In the isolated village of Hollow Creek, an unsettling legend surrounded the old, twisted tree in the centre of town.
It was said that three souls had vanished there one fateful night, their screams echoing through the surrounding bushland. The villagers warned their children to stay away, whispering that in a sinister sense, three is a magic number.
One All Hallows’ eve, three friends decided to test their courage. Dismissing the warnings as mere superstition, they ventured towards the tree with flashlights. As they approached, a chill enveloped them, and the air crackled with electricity.
“Let’s make a pact,” one suggested. “If we can last an hour here, we’ll have proven it’s just a story.”
The others hesitated but agreed, driven by his bravado.
As they sat in a circle, they began to share their darkest fears. The wind howled around them, and shadows danced in the flickering light.
One by one, strange occurrences began. They heard whispers calling their names, felt icy hands glancing their shoulders, and worse, in their peripheral vision, a ghostly black mist lurking, just beyond them.
Suddenly, the ground trembled. A low, droning chant rose from the depths of the earth. The friends realised they had indeed, awakened something. In a panic, they tried to flee, but the tree wouldn’t let them; its gnarled branches twisting and reaching for them, holding them in its grip.
“Three is the magic number!” they screamed. But it was too late. The shadows coalesced, surrounding them and one by one, they vanished into the darkness, their terrified screams swallowed by the night.
The next day, the villagers searched for the missing teens. They found nothing, but the tree standing silently, watching them with reproach.
From then on, they told the tale of the three friends who ventured too close, forever reminding each other that some magic is best left undisturbed.
By Sarah ©2024
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