No one in Briarfield ever entered Hollow Woods after sunset.
The forest sat just beyond the last row of houses, where the road narrowed and the air turned cold no matter the season. Children were warned. Hunters stayed away. Even animals avoided it.
They all knew why.
The Witch still lived there.
Her name had been erased from memory, but her presence remained—stitched into the trees, buried in the roots, carried by the wind that whispered your name when you stepped too far inside.
Eliza Moore didn’t believe the stories.
She had grown up hearing them—about a woman in black who once lived at the forest’s edge, about villagers who accused her of curses when crops failed and children fell sick. They said she was burned beneath the tallest oak.
They also said she never died.
The First Whisper
Eliza entered Hollow Woods at dusk, camera in hand. She was writing a blog about forgotten places, and fear made good content.
The forest swallowed sound. Birds fell silent. The wind slowed.
Then she heard it.
“Eliza…”
She froze.
The voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t close. It sounded like the forest itself had spoken.
She laughed nervously and kept walking.
That was her first mistake.
The Marked Trees
As darkness crept in, Eliza noticed symbols carved into the trees—circles crossed with jagged lines, spirals etched deep into bark old enough to bleed sap.
Her phone lost signal.
The air smelled like damp earth and smoke.
“Eliza…”
Closer now.
She spun around. Nothing.
But the trees had shifted.
The path behind her no longer existed.
The Witch Appears
She saw the hut before she realized she was being led to it.
It stood crooked among the roots, made of blackened wood and bones tied with twine. Candles burned in the windows—real fire, not illusion.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the air was warm.
A woman stood with her back turned, draped in tattered black cloth. Her hair hung long and silver, tangled with leaves and thorns.
“You came back,” the woman said.
“I’ve never been here,” Eliza whispered.
The woman turned.
Her face was young. Too young. Eyes dark as rot, smiling with no warmth.
“Everyone comes back,” the Witch said. “The forest remembers.”
The Truth of the Curse
The Witch circled Eliza slowly.
“They burned me,” she said calmly. “Not for magic—but for fear. And fear feeds the woods.”
She pressed a finger against Eliza’s chest. The forest trembled.
“Each soul that enters Hollow Woods belongs to me. Some run. Some scream. Some listen.”
The trees outside groaned.
Eliza tried to run.
The door slammed shut.
The Forest Takes Its Due
The Witch whispered words older than language. Roots burst through the floor, wrapping around Eliza’s legs. Her scream echoed—but the forest swallowed it whole.
“You will stay,” the Witch said softly. “You will become part of the warning.”
Eliza felt her skin harden. Her bones stretched. Her feet sank into the earth.
She tried to beg.
The Witch smiled.
By morning, there was no hut. No girl.
Only a new tree stood at the forest’s edge—its bark pale, twisted into something that looked almost like a screaming face.
The Legend Lives On
Weeks later, hikers reported hearing a woman crying from Hollow Woods.
She called for help.
She said her name was Eliza.
And somewhere deeper in the forest, the Witch waited—
patient, immortal, and hungry for the next believer.
