The Haunting at Hollow Creek Mill

The fog clung to Hollow Creek like a shroud, thick and unyielding, as William, Bobby, and Christine stood at the edge of the old mill’s sagging iron gate. The air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and something sharper—something metallic, like old blood.

The mill loomed ahead, its broken windows gaping like empty eyes, the once-proud structure now a rotting skeleton of splintered beams and rusted machinery. Locals swore it was haunted, whispering of voices that drifted from the mill at night, words no one could quite make out. The trio, thrill-seekers from the nearby college, had come to test the rumors.

William, the group’s self-appointed leader, adjusted his flashlight, its beam cutting weakly through the mist. “You guys ready for this?” he asked, his voice betraying a slight quiver. He was tall, lanky, with a habit of pushing his glasses up his nose when nervous—a tic that had already surfaced twice since they parked their car a half-mile back.

Bobby, stocky and brash, snorted, slinging a backpack full of cameras and audio recorders over his shoulder.

“Ready? Man, this place is a dump. Probably just rats and wind. You scared, Chrissy?”

Christine shot him a glare, her dark ponytail swinging as she crossed her arms. “Don’t call me that, Bobby. And I’m not scared. I just don’t trust this fog. It’s… wrong.”

She glanced at the mill, her brow furrowing. The fog seemed to pulse, almost alive, curling around the building like ghostly fingers.

They pushed through the gate, its hinges screeching in protest. The gravel path crunched underfoot as they approached the mill’s entrance, a blackened doorway that seemed to swallow the light. William’s flashlight flickered, and he cursed under his breath, smacking it against his palm.

“Batteries are new,” he muttered. “Weird.”

Inside, the air was colder, stale, thick with the smell of mildew and something faintly sweet, like rotting fruit. The floorboards groaned under their weight, and somewhere in the darkness, a faint drip echoed—steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Bobby set up a camera on a tripod, its red recording light a small beacon in the gloom.

“Ghostly mill vibes, check.”Christine wandered toward a rusted loom, its metal frame tangled with cobwebs. She reached out, then froze. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

William tilted his head. “Hear what?”

“Whispering. Like… words, but not words.” Her voice was barely audible, her eyes wide as she scanned the shadows.

Bobby scoffed, but his bravado faltered when a low hum vibrated through the floor, faint but unmistakable. “Okay, that’s not rats,” he said, stepping closer to the others. The hum grew, not louder but deeper, sinking into their bones. William’s flashlight died completely, plunging them into near-darkness save for the dim moonlight filtering through the broken roof.

“Stay calm,” William said, his voice tight. He fumbled for his phone, but the screen wouldn’t light up. “What the hell? My phone’s dead too.”

Christine’s breath hitched. “Look.” She pointed to the far wall, where the shadows seemed to shift—not with the light, but against it. Shapes formed, vague and humanoid, their edges blurring into the fog that had somehow seeped inside.

The whispers returned, sharper now, a chorus of fragmented syllables that clawed at the edges of their minds.

Bobby swung his backpack off, grabbing a voice recorder. “This is gold,” he said, but his hands shook as he pressed record. The device hissed, then emitted a garbled sound—a voice, distorted, repeating, “Leave… leave… leave…” The word wasn’t coming from the recorder. It was coming from the walls.

Christine stumbled back, her foot catching on a loose board. She fell, and the floor beneath her cracked, revealing a dark, jagged hole. A gust of icy air rushed up, carrying the sweet-rot smell stronger than before.

“Will, Bobby, help!” she cried, scrambling away from the edge.

William grabbed her arm, pulling her up, but the shadows were moving faster now, circling them. The whispers grew into a cacophony, not just words but names—their names. “William… Bobby… Christine…” The voices overlapped, some pleading, some angry, none human.“We need to go,” William said, his glasses fogging with his panicked breaths. But the doorway they’d entered was gone, replaced by a solid wall of warped wood. Bobby pounded on it, shouting, but the wood didn’t budge. The air grew colder, the fog thicker, and the shadows began to solidify—tall, thin figures with hollow eyes, their mouths moving in sync with the whispers.

Christine clutched William’s arm, her nails digging in. “They’re not letting us leave,” she whispered. “They want something.”

Bobby, pale now, swung his camera at one of the figures, but it passed through like smoke. The figure turned, its face a void, and reached for him. He screamed, dropping the camera, which shattered on the floor. The hum surged, shaking the mill, and the hole in the floor widened, revealing a faint glow deep below—a sickly green light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

William dragged Christine toward the center of the room, away from the hole and the figures. “Stay together!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the whispers, now a deafening roar. The figures closed in, their hands brushing against the trio’s skin—cold, insubstantial, but burning with intent. Christine sobbed, Bobby cursed, and William’s mind raced for a way out.

Then, silence. The whispers stopped, the hum ceased, and the figures vanished. The fog parted, revealing the doorway again, as if it had never been gone. The trio didn’t hesitate. They ran, stumbling over debris, not stopping until they reached the gate. Behind them, the mill stood silent, its windows dark, the fog curling lazily around its eaves.

Back at their car, panting and shaken, they checked their equipment. Bobby’s camera was blank, the recorder silent. William’s phone powered on, showing no evidence of the night’s events. Christine, trembling, whispered, “We can’t talk to anyone about this. No one would believe us.”

William nodded, his glasses fogged again. “But we know what we saw.”

As they drove away, the mill faded into the fog, but the whispers lingered in their minds, faint and persistent, calling them back to Hollow Creek.

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This fictional story is just a sampling of what's in our online haunted library, Midnight Archive. We also have ghost stories like this sprinkled among real stories in our bi-monthly magazines. And I'm BEYOND excited for you to read them!

This online library (in addition to offering magazine subscriptions) seems like the ideal way I can continue doing what I love, while also continuing to give you the best of what I have to offer! And if you're into magick, be sure to check out The Good Witch Shadowglyph Study!

Hauntingly yours,

Melisa