In the small, fog-choked town of Hollowmere, where the trees bent like mourners and the wind carried whispers no one could quite decipher, lived a woman named Eleanor Voss. She was a widow, her heart hollowed out by the sudden death of her husband, Gideon, who had perished in a mining accident six months prior. The townsfolk said the earth swallowed him whole, leaving not even a body to bury. Eleanor refused to accept it. She wore her grief like a shroud, her once-bright eyes now sunken and restless, searching for something—anything—to fill the void.
One stormy night, as lightning clawed at the sky, Eleanor sat alone in her creaking cottage, the fire spitting embers onto the hearth. In her hands, she clutched Gideon’s old pocket watch, its hands frozen at 3:17—the exact moment the mine collapsed. She traced its cracked face with trembling fingers, whispering his name into the dark. That was when she heard it: a low, guttural hum, rising from the floorboards beneath her feet.
Startled, she dropped the watch. It clattered to the ground, and the humming grew louder, more insistent, until it resolved into words. “Eleanor,” the voice rasped, dry as dead leaves. “Do you wish to see him again?”
She froze, her breath catching in her throat. The voice wasn’t Gideon’s—it was too deep, too jagged—but it knew her pain. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice quivering.
“A friend,” it replied, slithering through the air. “A wagerer. I offer you a game. Win, and your husband returns. Lose, and you join me instead.”
Eleanor’s heart pounded. She should have fled, should have barred the doors and prayed for dawn. But the thought of Gideon—his warm hands, his quiet laugh—clawed at her resolve. “What kind of game?” she asked.
The voice chuckled, a sound like stones grinding together. “A simple one. Three nights, three tasks. Complete them, and he is yours. Fail, and your soul is mine. Do you accept?”
“Yes,” she whispered, before reason could stop her.
The air grew heavy, and the fire flared green, casting eerie shadows across the room. “Then listen,” the voice said. “Tonight, you begin.”
The First Night: The Offering
The voice instructed Eleanor to venture into the woods beyond Hollowmere, to a clearing where the trees formed a perfect circle. There, she was to leave an offering: something she loved as dearly as Gideon. The catch? It had to bleed.
Eleanor hesitated, her mind racing. She had no children, no pets—only herself. With a trembling hand, she took a kitchen knife and sliced her palm, letting the blood drip into a clay jar. The pain was sharp, but her desperation was sharper. She stumbled through the storm, the wind howling like a banshee, until she reached the clearing. The trees loomed like sentinels, their branches clawing at the sky. She placed the jar in the center, whispering Gideon’s name as the blood seeped into the earth.
The ground shuddered. A low moan rose from the soil, and for a fleeting moment, she swore she saw Gideon’s face in the shadows—pale, eyeless, mouth gaping. Then it was gone. The voice returned, pleased. “One night down. Two remain.”
The Second Night: The Mirror
The next task was worse. The voice demanded Eleanor find a mirror untouched by light for a year and gaze into it at midnight. Whatever she saw, she must not scream, or the wager would end.
Eleanor remembered an old, tarnished mirror in the attic, draped in a dusty sheet since Gideon’s death. She dragged it downstairs, her arms aching, and set it before the hearth. As midnight struck, she pulled the sheet away and stared into the glass. At first, she saw only her reflection—gaunt, wild-eyed. Then the surface rippled, and Gideon appeared behind her, his skin gray and mottled, his eyes black pits. He reached for her, his fingers brushing her shoulder in the reflection. She felt a cold, wet touch, though she stood alone.
Her scream clawed at her throat, but she clamped her lips shut, tears streaming down her face. Gideon’s image faded, and the voice laughed. “Stronger than I thought. One task left.”
The Third Night: The Descent
The final task was the cruelest. “Go to the mine,” the voice commanded. “Descend to where he died. Bring me his bones, and he will live.”
Eleanor’s stomach churned. The mine was a gaping maw, abandoned and cursed, its tunnels a labyrinth of darkness. But she lit a lantern and went, her footsteps echoing in the silence. The air grew thick, rancid with the stench of decay. She descended, the walls pressing in, until she reached the collapse site—a pile of rubble and splintered beams.
She dug with her hands, nails tearing, until she found it: a skeletal arm, still clutching a miner’s pick. Gideon’s wedding ring glinted on one bony finger. She sobbed, cradling the remains, and the voice roared, “Give them to me!”
The ground split open, revealing a pit of writhing shadows. Eleanor hesitated, clutching the bones tighter. “You said he’d live,” she cried.
“He will,” the voice hissed. “But not as you knew him.”
From the pit emerged a figure—Gideon, or what was left of him. His flesh hung in tatters, his eyes glowed with a sickly light, and his mouth stretched into a grin that wasn’t his. “Eleanor,” he croaked, lurching toward her.
She screamed, dropping the bones, and the figure dissolved into smoke. The voice cackled. “You failed. You’re mine.”
The pit widened, and tendrils of shadow seized her, dragging her down. The last thing she saw was Gideon’s pocket watch, lying in the dirt, ticking for the first time in months.