🎃The Hollowed Hours Have Come
🕯️Enter Burrington, If You Dare
The Storyteller Speaks 👻
Step lightly, traveler. Do you feel it already? The air bends differently here. It tastes of iron and ash, as though every breath you draw might be your last and perhaps it shall be. Welcome to Burrington.
The name sits strange upon the tongue, does it not? A town stitched from timber and stone, born of sweat and sin in the 1800s, tucked where the woods 🌲🌲lean too close and the river runs too dark. At first glance it is but another settlement of its age: narrow streets of cobbled grit, chimneys coughing black smoke, children darting between market stalls. Yet stay a moment longer, aye, stay past sundown, and you shall see how October alters all.
For this month-this cursed, hollowed stretch of days, the veil between the living and the damned grows thin. By the thirty-first 🎃, it is not merely thin; it tears open, and Burrington breathes. A town ought not breathe, yet here it does, wheezing secrets through broken shutters, sighing through the roots of oak trees, howling through the bell tower when no man dares to pull the rope.
Walk with me. I am no merchant of books, no common peddler shouting wares. I am a keeper of whispers, a guide through shadows. What you hear may chill you, what you see may ruin you, but I ask you this: do not look away. Not tonight. Not in October.
The Town’s Pulse🩸
Listen, hear the rhythm? Burrington’s heartbeat is uneven, like a clock wound by trembling hands. Each step you take down these streets aligns with it. Tap-pause-thud. Tap-pause-thud. ⏳
The lamps along Main Street flicker though no wind stirs. Their glow is yellow, sickly, burning not with light but with the hue of rotting teeth. Doors are barred, shutters nailed tight. Children peek through slits in wood, their eyes wide 👀as saucers, their mouths too silent. They know to keep their voices hushed. For if the night hears them, the night will answer.
Hark-the church stands at the end of the street, its spire stabbing the sky. Yet it has not rung the hour in years. Some say the bell refuses, some say the bell-rope is gripped by hands unseen. Step inside and the pews are empty, dust upon the hymnals, though you may swear you hear a congregation breathing behind you.
Do you see the cobbler’s shop? 👞 Its window fogs though no fire burns inside. Boots line the sill, yet none are for sale. Each belongs to a soul who never returned for them. Ask, and folk will whisper: “He mends shoes for the dead now.” They do not jest.
And the tavern-oh, the tavern. Its sign creaks on rusted chains, swinging though the air lies still. Laughter spills from within, but step through the door and you shall find no merriment, only chairs set neat and glasses waiting. The barkeep? They say he vanished one October, leaving only his apron folded upon the bar. Yet still the tankards glisten wet, as though poured moments ago.
This is Burrington’s pulse: a town alive when it ought not be, a town gasping for air in hours when mortals beg for sleep. 🌌
The Townsfolk’s Fears🕯️
Do not be fooled, folk of Burrington live on, stubborn and wary, though they carry fear as constant as their breath. Let me show you.
See the widow at her door? She sprinkles salt 🧂across the threshold in trembling hands, each grain a prayer unsaid. She dares not step past the line after dusk.
A father hammers 🔨iron nails into his floorboards, not to hold the planks but to bind whatever claws at them from beneath. His children sleep to the rhythm of his hammer, too weary to question, too afraid to dream.
In the market square, the butcher ties a string of garlic 🧄above his stall though he does not sell it. He will not meet your eyes if you ask why. He knows. They all know.
Listen to the children. Brave little fools. They gather near the cemetery gates ⚰️at dusk, daring one another to run and touch the iron bars. “Aye, the night breathes, lad,” one boy mutters, his voice cracking. “Best keep thy breath shallow, lest it be stolen.” His friends laugh too loud, too quick, for laughter is armor when courage is thin.
The seamstress mutters prayers in half-forgotten tongues, her needle darting too swift, her fingers nicked and bleeding. She stitches not cloth but wards into her gowns. “Better a cursed hem than a cursed heart,” she whispers.
And the mayor? He walks with eyes fixed forward, never left nor right, as though the shadows leer should he grant them notice. A man of stature, of power, yet in October, even he dares not linger outside after sundown.
Do you see? Fear lives in their marrow. They do not speak of it, for to give voice is to give life, and Burrington needs no further breath.
The Veil Weakens
Follow me now, deeper. Beyond the square, past the smithy and the baker’s ovens. Here, the streets grow narrow, the alleys long and crooked. Do you feel it? The air thickens, your steps drag. The veil frays here, unraveling like old cloth.
The cemetery ⚰️ yawns wide, its gates rust-bitten, its stones crooked as teeth. Names carved upon them blur when you try to read. Some headstones lean forward, as though listening. Others sink back, tired of rising each October.
Beyond lies the forest. Trees🌲knot together, roots twisting like grasping fingers. The ground is soft, too soft, as though hollow beneath. Step carefully, each pace might press upon something not yet fully buried.
And there, the abandoned house 🏚️. No family dwells within, yet curtains sway in shattered windows. Knock, and you will hear answering steps. Enter, and you may find the table set for supper, though no fire warms the hearth. Sit long enough and the food spoils before your eyes. Leave, and the chairs scrape as though rising in farewell.
The veil weakens most where memory clings tight. A child’s lost toy upon the road, a page torn from a prayer book, a woman’s shawl caught upon a nail. These things draw the other side close, for grief and longing are bridges stronger than stone.
The Night Burrington Breathed 💀
Now, traveler, the night has come. October 31st. The veil is gone. 🌑
The town exhales all at once, a sound like wind through broken flutes. Shadows spill from doorframes, pouring across the cobbles. Lamps gutter, flames sucked inward as though devoured. Bells toll in the church ⛪, though the rope dangles free.
People flee, yet the streets lengthen, curving back upon themselves. You run, but the tavern door greets you again. You turn, but the cemetery gates stand before you. Burrington loops, twists, holds you in its breath.
Screams rise, swallowed quick. The air thickens with ash, with whispers not your own. Some pray, others claw the earth as though burrowing deeper may save them. Yet none escape. The night has claimed its due.
You feel it too, don’t you? The pulse quickening, your own heart racing to match the rhythm. Tap-pause-thud. Burrington breathes, and you breathe with it.
Closing Words from the Storyteller 📖
You have walked its streets, stood in its alleys, breathed its cursed October air. You have seen how Burrington stirs when the Hollowed Hours arrive.
What you’ve glimpsed is but a shadow, a sliver. There are stories 📚 yet untold, bound in ink and waiting for eyes bold enough to seek them. They whisper from the page as they whisper from these cobbles.
So I ask you, traveler-will you step deeper, into The Hollowed Hours: The Night Burrington Breathed? Or will you turn away, pretending you never heard the town sigh, never felt its breath curl against your neck? 👻
The choice is yours. But mark me well, Burrington never forgets those who walk its streets.
October has begun.🍂
The Hollowed Hours have claimed you. The Hollowed Hours, the first five short horror stories to begin the spookiest season. Stay updated here on my blog or head over to Minds In Design to stay in Burrington's loop.
- Makitia
#MindsInDesign #Makitia #TheHollowedHours #WhereTimeCantExist #UntilTimeRemembers #Midstories #TheMidUniverse #MakitiaThompson #Burrington
Comments
Post a Comment