The town of Black Hollow had always been quiet. Tucked between dense forests and rolling hills, it was the kind of place where nothing extraordinary ever happened. That changed one autumn morning when Eliza Monroe, a local photographer, captured a picture that sent shivers down her spine.
Eliza had been taking photos for a feature on the town’s historic landmarks when she noticed something odd in one of her shots. In the background, standing just beyond the entrance of an old church, was a shadowy figure. It had no distinguishable features—just a dark silhouette, blurred at the edges as though it were fading into the world. She didn’t remember seeing anyone there when she took the picture, but what disturbed her most was the whispering.
As soon as she developed the photo, a faint voice slithered into her ears, soft as a breeze yet unnervingly distinct.
“The bells will toll for you, Eliza.”
She whipped around, heart hammering in her chest, but the room was empty. The words still echoed in her mind, curling around her thoughts like vines.
At first, Eliza thought she was imagining things. But when she took another photograph—this time of the town square—the figure appeared again, lingering in the shadows of the clock tower. And with the new picture came a new whisper.
“The past is never buried. It watches, waiting to be unearthed.”
Fear clutched at her. She told her best friend, Greg, about the eerie occurrences, but he waved it off. “It’s just a camera glitch, Eliza. Maybe some trick of the light.”
Determined to prove it, she convinced Greg to take a picture himself. He snapped a quick photo of her in the café. The moment the camera clicked, his face went pale.
“He sees you, Eliza. He knows.”
Greg’s mouth moved, but no words came out. His eyes darted to the phone screen, and when he turned it around, she saw it—
The figure stood behind her in the reflection of the café window, its head tilted as though listening. This time, its outline was sharper, more defined. And though its features were still obscured, she felt its gaze burning into her.
They deleted the photo, but it didn’t help. The whispers didn’t stop.
The town soon caught on. People began noticing the figure in their own pictures—lurking in alleyways, peering from windows, hovering in reflections where no one should be. And with each image came a whisper. Some were warnings, others were dark confessions, revealing sins long buried and secrets thought forgotten.
The town’s reverend, Father Callahan, was found dead in his home three days after a photograph exposed a secret affair he had kept hidden for decades. A young woman named Marla learned through a whisper that her grandmother’s sudden death had not been natural—her uncle had poisoned her for the inheritance. Marla vanished the next night. Her shoes were found at the edge of Black Hollow Lake, but her body was never recovered.
Panic spread like wildfire. Some people smashed their phones and cameras. Others locked themselves in their homes, refusing to be photographed. But it didn’t matter. The figure didn’t need a camera to exist.
One by one, those who had taken photos started to disappear. Eliza was determined to find out why.
She spent hours in the town’s archives, digging through old newspapers and records. That’s when she found it.
An article from 1876 detailed a series of unexplained vanishings. Residents had reported hearing voices whispering their darkest secrets before they were taken. Witnesses spoke of a shadowy figure appearing in reflections and photographs. The town had tried to stop it before, holding a mass burning of every known photograph. But the vanishings didn’t stop. The figure had simply waited, patient as time itself.
Eliza’s hands trembled as she read the last line of the article:
“The whispers come for those who listen too closely.”
She slammed the book shut. A cold draft whispered past her ear, and this time, she understood the words clearly.
“It’s too late, Eliza.”
Greg banged on her door the next morning, but she didn’t answer. When the sheriff broke in, her camera lay on the floor, lens shattered. The last photo on her computer showed her own reflection in the window, and behind her—
The shadow had hands now. Long, clawed fingers stretched toward her, inches from her shoulder.
Eliza was never seen again.
Black Hollow grew quieter after that. Many left town, fearing the whispers. Those who stayed never took another photograph.
But sometimes, late at night, the wind carries hushed voices, murmuring names long forgotten. And if you dare to take a picture in Black Hollow, don’t be surprised if you hear it too.
“Smile… you’re next.”
