I thought Morrow’s Hollow would be a quaint village that held on to its traditions when I first came there. As a journalist, I’ve always enjoyed dispelling misconceptions and revealing the everyday realities that lie behind spooky stories. “The Harvester” seemed like the ideal narrative to write. At midnight on Halloween, a bell is said to ring, calling a dark figure to claim a soul. I believed it to be a local mythology, created by superstitious minds to keep kids inside at night.
However, the locals didn’t dismiss it with a laugh. They shut their doors early on Halloween, talked in whispers, and refrained from staring into mirrors after dark. They turned away and remained silent when I questioned them. Mrs. Adler, an elderly woman who oversaw the town’s tiny library, was the only one who was open to speaking.
“It’s not a myth,” she stated solemnly, holding a battered book in her wrinkly hands. “One person goes missing every year. At midnight, every time. They are never located. Simply… gone. “What would happen if you remained inside?” With a dubious yet inquisitive tone, I asked. Her gaze grew gloomy. “He locates you. Walls don’t matter to the Harvester. He follows the bell’s sound. I laughed. “So, how do humans manage to survive?” “Good luck,” she shrugged in response. Or perhaps he decides. Nobody is aware. As Halloween drew near, her comments continued to resonate with me. I brushed them off as bullshit, but a rising uneasiness began to rise inside me. I then located the town documents. Every October 31st for seven decades, someone had disappeared. The timings and dates coincided exactly.
Curiosity became an obsession. I decided to see it for myself.
—
It was a really frigid Halloween night. The town was eerily silent, the streets were empty, and every window was black. I had a notebook and my tape recorder running as I sat in my living room. Midnight was just a few minutes away. Then, with my breath in the air, the temperature plummeted precipitously. I looked at the time. 11:59 p.m. I could feel the crushing, terrible silence pressing against my ears. Then it started.
Ding.
The sound was faint, like a distant bell tolling from the depths of an abyss.
Ding.
It grew louder, echoing through the house, rattling the windows. My heart raced.
I stepped outside, shivering as the icy air wrapped around me. The bell’s sound reverberated through the streets, unnatural and haunting. And then I saw him.
The Harvester.
Unbelievably tall, he was surrounded by shadows that appeared to wriggle and twist. Blacker than night, his face—or what should have been his face—was a blank emptiness. He held a sickle in his hands that shone like liquid blackness. Slowly and deliberately, his figure went through the streets as though in quest of something. Then he halted. and pivoted.
Toward me.
My breath caught in my throat as the void where his face should be locked onto me. I stumbled backward, scrambling to get inside, but the door slammed shut on its own. The lock clicked, sealing me out.
I ran.
Even though I had only been in town for a few weeks, the streets seemed to go on forever. Unnatural and living, shadows slithered around the walls. Behind me, I could hear his slow, methodical, and leisurely steps. Every step he made caused the bell to tolle, and the sound echoed in my chest. With my back against the chilly stone wall, I retreated into an alley. I breathed in rough breaths. The bell ceased. A thicker than usual silence descended.
“Claire.”
The voice was a whisper, rasping and hollow. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t know my name.
“Claire.”
The voice was closer now. I felt the shadows shift, pulling toward me like a tide.
“Why me?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely audible.
For a minute, I saw faces in the emptiness, and the shadows appeared to pulse. They were twisted in pain, screamed silently, many of them. “The Harvester gathers,” the icy, ruthless voice murmured. “You will now join the truth that you sought.” I yelled, but the emptiness absorbed the sound.
—
They found my recorder the next day, lying in the street. The tape inside was still running, capturing the faint toll of the bell before falling silent. My body was never found.
Every year, they say, the town mourns one more. And the legend of Morrow’s Hollow grows darker with each passing Halloween.