In the quiet village of Elmsworth, nestled between two ancient forests, there was a legend that whispered through the wind like a forgotten lullaby. It spoke of the "Ancient Curses," said to be etched into the very stones of the land. No one knew exactly when the curses had begun, only that they had been passed down in hushed tones, never spoken aloud except in the presence of the old ones who claimed to remember. The villagers avoided the Hollow Tree, a massive oak with gnarled roots that seemed to twist unnaturally toward the earth. Its bark was covered in strange symbols, some resembling letters from no known language, others looking like the marks of claws or fingers. The tree stood at the edge of the woods, where the sunlight barely touched the ground, and it was said that anyone who touched its trunk would feel a chill that lingered long after their hand had withdrawn. One autumn evening, a young man named Elias arrived in Elmsworth. He had come to study the folklore of the region for his thesis, though he didn’t believe in curses. He was skeptical, but intrigued by the stories. The villagers watched him with wary eyes, whispering among themselves as he walked through the streets. They didn’t stop him, but neither did they welcome him. Elias spent his days in the village library, poring over brittle pages of old journals and maps. He found references to the Hollow Tree in several accounts, always accompanied by warnings. One journal, written in an archaic script, described how those who disturbed the tree would be followed by shadows that moved without light. Another spoke of a ritual performed centuries ago, meant to seal away something that should never have been unleashed. On the third night, Elias ventured into the woods alone. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the moon cast long, flickering shadows across the trail. He reached the Hollow Tree just before midnight, its branches creaking as if sighing. He ran his fingers along the bark, feeling a slight warmth beneath the rough surface. As he pulled his hand back, the wind shifted, carrying with it a low, mournful sound. It wasn’t the wind. It was a voice, soft and distant, speaking in a language he couldn’t understand. Then, the tree began to glow faintly, its markings pulsing like a heartbeat. Elias stumbled back, heart pounding, but curiosity kept him rooted in place. He noticed something else now—small, black feathers scattered around the base of the tree, as if something had recently landed there. A bird? But no birds nested in these woods. The thought made his skin crawl. The next morning, Elias returned to the village, his mind racing with questions. He asked the elder woman who ran the general store about the tree. She looked at him with a sadness that seemed to stretch back decades. “You shouldn’t have gone there,” she said quietly. “Some things are not meant to be disturbed.” But Elias couldn’t let it go. That night, he returned again, this time with a flashlight and a notebook. He recorded everything—the glow, the whispers, the feathers. As he wrote, the wind picked up, and the trees around him groaned. He felt a presence, not threatening, but watching. When he looked up, the Hollow Tree was still glowing, but now the symbols on its bark were different, shifting as if rearranging themselves. He fled the woods that night, unable to explain what he had seen. The villagers noticed his change, the way he avoided the forest and spoke less. He tried to write about it, but the words wouldn’t come. Each time he sat down, he felt the weight of unseen eyes pressing against his thoughts. Months later, Elias left Elmsworth, taking with him only a single feather he had found near the tree. He never spoke of what happened, but sometimes, in the quiet moments, he would look at the feather and wonder if it was truly a bird’s, or if it belonged to something else entirely. And in the depths of the forest, the Hollow Tree remained, its glow dimming and brightening with the passing of time, waiting for the next curious soul to come seeking answers.