Ashes of the Soul Keeper

Shadows of Black Hollow

 “Some places forget how to die.”

The tires of Evelyn Drake’s car sliced through the damp gravel road, the wheels spitting up small stones that rattled against the undercarriage. The fog thickened the deeper she drove into the forgotten woods, where twisted trees clawed at the sky and moss-covered trunks lined the desolate path. Branches arched overhead like brittle bones, suffocating the weak sunlight struggling to seep through the gray canopy.

The road narrowed, curving sharply, forcing Evelyn to slow. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles paling as the headlights pierced through the dense mist, illuminating the warped wooden sign ahead: Welcome to Black Hollow. The words, faded and split by a jagged crack, loomed out of the fog like a warning.

Her phone vibrated on the passenger seat, shattering the heavy silence. She grabbed it, flicking her thumb across the cracked screen.

“Evelyn, please, don’t do this,” came the urgent voice of Harper Kensington, her childhood best friend.

Evelyn sighed, her eyes never leaving the winding road. “Harper, I have to. I need to see it for myself.”

“You don’t. That house, Evelyn, it’s poison. Black Hollow… it never lets go.”

“I’m not here for the town. Just the estate. Then I’m gone.”

A beat of silence, heavy with unspoken fears. “Then be careful. People talk about what lingers there.”

The call ended, leaving only the hum of the car and the soft thump of Evelyn’s heart. Fog pressed closer, curling in the edges of the windshield like ghostly fingers.

As she rounded the final bend, the house came into view. The Hale Estate.

It stood tall against the dense mist, the towering gables stretching skyward, its stone façade cracked and clawed by ivy. The metal gates, rusted and twisted, swung open with a creaking groan, as if the house itself had been waiting.

Evelyn’s stomach twisted. But she drove forward.

The iron gates screeched as Evelyn’s car crawled up the cracked driveway, dead leaves swirling beneath her tires. The mansion loomed ahead, a monolith of stone and shadow, its towering chimneys blackened from the fire that had claimed Vivienne Hale’s life. Time had gnawed at its edges; ivy strangled the columns, and jagged cracks split the once-pristine stone.

Evelyn killed the engine. The sudden silence was suffocating.

Stepping out, damp air wrapped around her, thick with the scent of moss and charred wood. She hesitated, her boots crunching against gravel as she stared at the mansion’s massive oak doors, twisted from the heat of the fire but still standing.

“Looks worse than I remember,” she muttered.

The front steps groaned under her weight as she climbed them. Her fingers brushed the tarnished doorknob, cool and damp to the touch. She didn’t need to push, the door drifted inward with a slow, hollow creak.

Inside, dust motes hung suspended in beams of silver light slicing through the broken windows. The grand hall stretched wide, marble floors splintered by cracks, chandeliers hanging askew from sagging beams. A tattered runner stretched toward a wide staircase, its edges curled like dead leaves.

The air felt wrong. Heavy. Like the house was holding its breath.

Evelyn’s boots echoed as she stepped further inside. Her hand trailed along the dusty banister, fingers brushing against deep claw-like scratches gouged into the wood. She stopped.

A chill spidered across her shoulders.

It was cold, far colder than the air outside.

She turned sharply. Nothing.

But then, faintly, a whisper, thin as thread, brushed her ear.

“Leave…”

Her breath caught in her throat.

The chandelier above swayed, metal groaning.

Evelyn clenched her jaw. “I’m not leaving.”

But the house disagreed. The door slammed shut behind her.

The whispering grew louder.

The heavy thrum of rain battered the estate’s sagging roof as twilight surrendered to the night. Evelyn sat cross-legged on the dusty hardwood floor, her jeans streaked with grime, surrounded by brittle boxes stacked with forgotten relics. Candlelight flickered in the corner, casting thin shadows that crawled across the decaying walls.

She tugged open another box, the cardboard damp and fragile, its corners fraying like old scars. Her fingers brushed over yellowed papers, sepia-toned photographs of people she barely recognized, her grandmother, Vivienne Hale, stone-faced beside strangers in old-fashioned clothes. Beneath them lay a leather-bound journal, the corners curled with age.

Evelyn hesitated before lifting it.

The spine cracked as she opened it, the scent of old ink and ash rising in a wave. Vivienne’s looping handwriting danced across the pages, neat but frantic. “Spirits still linger. The veil is thinning. They whisper in the walls.”

A cold ripple slid down Evelyn’s spine. She flipped further. Pages filled with symbols, protective sigils?.....sketched in the margins, notes scrawled about “unfinished business” and “trapped souls bound to the fire.”

Thunder cracked above, shaking the walls. The candle sputtered.

The lights flickered once. Twice. Then went out.

The air thickened, heavy with the acrid scent of burnt wood.

Evelyn froze.

Across the room, a tall mirror, its glass streaked with dust and time, clouded over with a fine mist. Slowly, a single handprint formed against the inside of the glass, long fingers, splayed wide, as if someone pressed from the other side.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“Who’s there?” she rasped.

No answer. The handprint remained, droplets trailing like tears.

The whispering returned, curling around her like smoke.

“It’s not over.”

The mirror cracked down the middle.

Evelyn staggered backward as cold air sliced through the room.

The smell of burning wood deepened.

But the fireplace was dark.

Night buried the estate in thick shadows, the storm’s fury finally softening to a gentle patter against broken glass. Evelyn curled on the threadbare couch in the study, the journal still clutched to her chest. Exhaustion pulled heavy on her eyelids. The house felt calmer now, silent, save for the wind clawing at the windowpanes.

But sleep did not come peacefully.

In the haze of dreams, fire raged.

It licked up the walls, greedy tongues of orange and gold, swallowing wood and stone. Evelyn stood barefoot in the grand hall, only now it was alive. Ornate chandeliers dangled overhead, unbroken. Velvet drapes framed the tall windows. The house before the fire.

But something was wrong.

Screams echoed. High-pitched. Children.

Evelyn turned. Small shadows darted through the flames, clawing at locked doors, tiny fists pounding against glass. Smoke choked the air, thick and blinding, the heat pressing against her skin.

A girl stood by the staircase, no older than seven, her white dress singed at the edges. Her wide, hollow eyes locked onto Evelyn’s.

“Help us,” the girl whispered, though her mouth never moved.

Evelyn’s throat tightened. She stepped forward…..

Flames roared. The chandelier overhead groaned before crashing down in a spray of embers.

She jolted awake, gasping, the dream’s heat still on her skin.

The room was ice-cold.

Smoke curled upward from the stone fireplace, though it sat cold and untouched.

Evelyn scrambled upright, her heart a wild drum in her chest.

Her gaze dropped to the hearth.

In the thin layer of soot smeared across the stone, words had been etched, deep and deliberate:

SOUL KEEPER.

Her breath caught.

Outside, the storm raged again, louder now, like something was waiting.

The night air clawed at Evelyn’s skin as she stepped out onto the crumbling front porch, her breath curling in the cold. The storm had passed, but the estate still felt suffocating, thick with something she couldn’t shake. Her boots crunched over damp leaves as she walked beyond the twisted iron gates, seeking air that didn’t taste of smoke and dust.

Then, the flash of red and blue pierced the darkness.

Police lights flickered between the trees, their glow cutting through the fog that still clung to the hollow. Evelyn’s pulse quickened. She followed the distant voices and the low static of a radio, the soft squelch of mud beneath her steps.

The woods grew dense, branches clawing at her jacket as she moved deeper in. The heavy scent of wet earth was broken by something sharper, burnt wood. And something else. Metallic.

Voices rose ahead.

She slipped past a line of patrol cars, crouching low until the clearing opened before her.

A body lay at its center.

Or what was left of one.

Charred beyond recognition, the figure was sprawled at odd angles, limbs twisted unnaturally. Steam curled from blackened skin. The earth around it was scorched in a perfect circle, as if the ground itself had been seared. Police tape flapped limply in the breeze, the air still thick with the scent of burnt flesh.

And then, her eyes caught it.

Etched into the earth beside the body was a symbol, sharp, jagged lines twisting into a spiral. The exact sigil from her dream.

Her breath hitched.

“Step back.”

Evelyn jerked as a figure loomed behind her. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark trench coat, the silver glint of a badge clipped to his belt. His voice was rough, firm, laced with authority.

Detective Ethan Calloway.

His dark eyes, storm-gray and cold, locked onto hers. The kind of eyes that had seen too much. He didn’t lower the flashlight he pointed at her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled.

But Evelyn barely heard him.

Her gaze stayed rooted to the scorched sigil on the ground, her heart racing.

Because it was calling to her.