werewolves?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you believe it?”
Lena didn’t answer right away. She looked up at the trees, then back at him. “I believe something’s wrong with this town. People disappear. Every full moon, someone goes missing or turns up dead. And no one talks about it. Like they’re scared of waking something up.”
Elias felt the chill snake up his spine.
“So,” she added, “what happened to you last night?”
He hesitated. “Why do you think something did?”
“Because I saw you.”
His blood ran cold.
In the woods. Barefoot. Covered in dirt. Your eyes were glowing.”
He took a step back. “That’s not possible.”
“Oh, it’s very possible.”
A howl rang out—low and distant, but far too close for comfort.
She took him not to her house, but to the graveyard.
Whitlock Hill rose like a wound above the town. The iron gate groaned as they pushed through it. Tombstones leaned at crooked angles, names worn down to whispers by time. The air was colder here. Still.
“This place is sacred,” Lena said. “Cursed, but sacred.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Neither does Hollow Ridge.”
She led him to a half-sunken crypt at the top of the hill. Carved into the stone above it was a name: Eleanor Whitlock.
“She was the first,” Lena said. “She made a pact. To protect this place. But it came with a cost.”
“What kind of pact?”
“Magic. Blood magic. She bound the town’s fate to her own. When she died, the curse fractured—spread to the other founding families. Yours included.”
Elias stared at the grave. “So… what am I?”
“Something old,” Lena whispered. “Something dangerous.”
He stepped away. “No. I’m not part of this. I didn’t ask for any of it.”
“No one does,” Lena said.
The wind howled through the cemetery, dragging leaves in spirals around their feet. Elias turned to look down the hill—and froze.
A figure stood near the gate. Tall. Still. Cloaked in black, its face hidden beneath a wide hood.
“Who’s that?” Elias asked.
Lena’s face drained of color. “Run.”
They fled down the opposite side of the hill, crashing through brambles and brittle leaves. The forest closed in around them.
“Who was that?” Elias gasped.
“The Hollow Man.”
“That’s a legend.”
“No,” she said. “He’s real. And he hunts the cursed.”
They broke through the trees into a clearing. A circle of stones, blackened at the edges. Elias stumbled, landing hard on one knee. His side flared with pain.
Lena knelt beside him. “Let me see.”
He hesitated, then lifted his shirt. The marks along his ribs pulsed—red and angry. But in the moonlight, something shimmered beneath his skin. A shape. A sigil.
Lena paled. “That’s a binding mark.”
“A what?”
“You’re not turning. You’re being prepared.”
“For what?”
She looked up at the stars. “For the moon. The real one. The blood moon.”
A branch cracked nearby. Not a squirrel. Not the wind.
Something was coming.
Lena grabbed his hand. “We need to hide.”
They ducked behind the stones. Elias’s breath came in shallow gasps. His ears rang. His skin itched like fire.
From the trees, something stepped into the clearing.
It wasn’t the Hollow Man.
It was a creature—seven feet tall, hunched, covered in matted fur. Its eyes glowed gold. Its claws scraped the rocks as it sniffed the air.
Elias couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred.
The thing turned toward them—and stopped.
It stared at Elias.
Then it backed away.
Lena pulled him to his feet as the creature vanished into the trees.
“What the hell just happened?” he whispered.
“It recognized you,” she said.
“Recognize me how?”
“You’re marked. You’re one of them now.”
“No.”
“Elias—”
“No!”
He took a step back, shaking.
“This isn’t real. It’s a nightmare. It has to be.”
She touched his arm gently. “I’m sorry. But it’s only just beginning.”
That night, Elias stood in front of the mirror again.
The sigil burned just beneath his skin. His eyes shimmered gold.
And outside his window, the forest whispered his name.
- Writer
