The search party combed the area for days. No sign of Ethan. No tracks leading away from the campsite. It was as if he had simply vanished into the wind.
Weeks passed. The case was closed. Another hiker lost to the curse of Black Hollow Peak.
But then, on the thirtieth night, something changed.
A lone hiker, Lucas, unaware of the legends, decided to camp at the same ledge where Ethan had disappeared. The night was calm—until the wind picked up.
At first, it was just a murmur.
Then, the whispering began.
“Ethan… Ethan…”
Lucas sat up, heart pounding. The trees below moved without wind, as if something was crawling between them. Then he saw it.
A figure, thin and unnatural, standing at the edge of the tree line. Its face was wrong, stretched like melting wax, eyes hollow and watching.
Lucas grabbed his flashlight, but when the beam hit the figure, it changed.
It was Ethan.
Pale. Eyes wide and empty. His lips moved, forming words Lucas couldn’t hear.
Then, the wind screamed.
A force slammed into Lucas, knocking him backward. The flashlight rolled away, its beam flickering. The whispering turned into laughter—low, guttural, inhuman.
Lucas scrambled to his feet, but something grabbed his ankle. Fingers, ice-cold and claw-like, pulled him toward the ledge. He kicked wildly, his scream swallowed by the wind.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, everything went silent.
Lucas found himself alone. The trees were still. The air was dead. His ankle burned with frostbite-like marks, but he was alive. His flashlight was gone. His tent was gone.
But he wasn’t alone.
A whisper brushed against his ear.
“Run.”
Lucas bolted down the mountain, never looking back.
When he reached the village, he tried to warn them.
But the locals only shook their heads.
"He’s marked now," one of them muttered.
Lucas left that night, vowing never to return.
But as he drove away, his radio crackled with static.
Then, through the noise, a voice whispered—his name.
And in his rearview mirror, he saw Ethan’s hollow eyes staring back at him.
