Withering Hollow was the kind of English village people only saw in postcards—quaint cottages, tidy hedgerows, and ivy climbing the old stone walls like it had secrets to keep. The village sat nestled in a misty valley in Yorkshire, mostly forgotten by the outside world. No trains stopped there anymore. Not since the war.
There were no pubs left. No schools. No phones. Just one winding road in, and even that had fallen into disrepair, swallowed at the edges by creeping bramble and wild heather. And yet, the village seemed oddly full—full of children.
Pale, quiet children with too-large eyes and mouths that always seemed on the verge of a smirk. They played in the graveyard. They stared at newcomers. They never spoke unless they were in groups, and even then, it sounded more like chanting than chatting.
James Morley, a Londoner with a head for history and a heart for adventure, came to Withering Hollow in the spring of 1973. He was writing a book about post-war rural life in the forgotten corners of Britain. His motorcar rattled over stones as he entered the village, camera and notebook at the ready.
The locals were kind at first—all four of them. Mrs. Hebblethwaite, who kept the old vicarage; Mr. and Mrs. Hargreeves, who ran the last standing grocer; and a hunched, shuffling man known only as Edward, who tended the overgrown churchyard.
"Mind the children," Mrs. Hebblethwaite said as she poured him weak tea in chipped china. "They're... a peculiar sort."
James had laughed, noting the way her eyes darted toward the dusk-darkened window.
"What about their parents?" he asked.
She hesitated. "Best not to ask."
The children were always watching. Dozens of them. Blond and brunette, dark-eyed and pale-skinned, none older than perhaps twelve. They lined the fences in the evening. Sat outside his window at dawn. One morning, James awoke to find a child standing silently in his room, fingers covered in something thick and red. When he gasped, the child simply vanished into the hallway.
He tried to ask the others. The Hargreeves shut their door. Edward hissed and spat. Only Mrs. Hebblethwaite answered.
"They came after the war," she said. "In the spring of '46. They just... appeared. Parents gone. Teachers gone. Even the bobbies. And the rest of us, well... we tried to care for them. Tried to feed them."
She looked down at her shaking hands.
"We didn't know what they really were."
James felt a chill crawl up his spine. "What do you mean?"
She leaned in close, breath bitter with old brandy. "They ain't right. Never were. Not children. Not anymore."
That night, James followed the children.
They slipped into the woods behind the church in a long procession, barefoot and silent. He crept behind them, notebook in hand. The moon was full, casting silver shadows on the mossy path.
In a clearing, they began to chant. Words he didn’t understand. The air thickened, buzzing with energy. Then came the fire—a great black cauldron, surrounded by bones. The smell hit him first: copper and rot.
One of the children turned.
James ran.
He made it back to the vicarage, but the doors were already bolted. Mrs. Hebblethwaite was gone. The windows dark.
The children came at dawn.
Three weeks later, a pair of hikers passed through Withering Hollow. They noted its charm, its silence, its eerie perfection. They saw children playing in the churchyard.
And one boy, no older than ten, who wore a tweed jacket too large for him and clutched a notebook in one hand.
He looked up and smiled.
And the hikers never made it home.
Withering Hollow remains on the map, but no GPS will take you there. No mail is delivered. No one dares knock on its ivy-choked gate.
And if you go walking in the countryside at dusk and hear the sound of children laughing just behind you—don’t look back.
Because the children of Withering Hollow are always hungry.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
