Story 145: The Whispering Hag

It was said that deep in the forest of Black Hollow lived an ancient hag, older than the trees themselves. Her name was forgotten to time, but locals called her "The Whispering Hag" because those who ventured too close to her lair swore they heard a low, insidious whisper beckoning them closer.

Marcus, a brash young man from the village, dismissed the stories as superstition. "Just tales to scare children," he muttered as he tightened the straps on his pack. But curiosity tugged at him, and the promise of treasure—rumored to be guarded by the hag—beckoned him toward the depths of the cursed woods.

The sun barely pierced the thick canopy as Marcus ventured deeper, the forest growing darker with every step. A chill hung in the air, unnatural for that time of year. Still, Marcus pressed on, undeterred by the eerie stillness around him. No birds sang, no animals scurried. It was as though the forest itself held its breath.