14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKMQj9b78O1
The cry tore through the trees like a blade of sound, rattling Eden’s teeth and sending a white-hot spike of pain through her skull.
She dropped to one knee, clapping a hand over her ear. The shotgun slipped in her grip but she held onto it by instinct. Her pulse pounded hard enough to make her vision swim.
Keep it together, Eden. Don’t fold now.
The wail stretched on, mournful and ear-splitting, before tapering into silence. The woods went still—too still. No crickets. No wind. Just the echo of that unearthly grief hanging heavy in the mist.
When Eden looked up, Trace’s apparition was gone.
“Dammit,” she whispered, forcing herself to her feet.
She scanned the trees with her flashlight, its narrow beam cutting through the fog. Branches twisted above her like skeletal arms. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped rhythmically, steady as a clock.
Then she heard it—soft, deliberate footsteps crunching leaves. Not animal. Not random.
Someone was there.
Eden pivoted, shotgun raised. “Show yourself!”
No answer. Just more deliberate movement, circling.
The mist thickened, and then she saw it: a pale shape gliding between the trees. A woman, tall and gaunt, white hair streaming like river foam. Her eyes glowed faintly, silver-blue, locked on Eden with an expression that was equal parts sorrow and rage.
The banshee.
Eden’s heart thudded. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s dance.”
She pulled the trigger. Salt and iron burst from the barrel, tearing through the fog where the banshee stood.
The shot hit. For a second, the figure convulsed, shrieking louder than before, the sound splitting the air like glass. But instead of falling, she dissolved into mist and reappeared ten feet closer.
“Shit,” Eden hissed, backpedaling.
The banshee lunged, her mouth opening in another unearthly cry. Eden fired again, but the rounds barely slowed her. The creature’s form flickered like static, her cry bending the air, warping it, sending Eden sprawling against a tree.
Her ears rang. Her hands shook. Her body screamed to run.
But Eden forced herself up, silver knife clutched tight now.
Then something strange happened.
The banshee froze mid-step, her wail stuttering into silence. Her face twisted, but not with malice—with pain. She clutched her head, hair falling in wild tangles around her face. A sound came from her lips—not a scream, but words, low and strained.
“Help… me…”
Eden blinked. Her grip on the knife faltered. “What?”
The banshee’s eyes locked onto hers. For a split second, they weren’t glowing. They were human. Filled with despair.
“Bound… can’t stop…”
And then she screamed again—louder, harsher, forcing Eden back. By the time Eden steadied herself, the banshee was gone, leaving only the suffocating fog.
Back at the Motel
Eden slammed the motel door shut behind her, breathing hard. She dropped her shotgun on the bed, wiped sweat from her brow, and pressed trembling fingers to her temples.
That wasn’t normal banshee behavior. They didn’t speak. They didn’t plead. And they sure as hell didn’t look human beneath the rage.
Eden pulled out her journal, flipping through notes she’d collected over the years. Standard banshee lore: women cursed to foretell death with their cries. Harbingers, not executioners. Their wails warned of doom; they didn’t cause it.
But here in Hollow’s End, they did both.
Someone had twisted this thing, corrupted her nature.
Eden scribbled into the margins:14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡedvmjwCvMB
Bound. Compelled. Banshee not willing? Possible witchcraft binding? Victims = cheaters. Why selective?
Her pen tapped against the page. Hunters were missing too. Not killed outright. Disappeared. Could the banshee be holding them? Or was something using her as bait?
She rubbed her eyes. One thing was clear: she needed answers.
The Library
Morning brought sunlight that did little to cut through the fog still clinging to Hollow’s End. Eden headed straight to the town’s small library, an old brick building with stained glass windows and the faint smell of mold.
The librarian, a stooped man with thinning hair, gave her a wary glance when she walked in. Eden ignored him, heading straight for the local history section.
She pulled down a dusty volume titled The Legends of Hollow’s End and flipped through. Most of it was folklore—ghost lights, phantom hounds, the usual. But one entry made her pause.
1694 – The Hollow’s End Covenant. A group of women accused of witchcraft bound a spirit of sorrow to the town, forcing it to punish the wicked. Many of the women were executed, but some say their descendants remain, carrying on the pact.
Eden’s stomach dropped. A coven. That explained everything.
The banshee wasn’t hunting by choice. She was chained, cursed to reap cheaters’ souls and trap anyone who got too close. Hunters weren’t being killed—they were being sacrificed. Fuel for the binding.
As Eden traced the lines of text, she felt the hairs on her arms rise. She wasn’t alone.
The librarian was standing at the end of the aisle, too close, watching her with pale, unblinking eyes.
“You shouldn’t be digging there,” he said softly.
Eden slid her hand toward the knife tucked under her jacket. “Why’s that?”
The man’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Because curiosity is what gets hunters killed.”
Before she could move, the lights above flickered. The air grew cold. Somewhere outside, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of a woman’s cry.
And it was coming closer.
End of Chapter Two
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