The heavy fog rolled in from the coast, curling around the crooked spires of Olverston, a village steeped in melancholy, its heartbeat faint and shrouded in the spectral embrace of the night. There was something ominous about this place that few had the will to name. If you asked the locals, they would merely shake their heads, tight-lipped, and divert the conversation towards the weather or the price of fish. But Oliver Bennett was not one to heed the unspoken warnings of others.
Having relocated from bustling London in search of a quieter life, Oliver found himself drawn to Olverston’s rickety charm and haunting legends whispered through cracked pub windows. The village, plucked from time, felt like a forgotten page in history, worn and sallow around the edges. It was a far cry from the pulsating energy of his former life, yet within him lingered an insatiable curiosity about the hidden secrets buried beneath its surface.
He had rented a modest cottage on the outskirts where the wind howled through the thatched roof like tortured spirits. Oliver’s days drifted in peaceful solitude, lost in writing the mysteries of Olverston, but each night brought silence heavy enough to drown in. He often found himself wandering the village streets, lit by flickering lanterns, where shadows concealed things unnameable.
It was during one such midnight stroll that he first encountered the old man, perched upon a crumbling stone wall like a raven awaiting the end of a grim tale. The man’s eyes glistened black beneath the brim of his weathered hat, and his voice, though raspy, resonated with an inexplicable authority. “You don’t know, do you?” he asked, disturbing the tranquillity. “What lurks beyond the mist?”
Oliver dismissed him with a polite nod, but as he turned to leave, the man grasped his wrist with surprising strength. “The Abyss is not to be trifled with, nor the eclipse that births it. You mustn’t seek what you are not ready to face.”
Unsettled, but intrigued, Oliver pulled away. He had heard the villagers murmur about the phenomena that plagued the town every twenty years—a black eclipse that blotted out the moonlight and pulled back the veils that shrouded the forgotten horrors of the earth. It was said that those who sought to uncover its secrets often did not return, and those who did came back changed, haunted by visions of madness and despair.
He dismissed the old man as nothing more than a remnant of Olverston’s folklore, a relic of fears that echoed through the generations. Yet, as the date of the eclipse drew closer, unease settled in the pit of Oliver’s stomach like a shadow seeking to swallow him whole.
That week, he met Eliza, a local shopkeeper with a bright smile and auburn hair that seemed to catch the light in a way that sparked warmth within the cold confines of his soul. Over cups of tea, they spoke of the village, and she often teased him about his romantic notions regarding its mysteries. “Don’t you listen to the old tales, Oliver? They’re nothing but stories to keep you company on dark nights!”
But beneath her laughter, he detected a thread of worry, a ripple of apprehension about the approaching eclipse. She avoided the subject whenever it arose, preferring to dwell on the mundane than delve into the village’s tainted history. Yet, Oliver’s fascination only deepened, yearning to unveil the lost chapters of Olverston’s lore—to grasp the tendrils of truth that had slipped through time’s fingers.
When the day of the eclipse finally arrived, a heaviness enveloped the air like a shroud. The sun was swallowed by dark clouds, casting the village into unnatural twilight. Eliza had warned him, her eyes wide with fear, but Oliver shook off her concerns. He ventured out, dismissing the terror thrumming at the edges of his mind, chasing the echo of illicit thrill that drummed in his veins.
He wandered into the old cemetery, a forgotten graveyard tucked between gnarled trees where ancient stones leered like broken teeth. It was here that the darkness felt most potent, where he could almost hear whispers fluttering through the air, beckoning him closer. The very ground seemed to hum, vibrating with secrets best left undisturbed. Ignoring the creeping dread, he pressed on, searching for signs, remnants of the abyss teased in the legends.
Then, he found it—a crumbling obelisk, covered in a thick layer of moss and shadows. As he ran his fingers across the damp stone, a chill crawled up his spine, but he felt an almost magnetic pulsing, as if it invited him to listen more closely. The wind shifted, carrying an echo that made his heart hammer. He leaned in, the words unfamiliar yet intoxicating, pulling him deeper into their sinister promise.
A glimmer caught his eye, and he realised the ground around the obelisk was disturbed, freshly excavated. Curiosity overwhelmed caution, and he knelt, brushing aside the dirt to reveal what lay buried beneath—a small, weathered book, its pages yellowed with age and inked in a desperate scrawl. The words danced darkly before him, a primal calling. Rituals. Incantations. Whispers of things unspeakable.
Time slipped away, hours swallowed beneath the shadow of the eclipse, and the eerie silence enveloped him, tightening around his throat like a noose. Unseen forces tugged at his mind, compelling him to read the fateful incantations inscribed within. With each syllable that spilled from his lips, the air grew heavier, the ground shuddering with a power he could barely comprehend.
Then, something shifted. The darkness thickened, pulsating as if it were alive, and he felt a cold grip wrap around his heart. The eclipse had reached its zenith, and out from the murky depths of the night emerged figures—spectres writhing in agony, their forms twisted and broken, voices rising in a cacophony that threatened to rend his sanity.
Before Oliver could cry out, they converged upon him, drawn to the book, to the words that had bound them to this world. He scrambled to his feet, abandoning the cursed tome, but the spirits were upon him, a torrential wave of despair that surged through him, dissolving his will to resist. An agony unlike anything he had known washed over him, drowning him in visions of dread, horrors unbound by time and space. He saw glimpses of the abyss, a chasm of darkness, swirling with the screams of the lost.
The village trembled as reality warped into chaos, shadows expanding to swallow even the flickering lantern lights. He barely recognised the sounds of his own screams as they echoed amidst wails of the forsaken. “Leave! You shouldn’t be here!” he heard a voice shout, an echo that was simultaneously vague and familiar. Parallels blurred into one as the voices of the trapped called out with an urgency that compelled him.
In that moment, through a haze of terror, he remembered Eliza and the warmth of her laughter. He had to escape, to save himself and her before the dark took them both. He stumbled backwards toward the cottage, even as the wailing spirits clawed at him, tugging him back toward the dreadful history of Olverston.
As Oliver fled, the world seemed to stretch and distend—the very fabric of reality ripping apart under his feet. Just as he reached the threshold of his home, an unseen force seized him, pulling at his very soul. With one last effort, he crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him, a suffocating silence dropping like a curtain.
But it was not over. The abyss had tasted him, and as he had ventured into its depths, it had claimed a part of him, leaving a hollow echo where his heart once pulsed. Guarded by the thin walls of his cottage, he collapsed, gasping for breath. Yet visualisations of the abyss entwined with his every thought—the whispers, the cries, the palpable darkness seemed etched beneath his skin.
Days passed—or perhaps it was weeks; time lost all meaning in the grip of fear. The eclipse had long finished, but the weight of the unsettling quiet still pressed against him. And though Olverston eventually returned to its eerie semblance of normalcy, he could feel the village change, a deepening undercurrent that spoke of grief and guilt.
One morning, as he opened the thick wooden door of his cottage, the last remnants of dread pulsating through him, he saw Eliza standing on the stone path, her expression unwavering. She stepped forward, and with a soft urgency whispered, “They are angry with you. You must leave, Oliver. Leave now.”
He staggered back, the world around him darkening. The black tendrils of the abyss were reaching for him once again, curling through the fog like the hands of the wronged, dragging him toward the hell he unwittingly opened. Eliza’s eyes darted with fear, a reflection of his own. He had become what the old man had warned of—a vessel for darkness, eclipsed by the abyss.
As the first screams began to echo from the depths of the village, he realised the truth: he would never escape the shadows of Olverston. They had intertwined with his spirit, the abyss cast its long, cold hand on him. And as the fog rolled in with the relentless tide, he could already feel the darkness unfurling—his soul eclipsed, lost forever to the depths below.
