Eldermoor Village

The forest beyond Eldermoor village was a place of whispered dread, its gnarled oaks and tangled undergrowth swallowing moonlight like a hungry void. Locals called it the Black Hollow, claiming it was cursed since the village’s founding in 1693. They spoke of a witch cult that gathered at the witching hour—3 a.m.—to dance around a bonfire, chanting curses to summon the devil himself. As a skeptical journalist named Eliza, chasing a breakout story on occult practices, I saw an opportunity to debunk the hysteria. Armed with a flashlight, notebook, and hidden recorder, I slipped into the Black Hollow under a moonless sky, the air thick with the scent of pine and something acrid, like burning blood.