Prologue – The Wail in the Dark
The rain came down in sheets, drumming against the tin roof of the Hollow’s End Tavern. Inside, the neon beer sign flickered, painting the bar in sickly green light. A jukebox hummed in the corner, low enough that no one noticed when it suddenly skipped into silence.
The locals were laughing, drinking, pretending the storm wasn’t clawing at the windows. All except for one man at the far end of the bar.
Rick Harlan.380Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwBzsA8qtBx
Married. Two kids. A reputation around town for long nights and wandering hands.
He leaned over a brunette half his age, whispering things his wife would never hear. His glass clinked against hers, and his hand found her thigh beneath the table. She giggled nervously, trying to pull away, but Rick only smirked.
That’s when the power went out.
The entire bar plunged into darkness. The laughter died, replaced by the uneasy shifting of chairs. The bartender cursed and fumbled for a flashlight.
And then, cutting through the storm outside, came a sound.
A cry.380Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6vwVDpjJ4a
Not human. Not animal. A sound that pierced straight through the bone, a wail so sharp and mournful that every soul in the tavern froze where they sat.
Rick’s face drained of color. He stumbled back from the booth, glass shattering on the floor. His eyes darted wildly, like a man who already knew he was guilty.
“Did you hear that?” someone whispered.
The front door banged open, and wind howled inside, scattering napkins and coasters across the floor. The brunette screamed as she caught sight of something just beyond the doorway.
A figure.380Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2E1oI1E3UN
Tall, cloaked in mist, hair streaming like pale ribbons in the gale. Her mouth stretched open, another cry tearing out—a sound that made the windows shiver and the lightbulbs explode overhead.
Rick clutched his ears, his knees buckling. He gasped, choking on air as if invisible hands were dragging the life out of him.
The banshee drifted closer, her eyes fixed on him and only him. Sorrowful. Relentless.
Rick let out one final scream, but it was swallowed by her wail. His body hit the ground with a dull thud—eyes wide open, face twisted into a mask of sheer terror. Dead.
The tavern erupted into chaos. Chairs overturned, people scrambled for the back exit, but when the bartender shone his flashlight toward the doorway—380Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvBHBpK8Pb0
The figure was gone.
Only silence remained, heavy and suffocating.
Two weeks later.
A hunter named Trace knelt in the woods outside Hollow’s End. He brushed away wet leaves and mud to uncover an old iron sigil carved into the roots of a tree. Fresh blood stained the lines.
Trace frowned, the beam of his flashlight trembling just slightly. He knew banshees. He knew their lore backward and forward. But this—this wasn’t right.
The air turned cold. His breath fogged. Somewhere deep in the trees, a woman’s wail began to rise.
Trace pulled out his phone with shaking hands, typing a message as fast as he could.
"Eden. Hollow’s End. Banshee. Hunters going missing. Something’s wrong."
He hit send.
And then the cry came again—closer this time, deafening, a wave of grief that made the forest itself tremble. His flashlight flickered and went dark.
Trace turned, shotgun raised, but the mist swallowed him whole. His voice echoed once through the trees—cut short, sharp, and terrified.
By the time his phone hit the ground, the woods were silent once more.
[Title Card: The Cry of Hollow’s End]
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