Whispers in Hollow Creek

The road to Hollow Creek was nothing but a black ribbon cutting through endless trees. Rain slicked asphalt reflected the headlights, and every few minutes, Jay muttered something about how “this place could be in a horror movie.” “Shut up, Jay,” Carla said, gripping the wheel tighter. “We’re almost there. And if this is a horror movie, I’m leaving you to the monsters first.” The cabin appeared suddenly, like it had been waiting. Its windows were dark, the porch sagging slightly under years of neglect. A single lantern flickered, swaying even though there was no wind. “This looks… cozy,” Sam said, voice tight with nervous laughter. Inside, the air smelled of wet wood and mildew. The fireplace was cold, the furniture covered in thin sheets. Carla set down the keys with a clatter that echoed unnaturally in the silence. “Okay,” she said, forcing a grin. “Rules: No wandering outside alone. Stay together. And please… no stupid dares, Jay.” Jay laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?” They unpacked quickly, trying to shake the unease that had settled over them. Shadows seemed to stretch longer than the corners of the room, and every creak of the floor made Carla’s stomach knot. Then they heard it: a faint whisper, soft and wet, like someone was breathing directly in their ears. “Did you hear that?” Carla whispered, frozen. “Probably the wind,” Jay said too quickly, glancing at the dark hallway. But the whisper came again. And this time, it said a name: “Carla…” Her blood ran cold. The lantern flickered violently, and all the lights in the cabin went out at once. In the darkness, something moved. Not a shadow—but a shape, shifting, watching, waiting. And from somewhere deep in the walls, a voice hissed, “You shouldn’t have come.” Carla’s hands shook. Sam’s knees buckled. Jay laughed—too loud, too forced. No one dared speak. Because the house was listening