Whispers of Ebon Hollow

Darkness wrapped around him like a suffocating cocoon. The air was damp, thick with the metallic scent of wet earth. The wind whispered through the trees, murmuring words he couldn't quite understand. He was barefoot, his feet sinking into the cold mud, and before him stood the twisted silhouette of a dense forest. Something was watching him.

The sound of footsteps—slow, dragging—echoed through the tall trunks of the forest, as if the earth itself were breathing in agony. They did not come from a single point, but from all sides, surrounding him in an invisible cage. He tried to move. To run. To scream. But his muscles refused to obey, as if the ground held him with invisible roots. The wind blew with a cutting force, but it was no ordinary wind—it was a drawn-out wail, human and inhuman at the same time, that made the leaves tremble in panic. Among the thick shadows, pairs of eyes lit up in the dark, red as burning coals, fixed on him. A chill ran down his spine with cold claws. He felt a presence—dense, suffocating—behind him.

He woke up gasping, his heart pounding against his chest.

And then... thin fingers, cold as death, grabbed his neck so tightly that the air escaped from his lungs—as if the world itself had stopped breathing.

The bedroom was steeped in darkness, the pounding of his own heartbeat filling his ears. He sat up, running a hand over his sweaty face. Just a dream. Just a dream.

Turning to the side, he looked at the sleeping figure of his wife. Liz lay beside him, her long, wavy brown hair spilling across the pillow, her delicate features relaxed in sleep. The freckles on her nose were barely visible in the dim light, a contrast to the sharp intelligence that usually shone in her brown eyes. Her breathing was steady, peaceful, unaware of the torment that had chased him through sleep. He glanced at the clock:

5:27 AM. Still dark outside.

With a deep sigh, he got up and walked to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face, he stared at his reflection in the dim light. Dark circles framed his deep-set green eyes, a reminder of too many sleepless nights. His unkempt dark hair was beginning to show streaks of grey at the temples—stress, perhaps. The stubble on his jaw was rough, making him look older than his thirty-something years.

After a moment, he left the bathroom and walked down the hallway to his son's room. He opened the door carefully, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Elliot was curled under the blankets, clutching his stuffed bear in one hand. He had inherited Liz’s expressive brown eyes, but his hair was a shade darker, more like Matt’s. He was small for his age, his frame still carrying the softness of childhood, but there was a seriousness in the way he furrowed his brows while drawing, his fingers gripping the pencil with focused intensity. The tightness in Matt’s chest loosened slightly.

He headed to the kitchen, turned on the coffee maker, and sat at the table, rubbing his eyes. Something still weighed on him, as if a fragment of the nightmare had clung to his skin.

His first cup of coffee was still steaming when Liz appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a thin robe, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

“You’re up early…” she murmured, grabbing a mug.

“Nightmare.” he said, his voice rough.

“Again?” she raised an eyebrow as she poured herself some coffee. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitated. He had dreamed of that place before. But this time, it was different. He had felt watched and hunted like prey.

The wind…it had whispered his name.

“It’s nothing.” he muttered, taking a sip of coffee, trying to shake the unease.

The morning continued as usual. Elliot woke up, complaining about the cold. The smell of toast and eggs filled the house. But small things felt… off. The family dog was restless, growling at an empty corner of the living room. The wind outside seemed stronger than usual, and the trees whispered in an eerie way. Elliot scribbled on a piece of paper, frowning in concentration.

“What are you drawing?” Matt asked, glancing over his shoulder.

The boy turned the paper around.

It was a dark forest. Shadowy figures lurked between the trees, and in the centre, glowing eyes stared out from the branches.

Matt’s heart skipped a beat. He had seen those eyes before, felt that coldness hardening in his stomach all those years ago.

“Elliot…what is this?” he asked, the tremble from his gut carrying on his words.

The boy simply shrugged as if he were showing his father a drawing of a sunny sky. “Don’t know. Just came to my head.”

Elliot had pointed at his temple like any unassuming child would. Relief whisked over Matt for a moment at his son’s casualness and his gaze set on the drawing again. Those eyes. The atmosphere. Something about it felt unsettling. Familiar, yet distant and cold and smothering. He had not even realized his hand covering his mouth until he breathed again. “Has someone shown you something like this? A picture? A story?”

“No, Daddy. I just drew it.”

Matt didn’t answer right away. He stared at the page, his thoughts racing. He reached out and gently took the drawing from Elliot’s hands.

“I think we’ll keep this safe, alright?” he said, folding it carefully.

He managed a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Why?” Elliot asked.

Matt hesitated. His gaze flickered back to the paper, then to his son. The words tangled at the back of his tongue. For a heartbeat he thought of telling the truth—that something about those eyes on the page clawed at a memory he could barely touch. But he swallowed it down.

“Just in case it ever comes back.”

Matt stood up and ruffled Elliot’s hair.

“Come on now, let’s get moving or you’ll be late for school.”

Elliot nodded and jumped off the chair, already distracted by something else.

But Matt’s eyes lingered on the folded paper in his hand a moment longer, the weight of it heavier than it should have been.