The village of Mervyn Hollow had long been shrouded in an aura of unease, a place steeped in the whispers of legends best forgotten. Nestled amidst dense woods and overshadowed by the ominous Blackthorn Hill, it was a swamp of dark tales, but none frightened its residents more than the legend of the Butcher.
Years ago, when the village was but a gathering of cottages, the Butcher had risen to infamy. Cormac Graves, a man of towering stature and an even more formidable reputation, operated the local butcher’s shop, which was said to be imbued with a certain sinister charm. Although he had once been a figure of community pride, a skilled tradesman renowned for his quality meat, his descent into madness was both alarming and swift. Eyewitnesses claimed he had started to hear ‘echoes’. The voices of animals, pleading for their lives, whispering their sins and secrets. Whether they were the true voices of the departed or the mere product of his crumbling mind, none could ascertain.
As weeks turned into months, his behaviour morphed into something grotesque. Villagers began to notice strange practices surrounding his shop: the savoury scents of marinated local game became overpowered by the acrid stench of decay. He would laugh hollowly as he slaughtered animals, his hands slick with crimson gore, whilst murmuring softly as though conversing with ghosts only he could see. Eventually, the shop was abandoned, the shutters drawn tight, and the townsfolk ceased to speak of him altogether, as if the act would revive that dark energy.
But history is a cruel teacher. Each generation is taught to ignore the echoes of the past, and much as the villagers turned away, the Butcher’s shadow still loomed large. Thirty years passed before a newcomer stumbled upon the hollow – Harriet Marsh, a university graduate seeking to escape the noisy pulse of London for a simpler, quieter life. Her friends had warned her about the sparse gossip and insular nature of the village, but the promise of tranquility had been too great to resist.
On her first evening, Harriet wandered the twisting, empty lanes, admiring the crumbling cottages draped with ivy, the twisting trees that seemed to lean in as if sharing secrets. Locals eyed her with curiosity, their stares sharp and unwelcoming; nonetheless, she was determined to become part of the fabric of this strange place. She visited the village pub, The Bleeding Heart, where dusty rafters and the scents of ale filled the air. The patrons glanced at her, sharing knowing nods over pints, but their laughter faded when she approached, and the topic changed abruptly, like a door muted behind her.
With her enthusiasm undeterred, Harriet decided to explore more about Mervyn Hollow’s folklore. At the village library, she learned of the Butcher through yellowing pages and clippings. The Requiem of Cormac Graves, it was titled. It seemed the Butcher’s madness had culminated in a frenzied sacrifice—his own life claimed by his echoing demons when the villagers finally turned against him. They claimed he had been heard begging for forgiveness, but no-one had come to his aid. Instead, starved of compassion, he grew even darker.
“What a tragic end,” Harriet mused aloud, surprising the librarian, a prickly woman whose thin lips pursed disapprovingly.
“Not so tragic if ye ask me,” she huffed. “Some say he got what was coming to ‘im. Some just say he’s still here.”
“Still here?” Harriet tilted her head, bemused by the notion.
“Folklore. Best to keep things like that to yourself.” The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t want to let the echoes find ye.”
Harriet chuckled nervously, but a shiver crept along her spine. That evening, on her way home, she recalled the old tales as she strolled through the woods that surrounded the village, its dark expanse swaying with every gust of wind. As twilight descended, the atmosphere thickened, shadows loomed larger, and the silence pressed closer, wrapping around her like a damp blanket.
It didn’t take long for the echoes to reach Harriet. They were subtle at first—a distant whisper, a rustling leaf, a fleeting shadow darting from the corner of her eye. She shook them off as figments of an overactive imagination, but the whispers grew more distinct over the coming days. The residents avoided her, their conversations muttering of her audacity to delve into the past, each hushed discussion simmering with contempt.
Taking refuge in her research, Harriet spent every waking hour reading about Mervyn Hollow’s secrets. She even ventured into the abandoned butcher’s shop on the outskirts, which had become overrun by nature. The door creaked ominously as she entered, revealing a dark space where the air hung thick with decay. The countless hooks that had once held the butcher’s wares were now twisted and rusted, and furred remnants of rotting signs still clung to the walls.
As she peered around the dusty room, echoes began to unfurl into something tangible. Muffled voices whispered terrifying tales of suffering—the unrelenting cries of animals that had met gruesome fates at the hands of the Butcher. Each thud of her heart reverberated within her as the air grew colder. She tried to shuffle back towards the door, but her feet felt anchored to the ground as terror gripped her. The boundaries of the space warped, shifting as if the shadows themselves were alive and creeping closer.
Then, she saw him—a figure in the depths of the darkness. Tall, gaunt, and draped in an apron stained with red. Cormac Graves. The Butcher. His face split into a grin from the corner of the room, stretching far too wide as he beckoned her closer with gnarled fingers, that hunger shining brightly in his wild eyes.
“Join me,” he rasped. “They all made their choices, but you… you still have time. You can understand the echoes.”
Harriet stumbled back, panic igniting in her chest. Before she could reach the door, the whispers morphed into screams, overlapping and overlapping until her vision blurred. “Help me. Set me free!” they cried. “Don’t let them take you too!”
She bolted past the threshold, sprinting into the night, the sounds of agony ringing in her ears. The villagers had already dubbed her mad for seeking out the Butcher, and as she ran through the woods, her mind warped in fear. Are they right? Were the echoes trying to claim her?
But Mervyn Hollow would not let her escape so easily. Each night, she sank deeper into the treachery of her own mind as the echoes enveloped her, whispers wrapping around her throat like nooses, squeezing tighter. Sleep was elusive; her waking hours filled with glimpses of the Butcher dancing across her vision, his persistent whisper urging her to give in. Everywhere she turned, he beckoned, and the once beautiful village twisted into a grotesque nightmare painted with shadows and fear.
Desperate and alone, Harriet sought solace in the library, where she pored over the tales of the past, tracing the impact of the Butcher’s existence. There, she learned of an ancient ritual, designed to banish spirits trapped by their sins. It required a pure heart—a sacrifice aimed at releasing the tortured souls long filed away into the hollow.
On the night of the new moon, with lanterns ablaze and the villagers tucked safely within their homes, Harriet stood before the old butcher’s shop, clutching the relics she had gathered. A sliver of hope coursed through her veins. Her heart raced, each beat echoing the simmering voices in her mind as she poured salt across the threshold—a barrier between worlds.
“Spirits of the damned, hear me,” she proclaimed before the crumbling structure, her voice unwavering despite her shaking hands. “In your suffering, find your peace and release this hollow from its curse!”
The shadows coalesced, dark shapes swirling and taking form as the whispers crescendoed, filling her ears with their promises of vengeance and regret. “We are hungry!” they screeched, the anguished souls pushed against the walls of Harriet’s mind, desperate for release.
In that moment, Cormac appeared, mere inches from her face. His breath was warm, and she could feel his fury radiating—the madness and hunger of the years he’d endured.
“Foolish child,” he hissed. “Embrace the echoes, embrace me, and we can be free together.”
But in that terrible instant of confrontation, Harriet felt a surge of clarity. She burst through the deluge of drowned voices, her heart blazing with resistance. “No! You are not free! I will not let you consume me or anyone else!” Gathering every ounce of her being, she thrust the relics towards the figure, the light flaring bright and hot.
The screams grew to an unbearable pitch as shadows clawed at her, recoiling from the brightness she had summoned. With a deafening crash, the essence of the evil seeped out of the Butcher, twisting and writhing until all at once, it imploded. Cormac’s anguished face morphed into horror before he disintegrated, blasting backwards in a cacophony of distorted cries.
In that moment, Harriet felt the whispers dissipate, their lingering agony melting away like mist in the morning sun. She knelt in the silence, tears streaming, for everything was still and serene once more.
But, as she rose to her feet, shadows still clung, and a chilling wind swept through the hollow—the echoes had settled, yes, but history has a way of repeating itself. Mervyn Hollow, though free from its darkest sin, would forever carry echoes that dared to resurface whenever the darkness crept in, reminding the village that one can never truly outrun the past.
