In the small, unremarkable village of Halloway, where the mists clotted like thick cream over the moors, lived a recluse known only as Old Man Greaves. The villagers seldom spoke of him, and when they did, it was in hushed tones; his very name seemed to chill the air. His cottage stood at the edge of a dark wood, a tangle of gnarled trees and brambles that whispered the secrets of centuries past. It was said that Greaves possessed the ability to converse with the dead, an age-old capacity that had become intertwined with local folklore—a tale parents recounted to frighten their children away from wandering too close to the forest.
There was a time, once, before the whispers began. Greaves had been a part of the village, a farmer with a family and a happy disposition. But tragedy had twisted him into the grotesque figure he was now. His wife, Mary, succumbed to a terrible illness, and their infant son soon followed, claimed by a cruel fever that turned his body into a fragile parchment. The grief gnawed at Greaves like a creature feasting on a carcass, corrupting him both inside and out. Following their deaths, the man transcended normality, losing himself to a darkness that festered in the corners of his mind.
With each passing year, the villagers noticed that the woods surrounding Greaves’ home grew thicker and more forbidding, the trees seemingly leaning towards his cottage as though drawn to him. Tales spiralled out into the community, detailing the strange nocturnal lights that flickered around the woods and the unnatural hush that fell whenever he stepped beyond his threshold. Yet, within this growing dread, there were always those audacious enough to approach.
Among these was the local lad, Tommy Price, a brash teenager with an insatiable curiosity. He had listened to the incessant tales about Greaves, and the gory details shattered any remnants of fear within him. Clad in a ragged jacket, Tommy often gathered his friends, spinning tales that mocked the old spirit who dwelled in the cottage in the woods. “I bet he eats babies for breakfast!” he would proclaim with a cackle, and his friends would echo his laughter, emboldened by the bravado of youth.
One brisk autumn evening, emboldened by a wager spun from every dare that had come before, Tommy decided he would be the one to reveal the truth behind Old Man Greaves. He assembled his friends, Sophie and Ben, less to share his ambition than to keep the shadows of uncertainty at bay. The trio made their way towards the edge of the wood, the aura of the trees dark and foreboding against the fiery hues of sunset. As the last rays of light sank beneath the horizon, a thick fog rolled in like a veil, wrapping around the trees and creeping at their heels.
“Come on, it’s just an old man living alone,” Tommy called, though he could not help but feel an unsettling tremor in his voice. Everyone knew that anyone with such a reputation tended to be more than they appeared. Still, he pushed forward, the thrill of challenge igniting the false bravery within.
As they reached the threshold of Greaves’ property, the air turned bitterly cold, each breath appearing as a fragile wisp that hung momentarily before vanishing. The cottage loomed before them, a decaying structure with sagging beams and windows like hollows staring into the void. The door stood slightly ajar, creaking as though it beckoned them forward.
“Alright, let’s go in. First one to scream buys the drinks!” Tommy declared, stepping boldly through the threshold as Sophie glanced at Ben, her eyes filled with uncertainty. She had always felt a chill when the tales turned to Greaves; a feeling she couldn’t shake off, even in the brightness of day.
Inside, the cottage was cloaked in shadows, the faded furniture wrapped in a thick layer of dust. The air reeked of decay, mingling with a scent that was both earthy and sweet, as if something unnaturally old lingered in the air, festering. Flashes of gusts seemed to whisper through the halls, sending shivers down their spines, yet Tommy pressed on, calling out for Old Man Greaves.
“Are you in here, you old codger?” he taunted. The words echoed back teasingly through the desolation, but still, there was no response. A hint of doubt dripped into the atmosphere. Sophie’s heart was racing as visions of a thin, gaunt spectre gazed back at her through the darkness. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to turn back, but Tommy was having none of it.
“This is far too easy!” he scoffed, hunting for something—anything—that would validate his bravado. He stumbled forward, almost tripping over a table littered with books, their spines cracked and tattered. Ben lingered close behind, shuffling nervously, while Sophie lingered near the door, her instincts screaming for her to flee.
Suddenly, Tommy’s attention was drawn to a faint glow emanating from beneath the floorboards, where the boards appeared to swell and pulse, as if something beneath struggled to break free. “Come look at this!” he urged, before crouching down for a better view, his fingers trailing along the wood.
“What if it’s some kind of monster?” Sophie murmured, desperately wanting to leave this place behind.
“There’s no such thing as monsters, you scaredy-cat! Just look!” Tommy said, but the sense of dread had tightened its grip on him as well. The light pulsed rhythmically, and with each flicker, a strange sound began to resonate—a chorus of whispers, faint yet undeniable, echoing from beneath the very ground they stood upon.
Then they heard it. A sickening crunch echoed in the silence, the sound of something unmistakably flesh-like giving way. Another rustling came; the floorboards trembled under Tommy’s grip, and horror filled him. Unnerved, he pushed himself back, whispering a declaration of disbelief, but the sound grew louder, enveloping them.
Ben was the first to catch sight of it, a grotesque tableau unfolding: the ground seemed to split like flesh pulled apart, revealing a dark cavity that throbbed with an eerie, sickly glow. Tommy stumbled back in horror as the very essence of what lay beneath twisted and turned—shadows licked at the air, coalescing into a shape that was equal parts human and something else entirely. It was an unholy amalgamation, threads glistening in the murk that hinted at sinew and bone, shifting in ways no body should.
With a glimmer of desperation, the thing’s eyes opened—mismatched, deep pools of darkness that seemed to consume all who gazed upon them. “Help me…” it rasped, the voice both Old Man Greaves and yet not. It echoed not just within their ears, but in their minds, dredging up fears that were as familiar as the cobbled paths of Halloway. “Help me… I beg.”
Sophie screamed, her body jerking with instinct, and she grabbed Ben, forcing him towards the door, while Tommy stood transfixed, mesmerised by the horror laid bare before him. “Tommy, we have to go!” she cried, her voice trembling, yet within her fear lurked an instinctual need to flee.
But there was no fleeing for Tommy. In that moment, he crossed the threshold into madness. Taking a step closer, he whispered back, as if entranced, “What do you want?”
“Come… closer,” the figure crooned, the floor around it writhing and stretching like a dark flesh. It exuded a desperate longing, a promise that living flesh could never match. Tommy felt himself pulled in like a moth to a blinding flame; its presence was both alluring and loathsome, making his skin crawl as he stepped nearer.
As he reached for the creature, it extended a hand towards him—moulded from a grotesque mixture of skin, sinew, and something altogether wrong. “I am bound to these woods,” it whispered, its voice becoming more erratic. “They have stolen me, and I am but a husk of flesh, awaiting a soul to fill me.”
With those words, the terror struck like solvent through air. Tommy’s senses exploded with alarm, and he turned, hurriedly moving to follow his friends who desperately tugged at him. He glanced back in time to see the malevolent glow flare brightly, the darkness spilling out, consuming everything in its path.
“Stop!” the creature shrieked as it clawed at the air, tendrils of shadow remaining bound to its form, the despair flooding the room as if each droplet of wretchedness seeped deep into their bones.
Sophie screamed again, and Ben sprinted for the door, tugging Tommy along. The three fled into the night; the cottage behind them shrieked with unnatural force, the echoes of their flight swallowed by the consuming wood.
Sweat slicked Tommy’s skin as they escaped, the grotesque vision etched into his mind, the pleas still resonating in his ears. As they stumbled down the path, gasping for breath, a chill descended upon them, lingering as a shadow not easily escaped.
They raced back into the village under the ghostly veneer of moonlight, stumbling across the streets as villagers stared, faces deformed with the horror of their expressions. Years later, Tommy would speak little of that night, the laughter of his friends drowned out by echoes of fear. Old Man Greaves remained a forbidden topic, a spectre that loomed over their lives—the husk of flesh from which neither light nor truth could escape.