The Hollow Sisters

Every October, the village of Drows Hollow whispered the same tale: that two sisters, cursed by the harvest moon, danced through the woods with jack-o'-lanterns in place of their heads, searching for the soul that cursed them.

But no one really believed it—not until they saw them.

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The air was crisp, rich with the scent of moss, damp leaves, and something older. The forest wore its best gown—orange, crimson, and bronze cloaked every limb and branch. In the heart of those woods, on a forgotten path where the light never quite reached the ground, two girls walked hand in hand.

They wore black dresses, the kind stitched with the memory of funerals and forbidden spells. Their stockings bore delicate lace patterns, though one of them was slashed like claws had been there first. Their heads, carved pumpkins—grinning and wicked—flickered with eerie candlelight. They did not speak, but the rustling of the leaves whispered secrets as they moved.

They were known as the Hollow Sisters.

Once, they had names. Real ones. Eleanor and Maeve Hollow. Born to a family of hedge witches long before the village grew polite and fearful. Their mother was a seer, their father a woodsman. The forest raised them as much as the old cabin did. They laughed with crows, danced with fireflies, and sang lullabies to the river.

But that was before the Reckoning.

A boy from the village—Daniel Hemsworth—fell in love with Eleanor. He came often with gifts: pressed flowers, copper pennies, and questions about the stars. She loved him back, despite her sister’s warnings. Maeve knew. Love with mortals never ended softly.

One harvest moon, Daniel's father discovered their secret meetings. He accused Eleanor of witchcraft, blaming her for the poor crops, the dying cows, the strange dreams that crept into their homes at night. The village listened. They always needed someone to blame.

And so the Hollow sisters were dragged from their home under the blood moon, torches blazing, screams echoing through the trees. They were tied to stakes deep in the forest—no trial, no mercy. The villagers left them for dead.

But witches don’t die easily.

The next morning, no bodies remained—only ash and a trail of scorched earth that twisted into the woods. That fall, every crop spoiled. Milk curdled. Children cried in their sleep. And Daniel Hemsworth was found hollowed out, a pumpkin jammed where his head had once been.

Now, every year, when the leaves start to fall and the veil thins, the Hollow Sisters return.

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They wandered now, gliding like shadows. Though their pumpkin faces smiled with jagged teeth, there was something mournful in their silence. They weren’t looking for vengeance anymore.

They were looking for the way back.

Hand in hand, they twirled through the forest, the hem of their dresses catching in the wind. The candlelight within their pumpkin heads flickered with each step. Sometimes, they'd pause at a familiar tree or moss-covered rock. They remembered the forest like a memory of a lullaby.

“Do you think we’ll find it this time?” Maeve’s voice, like wind through dry leaves, filled the space between them.

Eleanor didn’t answer with words, only squeezed her sister’s hand tighter. The curse kept them bound—neither fully alive nor dead, always caught in October’s eternal dusk.

They reached the edge of the path where the woods opened slightly, revealing a small clearing. A ring of mushrooms grew in a perfect circle—new, fresh, alive.

“A fairy ring,” Eleanor whispered. Her voice crackled with the echo of the fire that once burned her. “Maybe tonight.”

They stepped into the circle together, holding their skirts delicately, as if they were children again sneaking into their mother’s herb garden.

A wind stirred. The trees groaned, and the sky dimmed to an eerie burnt sienna. The candlelight inside their pumpkin heads flared.

“You may not pass,” said a voice—low, old, almost amused.

The wind congealed into a shape at the edge of the ring. A figure in a wide-brimmed hat, eyes glowing like coals, robes made of stitched shadows.

“The curse remains,” it continued. “Your grief is not payment enough.”

“We didn’t curse ourselves,” Maeve hissed. “We were wronged.”

“And yet you curse others still,” the shadow replied. “The Hemsworth line is gone. The town fears your return each year.”

“They burned us,” Eleanor said, voice trembling. “Would you have us forgive and forget?”

“I would have you rest,” it said, almost gently. “But the price of peace is not rage. It is release.”

They stood silent in the ring, the fire within them flickering uncertainly.

“What must we do?” Maeve asked at last.

“Give up the memory,” the shadow said. “Of him. Of love. Of revenge. Let go of the pain that binds you here.”

Silence fell again, this time heavier than before. Could they do that? Could they let go of Daniel’s smile? Of the betrayal? Of the warmth of hands once held?

Eleanor closed her eyes, though the pumpkin did not blink. She saw him again—under moonlight, promising to run away. Promising to protect her. She saw the torch in his hand the next night.

She let the memory go.

Maeve released it, too—the fury, the helplessness. Her last memory of their mother screaming into the fire. The knowledge that she couldn’t stop them.

As the memories drifted like mist from their forms, the pumpkins cracked softly, splitting like shells. From within, pale light poured. The carved grins softened. Their heads tilted together.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

All that remained were two dresses on the forest floor. A breeze carried away the last of the ash. The fairy ring faded, and the path grew quiet again.

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Come spring, villagers wandered the forest and found the clearing overgrown with soft bluebells and violets. Children said they heard singing there, but no one saw the sisters again.

But on the edge of October, if you walk that forest path alone, you might find two flickering pumpkins left in the clearing, carved not with fear—but with peace.

And the wind might whisper your name, like an old lullaby long forgotten.

Because even cursed souls can find their way home.

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