The village of Black Hollow had no name on any map, only a faded sign that read “Welcome to Black Hollow” in peeling paint. It was nestled deep in the woods, where the trees grew too close and the air carried the scent of damp earth and something older. The people who lived there were quiet, their eyes always flicking toward the forest as if expecting something to come out of it. It began with a boy named Eli. He was not from the village, but he had come seeking something—his grandfather’s old journal, which spoke of an ancient curse tied to the land. The villagers didn’t talk about it, but when he asked, they would look away, mutter a prayer, and change the subject. The journal was hidden in the attic of his grandfather’s house, a crumbling structure that had long been abandoned. Inside, Eli found sketches of strange symbols carved into stones, and notes about a ritual performed centuries ago by a forgotten tribe. The words were cryptic, but one phrase stood out: "When the moon bleeds, the curse awakens." Eli dismissed it as superstition, but the next month, the sky turned red. Not a storm, not a fire, but a deep, blood-like hue that hung over the forest like a shroud. The villagers gathered in silence, some whispering prayers, others clutching small talismans they had carved themselves. The elders refused to speak, their faces pale and drawn. That night, Eli heard a sound in the woods—a low, rhythmic hum, like wind through hollow bones. He followed it, guided by a sense of duty or perhaps fear, until he reached a clearing. In the center stood a stone circle, covered in moss and ivy, and at its heart was a single, weathered pillar. The carvings matched those in the journal, and as he touched them, the ground trembled. A voice, not quite human, echoed in his mind: *You have come home.* Eli stumbled back, heart pounding, but the voice did not stop. It whispered stories of the past—of a tribe that once worshipped the earth, of a leader who sought power beyond death, and of the price paid for such ambition. The curse, it seemed, was not just a punishment, but a warning. Days passed, and the villagers began to act strangely. They spoke in hushed tones, their eyes glinting with something unreadable. Some claimed they saw shadows moving where there were none, while others swore they heard laughter in the dead of night. Eli tried to leave, but the roads had vanished, replaced by dense undergrowth that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking. One evening, he found himself standing before the same stone circle again. This time, the air was thick with the scent of blooming nightshade, and the moon hung low and swollen. A figure emerged from the darkness—a woman, her face obscured, her hands clasped in front of her. She did not speak, but Eli felt her presence in his bones. “You are the last,” she said, her voice like rustling leaves. “The cycle must be broken.” He asked what she meant, but she only smiled, and then she was gone. In her place stood a mirror, cracked and old, reflecting not his face, but a younger version of himself, standing in the same spot, holding the same journal. The realization hit him like a cold wave. He was not the first. He was not even the first in this lifetime. The curse was not a singular event, but a repeating pattern, a loop of memory and consequence. Every time someone came seeking truth, they became part of the story. The villagers, now more distant than ever, watched him with knowing eyes. They knew what he would do. They had seen it before. Eli left the village the next morning, the journal tucked beneath his coat. But as he walked through the trees, the path behind him twisted and changed, leading him back to the stone circle. The moon was still bleeding, and the air was heavy with the scent of something ancient and waiting. He never found his way out, and no one has seen him since. Some say he walks the woods, forever searching for an ending that will not come. Others believe he is now part of the curse itself, bound to the land, a ghost of a man who once tried to understand the past. And every year, when the moon bleeds, the villagers gather, not to pray, but to remember. To wait. To hope that this time, the cycle might finally break.