He didn’t want a wife, especially not one with a sack over her head. But the judge made it clear, “Marry her or forfeit the land.” What he didn’t know was she’d been hiding from far more than just him. The preacher barely looked up when he said the words. “Do you take her?” Warren’s jaw clenched.

 

 

 

 He didn’t even know her name. She stood beside him, motionless, the sack draped over her head like a burlap veil. No eye holes, no mouth slit, just tied at the neck with a frayed blue ribbon and a trickle of dried mud crusted along the hem. Her hands stayed folded in front of her. Small, thin fingers, nails bitten raw.

 He glanced at the town judge who stood a few paces back, arms crossed, badge gleaming in the sunlight. “Say the words,” the judge said, “Or you lose the ranch.” And that was it. That was how Warren Cutter became a husband. He muttered the vow, throat dry. The sackwoman did not speak.

 The preacher, an old man whose collar was stained with tobacco and ink, just nodded and shut his Bible with a dusty thump. No kiss, he said. Guess that part ain’t necessary. Then he walked away. Warren stood there beside the woman, unsure whether to speak or lead or run. She didn’t move, didn’t lift her head. Can you walk? He asked. No reply. All right, come on then. He led her toward the wagon, waiting by the fence.

It was just past noon, and half the town had shown up, not for a wedding, but for a show. The women clutched their parasols tight and whispered behind gloved hands. The men shook their heads and chuckled. A child asked too loudly why she got a sack on her head. Mama, because she’s cursed, someone else muttered.

 And that was the first Warren heard of it. The word cursed. He’d been told nothing of the sort, only that she was a ward of the county, no known family, no inheritance, kept under special care after some incident years back, but no one would say what kind. The judge called it an arrangement.

 Warren got the land he’d been squatting on for six years legally transferred into his name, and she got something. He hadn’t thought to ask what. The sack bobbed as she climbed into the wagon beside him. She sat rigid, hands clasped in her lap. No tremble, no noise, no shift in posture. Warren flicked the res. The wagon rolled forward. The town disappeared behind them.

 By the time they reached the edge of the cutter ranch, the sky had turned gold and pink with the lowering sun. Dust kicked up behind the wheels in soft clouds, and the cattle grazing along the fence lines raised their heads lazily before returning to the grass. The main house wasn’t much. two rooms, one porch, a chimney that needed patching, but it was his, and it would stay his now that this mess was done.

 He stopped the wagon in front and hopped down, reaching to help her, but she moved before he could, climbed down slow and stiff. She looked at the house, or at least turned her head toward it, and he noticed how the sack had a darkened patch on the left side, like it had once been burned. He opened the door. Not much, he said, but it’ll do. She stepped inside. Didn’t comment.

 He lit a lamp, the silence already making his ears ring. I’ll take the cot tonight, he said. You can have the bed. Still nothing. I don’t reckon you talk much. At last, she turned her head slightly toward him. And in the faint flicker of the lamplight, he saw a single drop fall from under the sack. silent, slow, landing at her collarbone. A tear.

 That night, he lay awake on the cot, the blanket scratchy against his arms. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t moved, just sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded, facing the window, though there was nothing to see but night. And sometime around midnight, she whispered just once, so quiet he thought he dreamed it. Please don’t take it off. The words froze his spine.

 He didn’t answer, didn’t move, just stared at the ceiling, pulse in his ears like hooves on rock. Morning came hard. He found her kneeling in the garden, sacks still tied firm, hands in the dirt. She was planting onions. He hadn’t asked her to. He hadn’t known there were onions. He cleared his throat. Breakfast.

 She didn’t look up. Just shook her head once. He made coffee anyway, and they sat in silence. Him drinking her still. I got work, he finally said up by the north ridge fencing. Be back before dusk. She gave a nod and he left. All day his mind returned to the sack, the ribbon, the tear, the whisper.

 He hadn’t imagined it. But why? Why ask him not to take it off? He wasn’t planning to. He wasn’t the sort to go poking at wounds that didn’t belong to him. But still, what was under there? By the time he returned, the sun was low again. The house glowed warm in the orange light, and something smelled good.

 She’d cooked a stew, maybe. No meat, just vegetables and something earthy. He saw a loaf of bread on the table cut in half, a knife wiped clean beside it. She was sitting in the corner, facing the wall. He stepped in slowly. I didn’t think you did. She raised one hand gently toward the table, a gesture that meant, “Eat.

” “He did. It was good.” He glanced at her sack as he chewed, and the flicker of guilt hit him hard. Whatever she was hiding, it wasn’t evil. It was pain. He didn’t ask anything that night. Didn’t press. Didn’t mention the whisper. But in the quiet, when she moved to sit on the bed again, she paused, turned her head slightly toward him.

 “Thank you,” she said, a voice rough from disuse, dry, barely a whisper. But it was the first time she’d spoken without pleading. He dreamed of her that night, not with a sack, with a face, but he couldn’t see it clearly, just light and smoke. And then he woke to the sound of breathing. Heavy, not hers, outside the window. He grabbed the rifle, crept to the door.

 But when he opened it, nothing, just dirt, and something carved into the wood of the porch. Do not remove the sack. Warren stood frozen on the porch, the morning sun catching the etched letters carved in the wood like a warning from someone or something that knew more than he did. The words had been carved deep and ragged, as if the hand that wrote them trembled or rushed.

Do not remove the sack. His first instinct was anger. Someone had come onto his land in the dead of night, crept up to his house while he slept, and left a threat inches from his door. But that feeling didn’t last long because right behind the anger was a chill that reached into his gut.

 The woman inside his wife now legally had whispered it herself. Please don’t take it off. And now this. He stepped back in, rifle still in hand. She was where he’d left her, sitting on the edge of the bed, sack over her head, hands in her lap. The sun poured through the window beside her, catching the edges of that frayed blue ribbon. Warren didn’t say anything, just leaned the rifle against the wall and boiled water for coffee.

 She didn’t speak either, but he noticed her hands trembled faintly when she reached for the tin cup he placed on the table. She hadn’t seen the message, and he wasn’t going to tell her. He checked the ground after breakfast. The footprints were clear.

 Someone had approached from the west, crossed near the chicken coupe, left the message, then headed back the way they came. The prints were uneven, like one leg dragged behind. No horse tracks, just boots, heavy ones. The trail led off his land toward the rocky hills near Milligan’s Creek. He thought about following, but something told him not to.

 Something told him that if the person or thing that left that message wanted to be found, they would have stayed. Instead, he poured ash over the words on the porch, rubbed it in with his boot, wiped the surface clean, and said nothing. The next few days passed with a strange rhythm. She moved like a ghost through the house, never speaking unless spoken to, never raising her voice, never lifting the sack even a fraction.

But she worked hard. By the third day, the entire east garden had been weeded and replanted. He watched her from the barn, arms crossed, trying to figure her out. There was something about the way she moved, deliberate, careful, almost ritualistic, like every motion had to be perfect or something terrible would happen.

 She never entered the barn, never approached the horses. He offered once to let her help with feed, but she only shook her head slowly, stepping back. Why? He’d asked, more curious than annoyed. Her voice was quiet, almost too quiet to hear. They don’t like me. He thought she was joking until one of the mayors kicked the stall wall the moment she stepped near. He didn’t ask again.

That night, he woke to the sound of humming. Soft low. a lullabi maybe. The tune was unfamiliar, and the voice came from the front room. He got up, crept out from the cot, and peeked into the shadows. She was rocking back and forth in the wooden chair, facing the fireplace, hands folded again.

 The humming stopped when he stepped too close. She didn’t turn her head, didn’t acknowledge him, just sat there still. He went back to bed. But the tune stuck in his head like a thorn. On the fifth night, someone knocked hard. Three times. Warren sat up fast, rifle in hand. He stepped to the door and paused.

 She was awake too, standing now, facing the door, breathing harder than he’d ever heard her. “You stay back,” he said quietly. She didn’t move. He cracked the door. No one, just another carving, this time on the tree stumped near the gate. Four words. You can’t hide her. He scanned the darkness, finger on the trigger, but saw nothing. Then something cold brushed past his neck. He turned.

She was behind him, but not close enough to touch. Still, it felt like her presence had dragged something through the air. Her breathing was shallow. Go inside, he said. She obeyed. But that night, he didn’t sleep. He sat with the rifle across his lap, watching the tree line. And thinking, who was she hiding from? And why did they want her face? He asked her in the morning.

Straight out. What happened to you? She was scrubbing the floor with vinegar and hot water. Bare knees pressed into the boards. Her fingers stilled. She didn’t lift her head. I was born wrong, she said finally. They said I was a bad omen. Who? The sisters. He frowned. You mean like a convent? She nodded once. They raised me after the fire. He blinked.

 Fire, but she’d gone quiet again. He tried a different path. What’s your name? A pause. Then I don’t use it anymore. But I’d like to. Another long silence, then quietly. Lorna. He repeated it under his breath. Lorna. The name felt heavy, like a key that didn’t quite fit the lock.

 Is that what you went by at the convent? She looked up suddenly. Even under the sack, he could tell her head snapped toward him faster than normal. I never went outside, she said. Not until they made me leave. Why’ they do that? She didn’t answer. He tried again. Was it the fire? She stood. walked to the window, hands trembling. They said the devil wanted me back.

Three more nights passed, each one worse than the last. Messages kept appearing. On the wellstone, on the barn wall, on the fence posts, each carved deeper than the last, each more frantic. Show her the truth. Hi D in the flesh. She isn’t yours to keep.

 Warren tried to scrub them out, but the wood wouldn’t smooth over. It was like the messages were being seared into the land itself. The cattle started getting sick. Two calves dead in one morning. The chickens stopped laying. Then one night, the sky lit up red. He thought the barn was on fire. Rushed out barefoot, rifle in hand. But there was no flame. Just light pouring down from a crack in the clouds.

 And in that light, a figure, not human, not animal. Warren dropped the rifle. The figure vanished and the sackwoman was standing behind him. This time, humming, he confronted her. Tell me what’s happening. Lorna didn’t respond. He grabbed her arms gently but firm. You know something? That thing in the sky? What was it? She whispered.

 Not yet. Not yet. What? She didn’t answer. He reached up. His fingers brushed the sack. Just barely. She let out a scream so blood curdling he staggered back. Not from the volume, but from the way the earth shook under it. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t human. Her scream seemed to tear something in the air. And then she collapsed.

 He stayed by her side all night. She didn’t wake, didn’t stir, just breath shallow and slow. At dawn, he found something new on the porch. Not carved this time. Painted blood red. A single sentence. If you love her, let her burn. Warren scrubbed the blood red paint until his knuckles bled. The words wouldn’t come off.

 Even with boiling water, even with lie, they stayed, staining the wood like a scar on the house, a wound that wouldn’t close. Lorna hadn’t woken. Her sackcovered head barely moved on the pillow. Her breathing was so shallow he had to hold a mirror under the fabric just to make sure she still lived. He didn’t go into town. didn’t dare leave her alone.

 He boiled broth, fed it to her in spoonfuls through the cloth. She swallowed but never spoke. When night came, he stayed by the bed with the rifle across his knees. He prayed, not out loud, not in words, but in that desperate, aching silence only a man on the brink understands. The wind howled like it was angry at the house, and somewhere in the trees, something answered it. By morning, she stirred just barely.

Her hand reached out from under the blanket, grasped at the empty air, fingers twitching. Warren caught it gently. Her skin was ice cold. But her voice was a dry whisper. Did you see them? He leaned in. What do you mean? They know I’m here now. Who? She shook her head faintly. Not who? What? Warren’s stomach tightened.

 What are they, Lorna? Her grip on his hand tightened just a little. They’re the ones that come when you pull off the veil. He swallowed hard. You mean the sack? She nodded. They’ve been waiting just outside this whole time. Warren looked toward the window, and for a split second, he swore he saw something move behind the tree line. tall.

 Still wrong. The next night, Lorna insisted on lighting candles. Not lanterns, candles. 47 of them, arranged in a circle across the floor. She moved with trembling purpose, setting each one down with care. Warren didn’t argue. He didn’t understand it, but he saw the fear in her hands, the knowledge, like this wasn’t superstition. This was ritual.

When the last candle was lit, she stood in the center of the ring. The sack over her head turned toward him. “If they come inside,” she said quietly. “Don’t let them speak.” “What do you mean?” “If they say your name, they own it.” The wick of one candle flickered sharply. Warren’s breath caught.

 She raised both hands and whispered something in a language he didn’t understand. Her voice was, fragile, but sure. The flames rose. All of them, like the air itself bent in response, then silence. Warren didn’t move, and neither did she. They stood like statue as the flames danced higher than they should have.

 And when the wind outside died, all the candles extinguished at once. Just like that, darkness swallowed the room. He dreamt that night of fire, of the veil, of the sack untying itself, sliding from Lorna’s face without her hands moving. But the dream stopped before he could see what was underneath. He woke drenched in sweat, lungs full of smoke.

But there was no fire, only her standing at the foot of the bed. Still watching him. By daybreak, he decided he couldn’t stay on the land. Not without answers. Lorna didn’t try to stop him. I have to go into town, he told her. Find someone. Talk to the church. Her hands twisted at her sides. They won’t help. Maybe not.

But I can’t just sit here. Not with things carving messages into my porch and hiding in my trees. He expected protest. Instead, she nodded. Take this. Then she handed him a pouch, leather, old. Inside was a folded strip of cloth, worn, faded, with strange red ink symbols drawn on it. What is this? For protection? He stared at her, confused.

She added softly. Don’t let anyone give you water. What? Don’t drink anything. Not from anyone. Even if you trust them. He frowned. That’s ridiculous. Don’t. If they offer water, they’re not real. Warren wanted to laugh. Shake his head. But something in her voice, deadly calm, rooted him to the floor.

 I’m serious, she said. Please. He nodded slowly. and left before he could change his mind. The town looked normal from the ridge. Children ran along the dusty road, storefronts bustled. The church bell rang the hour. But the moment he rode in, something felt wrong. He’d grown up near folks like this, tight-knit, god-fearing, slow to change.

But this time, their eyes followed him differently. They didn’t smile, didn’t nod, just watched. Judge and jury. He tied off his horse and headed into the general store. The owner, Mr. Cartrite, stood behind the counter, wiping down a crate of molasses tins. Warren nodded, “Morning.” Cartrite didn’t answer.

 Instead, he turned and poured a glass of water from the jug on the shelf, set it on the counter. Warren stared at it, cold, clear, sweating on the sides. His throat achd. He hadn’t drunk anything since the night before. But Lorna’s voice echoed in his mind. “Don’t let anyone give you water.” “Thanks,” he said, voice low.

“But I’m fine.” Cartrite didn’t blink. You sure? He said tone flat. Yeah, you look thirsty. Warren stepped back. The man hadn’t blinked once. I said, “I’m fine.” A silent stretched. Then, slow and strange, Cartrite smiled, but his lips didn’t part. The kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes, just a crack across a painted mask.

 Warren left the store. vast. The church was locked. It had never been locked before. Not in 30 years. He pounded on the door. A woman in black peaked from the curtains across the street, then shut them fast. No one answered. He circled around back. The shed behind the church was a jar. Inside, old papers were stacked floor to ceiling.

 records, ledgers. He dug. Sweat poured from his brow, dust clogging his lungs. Then he found it. A log book from 15 years ago. He flipped through dates until something caught his eye. A name, Laura Caldwell. Next to it, transferred to Mercy Sisters convent after incident at New Providence Orphanage. No family, no visitors. Incident. He searched further.

 The candles she’d reit flickered again, and the porch groaned under a weight that wasn’t there. Outside, something waited, not knocking, not carving, just waiting, breathing, and it was hungry. Warren galloped home like the devil himself was on his heels. The nuns words rang through his skull louder than the wind in his ears. Not someone, it.

 By the time he reached the homestead, Twilight was dying fast. Orange light spilled over the horizon like blood, and the trees surrounding his cabin looked different, too still, too tall, as if they’d grown in the hours he’d been gone. His boots hit the ground before his horse even stopped.

 The door to the house was wide open. He hadn’t left it that way. He drew his rifle and stepped inside slow. The floor creaked underfoot, but no other sound greeted him. Candles still burned in the center of the room, all 47 of them. But Lorna was gone. His breath caught. Lorna? Nothing. Just the flickering of wax and flame.

 He turned in a circle, rifle up, every sense alert. There were no signs of struggle, no blood, no broken glass, but something in the air felt off. Then he noticed one of the candles wasn’t lit. The 47th. Its wick was blackened, but untouched. Snuffed it. He stared at it. And for a brief second, it felt like the entire house tilted. A sound rose up behind him, a breath ragged and wet. He turned sharply.

Nothing. But the porch creaked again. Then again, and again, heavy footsteps pacing slowly just outside the front door, though nothing could be seen through the windows. He ran to the doorway, swung it wide. Empty. He stepped out, searching the yard. still nothing. But when he turned back, the candle had been relit by something.

 He searched the whole property. No Lorna, no footprints in the dirt, no sign of where she’d gone or what took her. The air had a strange weight to it now, like walking through water. And the shadows stretched too far, clinging to corners they didn’t belong. He didn’t sleep that night, didn’t eat. He sat beside the ring of candles, eyes fixed on the 47th. By morning, it went out again.

 It wasn’t until the third day she returned. But she wasn’t alone. He heard her voice before he saw her, soft, distant, calling his name like it was a question. Warren. He bolted outside. She stood at the edge of the trees. Her sack still covered her face, her dress torn and muddy. But something about the way she stood felt wrong.

 Too still, too upright. And behind her, halfway behind the trees, was something else. He couldn’t see it fully, just the shape. 7 ft tall, covered in a veil of its own. No face, no eyes, just a gaping mouth where a face should be. He raised his rifle, hands trembling. Lorna, run. She didn’t move. Lorna still frozen. Then her head tilted slightly to the left.

 Not in recognition, more like calculation, like she was listening to something else. And when she spoke again, her voice wasn’t hers anymore. You broke the circle. The thing whispered through her. His knees nearly buckled. “What? What do you want?” he managed. “To finish the vow.

 The vow? The wedding?” His heart thudded violently in his chest. “You already have her. What else is there?” The thing behind her took one step forward. Warren fired. The sound cracked the stillness like thunder. The shot hit the trees and split bark, but the creature didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t bleed. Lorna collapsed. The thing behind her vanished. Warren ran to her and scooped her up.

Her sack was torn slightly at the seam, just enough for him to see the edge of her cheek, gray, bruised, veins running red and black beneath her skin like ink in water. He carried her back inside, lit every candle, and locked the door. She slept for hours. When she woke, her voice was clearer, hers again. “I didn’t want you to see it,” she said.

 “I saw enough. I left so it wouldn’t follow you.” “It already did.” She turned her head away from him on the pillow. “I told you not to marry me.” He dropped into the chair beside her bed, exhausted. You didn’t. You just don’t remember. He frowned. What are you talking about? There was a reason the sack was on, she said. A reason they forced the wedding without showing my face. You said it was to hide from them.

It was, she said, but also to hide me from you. Warren stiffened. What do you mean? She paused and then with a shaking hand pulled something from beneath her blanket. A photograph. Old torn. She handed it to him. His stomach turned cold. It was him and her, but they were children, no older than eight or nine.

 In the photo, they were holding hands, both smiling. He had no memory of this. I don’t remember this, he said, his voice hollow. You were made to forget, she whispered. By who? She stared at the 47th candle. And for the first time, she said its name. The hollow one. When they were children, there deep in a game.

 She said it was played in the woods behind New Providence Orphanage. A circle of stones, a chant, a dare to summon the hollow one, a thing with no face, no past, and no mercy. Lorna had led it. She had always been the brave one. Warren had followed. He was the only child who did.

 They made a pact, not knowing what it meant, not knowing what it cost. And when the veil had thinned just enough, the hollow one had chosen her. As his bride, but something went wrong, she resisted. The nuns locked her away, veiled her, silenced her, and Warren was sent far away, his memories taken in exchange for protection. Only now the vow was incomplete, and it had found them again.

 “Is there a way to break it?” Warren asked. Lorna was silent, then nodded once. But it’s not what you think. He leaned forward. Tell me. You have to finish the vow willingly with me. What do you mean? If you take the sack off, she said, and say my name out loud completely in full recognition. He can’t claim me. He frowned. Why? Because then the vow is ours, not his. Warren stared. That’s it.

That’s everything. He reached for the sack. Her hands shot up and grabbed his. You only get one chance. I understand. If you flinch, if you look away, it all starts over. But worse. He swallowed. Nodded. Do it. She whispered. He untied the knot. The cloth fell away slowly, and he saw her.

 Her face, not monstrous, not twisted, but griefstricken and beautiful, so painfully human, it made his chest ache. He said her name, her full name, Laura me Caldwell. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Her lips trembled. And in the silence that followed, something outside screamed. A scream that split the sky like a thunderclap and set every candle in the room out at once. All but the 47th.

That one burned brighter than ever. The earth trembled, the windows shattered, and from the sky a black figure descended, mouth open wide as if to swallow the world. But when it landed, it shattered into ash right at the threshold of the house. Couldn’t cross the circle. Couldn’t pass the vow.

 The hollow one was bound, defeated, or at least driven back. Warren caught Lorna as she collapsed. Her body was ice, but her eyes clear, for the first time, not clouded. She looked at him with tears. “You remembered me.” “I never really forgot,” he said. “Did I?” “No,” she whispered. And smiled.

 But before he could answer, he noticed something on her shoulder. A mark, a red brand, in the shape of a mouth, still warm, still pulsing. And outside the house, beyond the porch, in the woods, something moved, still watching, still waiting because vows could be broken. But marks were forever. Warren didn’t sleep again. Not because he wasn’t exhausted. He was, but because every time he blinked, he saw that thing descending again.

 Mouth first. No eyes, just endless hunger. The hollow one wasn’t gone. Not really. It had been pushed back, not destroyed. Lorna had said the vow was complete, that he’d saved her. But that mark, it pulsed like it was alive. And worse, it wasn’t fading. In fact, it was spreading.

 By the second morning, the red brand had crept down Lorna’s back in branching veins, like roots digging into her flesh. She hadn’t eaten, couldn’t hold water. Her hands shook when she tried to dress herself. But her voice hadn’t trembled once, and that scared Warren more than anything. She wasn’t getting better. She was resisting whatever was still inside her.

But the cost was killing her. They rode into town the next day. People stared at her veiled head, at the way she clutched his hand like she might float away if she let go at him, the man who’d married the stranger girl nobody had seen. “Pastor Bickley stepped out of the church as they passed.

 He held his Bible high. “God sees you, son,” he said gently. “But if that woman is cursed, you must act.” “Warren didn’t slow.” “Already did,” he muttered. didn’t take. They stopped at Doc Trumbles. Warren had known the man since he was 12. Old, grizzled, and bitter, but smart. He’d seen everything except this. “Holy Lord,” Trumble muttered as he examined her back. “These lines, they’re moving like vines.” “I told you,” Warren said.

“It’s its marking her.” And you’re saying this came from a wedding vow? A broken one? Trumble didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, just stared at the girl, shaking his head. This ain’t medical and it ain’t natural either. I don’t need medicine, Warren said. I need help. Trumble straightened slowly. There’s someone up past Bitter Ridge. Who? She’s called the widow.

 Lorna sat upright too fast. No. Trumbull raised a brow. You know her. You don’t go to the widow. She helped my niece back in 72. Trumbull said when she started dreaming in Latin and waking with her hands burnt black. Warren stared at him. What happened? She don’t dream no more. Lorna stood shaky. She’ll ask a price.

Trumbull shrugged. All the powerful ones do. Buried beneath skin and soul, waiting. The widow’s home sat at top a hill ringed by thorny trees. The house was made of stone, not wood, and the air around it felt different, denser, like the world held its breath. Warren lifted Lorna from the horse, holding her like a child. He knocked.

 The door opened without a sound. A voice drifted from the dark hallway. You’re late. The widow was not what he expected. Young barefoot, her eyes milky white blind. But when she touched Lorna’s wrist, she inhaled sharply. Not yours, she whispered. It never wanted you. Warren frowned. Then why? Because she chose you. That breaks its rules. You know what it is.

 The widow nodded once. It’s old, too old. From before there were names for things, it was fed by vows, sacrifices, long before rings and churches. The mask just changed. Warren sat Lorna down carefully on a cot. Can you get it out of her? I can try. She paused. But if I fail, it will take her fully. Lorna stirred at that.

Her eyes fluttered open. Do it. The widow blinked. No hesitation. I’m tired, Lorna said. Warren grasped her hand tightly. The widow knelt beside her. We need three things, she said softly. One from before the vow, one from during, and one from after. Warren thought fast. The photo. He still had it folded in his coat pocket from before. He placed it on Lorna’s chest.

 From during the sack he’d kept it too. He laid it beside the photo. And after he asked the widow looked at him. You? He stiffened me. Your blood. He hesitated. For what? She held out a knife. because you’re the only one it wants more than her. The ritual was quiet, no candles, no incantations, just silence.

 She sliced Warren’s palm and let a single drop fall onto the items on Lorna’s chest. The photo sizzled. The sack turned black and Lorna arched screaming. The sound wasn’t hers. It was layered. One screamed human, the other something else. The widow placed both hands on Lorna’s chest and pushed. Her eyes rolled back, her fingers locked. Black smoke began to rise from her mouth.

Warren shouted her name, but the widow held him back. Then Lorna fell still. Her chest stopped rising. Warren lunged. No. But before he reached her, she gasped, eyes wide, alive. The mark on her shoulder was gone. The black vines vanished. And for a long moment, Warren just held her, neither speaking. The widow nodded.

 “It’s out, but not destroyed.” “Where is it?” Warren whispered. The widow turned to the hearth. The sack had moved. It now sat in the center of the fire and didn’t burn. “It’s looking for someone else,” she said. “Someone to finish what you refused. Can it be stopped?” The widow looked tired. “No, but it can be delayed.

” Kept hungry. “How?” She turned to Warren because now you know how it works. He stared and then understood. You want us to stay married? She shook her head. I want you to keep choosing her everyday. That’s what it can’t stand. Choice. They left the widow’s hill the next morning. The sky was clearer.

 Lorna rode upright beside him. The scar on her back was faint, like a memory that refused to fade completely. But it didn’t hurt anymore. They didn’t speak much on the ride, but her hand never left his and neither looked back. That night, Warren lit all 47 candles again. Just in case. Lorna smiled as she watched him.

 You still afraid of it? No, he said, not afraid, just watchful. She leaned against the door frame, holding a steaming mug. You didn’t have to do any of this, you know. He looked up at her. I didn’t do it for you. Her brows lifted. I did it because you were mine. Long before the sack, before the vow, that fo we knew each other.

 She sat beside him, took his hand. Do you think we can be normal now? He stared at the final candle, the 47th, still flickering. I don’t think people like us get normal, he said. But we can get something close. They slept through the night. The house didn’t creek. No voices whispered. No dreams came.

 But far, far from the homestead, at the edge of a dried riverbed, two children played. Brother and sister, they found something in the mud. A veil. A mouth sewn shut, still grinning, still warm. And behind them, the woods were quiet, too quiet. Warren woke before dawn. Not because of nightmares. Those had stopped. It was something else. The absence of sound.

 No wind, no creek of old timber, no chirp from the night birds that nested near the barn rafters, just stillness. He looked beside him. Lorna slept peacefully, her breathing slow and even. She looked younger now without pain lining her face. The scar on her back had faded more each day, shrinking into a silvery thread no thicker than a hair.

 But that quiet, it didn’t feel right. He dressed quietly and stepped outside. The land stretched in every direction, quiet as a painting. Then he saw it on the fence post, a ribbon of sackcloth, tied in a neat bow, still wet, still grinning. His hand went to the knife at his belt before he even realized it. He tore the cloth from the fence and turned in a full circle, scanning every tree, every hill, every shadow. Nothing, just wheat and sky.

 But the message was clear. It wasn’t over. By noon, Lorna had found it, too. It was in the feed bin. Another ribbon. She didn’t scream, didn’t even flinch. She simply walked it over to Warren, handed it to him, and whispered, “It’s looking.” They sat at the table for a long time. Warren laid both scraps of sackcloth between them. We stopped the possession, he said, but we didn’t stop it.

 Lorna didn’t answer. Her eyes were on the door. There’s no vow to feed it now, she said finally. So, it’s hungry and it’s getting clever. Warren reached for her hand. Then we stop it. We finish this. How? Don’t know yet, but I’m done waiting for it to pick its next move. He stood in. But they returned to the orphanage.

 Only a week had passed, but it felt like another lifetime. The building was still abandoned, the wood brittle, the windows broken, the altar upstairs still charred black. But in the center of the sanctuary, a new mark had been carved into the floor. Not with a knife, with claws. Warren stared at the symbol, a crooked ring of teeth, and beneath it, seven words.

 I never needed your choice anyway. Lorna’s breath hitched behind him. It’s mocking us. Warren nodded slowly and telling us it’s found another way. That night, they stayed in town. Not at the inn, it was too exposed. They camped in the church with Pastor Bickley’s blessing. He didn’t ask questions, just prayed with them, then gave them a pair of pew blankets and lit every lantern he had.

 By midnight, Lorna was asleep. Warren sat in the front row, staring at the pulpit. He didn’t believe he was cursed, but he did believe he’d been chosen or marked or dragged into something older than blood. That was when he heard it. the whisper. Not from the church from inside him. She’s not the only one you can save.

 He stood slowly, looked around. Nothing. Then again, she was the first, not the last. He turned to look at Lorna. She was dreaming, twitching gently, but peaceful. The whisper was louder now. You’re married to the wrong soul. He dropped to his knees, hands clenched, and whispered his own words. “No, I made my vow.” The air turned colder. “Then you’ll bury her.

” They left the next day, rode north. The widow’s words echoed in both their minds. “Keep choosing her every day, every minute, no matter what the thing said, no matter what face it wore. But the hollow one wasn’t idle. It left messages, ribbons on tombstones, footprints with too many toes circling their campfire.

 Whispers in the ears of towns folk they passed. By the end of the second week, everyone in a 100mile stretch had heard the rumor. The couple who married under the sack were cursed. Warren didn’t care. Lorna tried not to, but he caught her crying one morning, her face buried in her hands. I don’t want to be a thing people fear, she whispered.

 I wanted a life. You still have one, he said, with me. But even as he held her, he saw it over her shoulder. Lorna took a breath. And together they spoke the words neither had prepared, but both had known deep down. For every vow broken in fear, we vow in faith. For every hand forced, we offer our own freely.

 For every soul lost, we will remember. For every mouth sealed, we will speak. For every sack, we will lift it. The candles flared. The walls creaked. And somewhere far off, something screamed. Not near, not yet, but furious. They had done more than refuse the hollow one. They had declared war and the thing that fed on silence had just heard them.

 But outside the wind picked up. The blind men were gone. So were their chairs, but etched into the stone of the well was a final warning. Warren read it aloud. The mouth comes next. Lorna shivered. He placed an arm around her. We won’t run. She leaned against him. No, we’ll fight. But that night, they camped in the ruins of Dusbark Hollow. They didn’t sleep.

 Not because they were afraid, but because they were ready. The hollow one had more to send, more pieces, more veils. But it had made a mistake. It had chosen them first, and they weren’t broken. They were bound together. The storm hit just before dawn. Not thunder, not lightning, but a sound, a moan rolling in with the wind like the groan of mountains shifting under the earth.

Warren and Lorna stood back to back, eyes scanning the ruined buildings of Dust Bark Hollow as dust spiraled in every direction. The fire they’ lit in the church last night had long since died, but the embers glowed red. No birds, no sky, just the moan. Then came the footsteps, slow dragging, many, not just one creature this time.

Not even a dozen, but an army. Lorna took a step forward, her fingers curling tight around the handle of the widow’s blade. Warren tightened the cinch on his rifle strap, jaw locked. The moaning grew closer, and then they saw it. Dozens of people moving stiffly, their faces covered with sackcloth. Every single one.

 men, women, children, some in suits, some in night gowns. Their hands bled from dragging themselves across gravel and thorns. Their feet left raw red streaks behind them. Each of them wore a note pinned to their chest. Warren squinted, reading aloud as the nearest body passed. I said yes when I wanted to say no. Another passed.

 I was married to please NY. another. I never knew her name. Lorna’s voice cracked. They’re not dead. Warren’s stomach turned. He looked again. The faces beneath the sackloth twitched. The mouths opened and closed like fish gasping for air. They’re trapped. The realization hit both of them at the same time. This wasn’t an attack. It was a procession.

A warning or a recruitment? They’re the hollow ones trophies, Lorna whispered. Warren moved forward, voice strong. Can you hear me? Take off the sacks. But none did. Instead, the closest one, a man in a bloodstained wedding coat, turned to Warren and spoke without moving his lips. Your vow has been heard. Your defiance is noted. Lorna stepped forward, fire in her eyes.

Then unmarked these people. Let them go. The man twitched again. Let them go. But they chose this. They were coerced. Then they chose to obey. Lorna lifted her knife. Let them go. The man smiled and said nothing. The procession passed silently, endlessly. It stretched into the horizon and the hollow one’s message hung in the air.

 Your love is your weapon, but also your weakness. They left Dusbark Hollow that evening. Their mission had changed. It wasn’t just about protecting themselves. It was about freeing others. They made their way from town to town, village to village. And the more they saw, the more they understood. The hollow one didn’t attack outright. It infiltrated.

It whispered in ears. It altered vows, twisted truth, shifted feelings. It made obedience look like holiness. Made silence feel like honor. And it marked its victims in the most painful way by making them believe their suffering was their own fault. In a town called Thistlebend, they found a woman who hadn’t spoken in years.

 Her husband kept her locked in their attic, said she was sick in the mind. Lorna walked straight into the house and cut the sack off the woman’s head. The woman screamed, and when she screamed, the entire house shook. The man dropped to his knees, blood pouring from his ears. Then he screamed, too, and something left him. a black fog that snarled as it rose through the ceiling beams.

 In the silence that followed, the woman said one word. Thank you. They left her with the widow’s silver bell. A gift, a symbol of her freedom. Warren turned to Lorna. We can’t do this forever. Lorna met his eyes. No, but we can do it for one more. Always one more. But the hollow one was watching, and it had learned something new. Love didn’t break Warren or Lorna. But it stretched them.

 Every rescue pulled a piece of them further apart. Every town they saved became another link in a chain they couldn’t unbind from. Soon it would be too long since they’ just been together. No rescuing, no running, just each other. The hollow one waited for that, and when it saw the first flicker of doubt in Warren’s eyes, not doubt in Lorna, but doubt in how long he could protect her, it struck.

 Not with monsters, not with sackcloth, but with a letter. It arrived in Prairieo, handd delivered by a man with no tongue. The note was written in neat cursive. It read, “She said she’d rather die free than die with you. I honored her wish. She’s buried beneath the pine where you first kissed.” There was no name, no mark, but Warren knew exactly what it was.

 He galloped, didn’t stop for food or rest, just rode through the night until he reached that hill. The one outside Braypost. the one where the wheat grew tall and Lorna had once said, “If I ever vanish, look here first. I’d come here one last time just to remember that we survived.” There was a fresh grave. Warren dismounted, dropped to his knees.

 Trembling hands touched the mound. He didn’t cry. Not yet. Not until he saw the marker. It wasn’t a name. It was a sack. a small one carved into stone. The hollow one hadn’t needed to show her body. It just needed him to believe it had one. He stared at the dirt, pulled his knife, and began to dig. Back in Prairieo, Lorna woke in an empty in room.

 The note on the table read, “Had to see something be back by sunset, Warren.” She frowned. He never left without saying where. She went outside. The town’s people avoided her eyes. A boy stared at her with a face full of pity. She crossed to the stable and found Warren’s horse gone. Something cold spread through her chest. She rushed to the general store, slammed open the doors, and demanded paper and ink.

 She scribbled the truth, tacked it to the town’s message post. Then she ran, borrowed a horse, kicked up dust, and headed for the hill. Warren reached the coffin just past dawn. It was real wood, nails, fresh. He pried it open, and found nothing, just air, and another note tied to the inside of the lid.

 You needed to see the hole before you could understand the value of what fills it. He dropped the letter and screamed. Lorna found him an hour later. He sat beside the open grave, arms limp. When she crested the hill, he turned like he’d seen a ghost. Then he ran to her, held her tighter than he ever had. “You’re not dead,” he whispered over and over again. She stroked his back. No, but you’re not okay. He nodded and wept.

 That night they made a vow without speaking. We will not let it separate us again. But the hollow one wasn’t finished. It had tested fear, tested love. Now it tested truth. In Belut Gulch, they found a preacher married to a woman who had never spoken a word. He said it was God’s will. Said she was purest when silent. But when Lorna looked into her eyes, she saw a different truth. This woman wasn’t mute.

She was terrified. And something about her gaze. It mirrored what Lorna had once felt under that sack. The woman’s name was Agnes. And Agnes had a secret. She was pregnant. Not by choice, not by blessing, but by a lie. And the hollow one had fed off that silence for months. Lorna confronted the preacher. Warren stood by her.

 And when they told the town what he had done, the sack came off him, revealing a mouth that wasn’t his. Twisted, jagged, full of other people’s teeth. It screamed and Agnes screamed with it. Her voice returned like a thunderclap and the hollow one burned. That night, Warren and Lorna sat with her in the ruins of the preacher’s house.

 Agnes asked, “Does it ever end?” Lorna looked to Warren, then back to her. “No, but neither do we.” But they were becoming something more than a couple now. They were a force, a legend. People whispered their names in every county. The married pair with the sack passed who fought for those too bound to speak. But legends come with a price.

 The hollow one began to whisper back. It left counterfeit versions of them in towns they never visited. People claimed to have been saved by Warren and Lorna only to disappear days later. It made the line between truth and story blur. And then came the dreams. Every night, Lorna dreamed of the wedding again, the veil, the preacher, the vow. But in the dream, Warren wasn’t the groom. It was the hollow one.

Smiling, promising to love her forever. And when she refused, it removed his veil and her own face stared back, not smiling, but weeping. But they woke one morning with identical words on their lips. We need to end this, not run, not rescue. And and so they returned to the source.

 Not the orphanage, not the grave, but the very place the widow had once said the hollow one’s presence first split through the world. The gap of thorns, a canyon, deep and red, rumored to be a place where vows couldn’t be made, where words turned to wind, where prayers echoed but never rose. Warren and Lorna rode side by side.

 Said nothing, not because they had nothing to say, but because words could be twisted, but hands intertwined couldn’t lie. They reached the canyon edge as the sun set, and the hollow one waited there. No body, no mouth, just form. A swirling storm of sackcloth, bones, and broken promises. It hissed. You offer yourselves again. Warren nodded. No. Lorna stepped forward. We offer you your opposite.

 And they raised the object they’d been building for months. A mirror framed with the ribbons from every sack they’d removed, polished with the ashes of every vow they’d reforged. And when the hollow one looked, it saw not itself, but every soul it had tried to erase. And it screamed, not in pain, but in rage, because it knew. Its power was in secrecy.

And now it had been seen. The wind rose, the canyon split, and the hollow one, vanished, not dead, not gone, but stripped of its grip. And for now, that was enough. The sky after the hollow one vanished was not quiet. It didn’t turn gold. It didn’t rain light. It pulsed like the world itself had been holding its breath.

 and now finally exhaled. But it wasn’t over. Lorna knew it. Warren felt it, too. You don’t strike at something ancient and expect it to die easy. The hollow one had retreated, yes, unmasked, wounded. But it would take more than truth to bury something that fed on vows twisted in the dark.

 Still, what they done, what they were, had sent a ripple across the territories. They didn’t head back to Dusbark Hollow. They didn’t settle. They moved together north, then west, then back south again. Not chasing anymore. Not running, just responding. Because now the towns called them. People sent letters marked with cloth threads instead of wax stamps.

 letters that said, “I’ve got a sister who won’t talk anymore. My daughter walked down the aisle and hasn’t been seen since.” The preacher came to town and said, “We weren’t married before God until we put the veils on.” And the two of them would ride, not always as quick as they wanted to. Sometimes too late, but sometimes not.

 In widow’s cleft, they found a man chained to a rocking chair, his bride feeding him soup with trembling hands. She whispered to Lorna, “He’s not sick. He just won’t stop promising to stay.” And when Warren looked in the man’s eyes, he saw the shadow of the hollow one. So they freed him, not with a bullet, not with a prayer, but with a new vow, one spoken aloud between him and the woman where both were seen, where no veil stood between.

 They kissed afterward, not like newlyweds, but like survivors. In Three-Mile Creek, a child named Fern wore a sack for fun, laughed, and said she was playing bride ghost. Lorna sat with her on the porch and asked why. The girl pointed at her mom. She don’t talk to daddy unless she’s got it on. The father chuckled from his rocking chair. She does shy is all.

 Lorna walked into that house, cut down the veils from where they hung over the mantle, and lit them on fire in the yard. The man didn’t laugh again. They were legends now. Some called them the vowreakers. Some called them the honeymooners from hell. Others just called them hope. But Warren and Lorna never took to the names.

 They preferred quiet entries and quiet exits. They never accepted payment. Only one thing. They asked every town to leave behind one veil. Hung in the open. Not hidden. Not worn. scene. It became a kind of warning, a kind of talisman, like a dream catcher for the married soul. You entered a town and saw a sack nailed to the church door.

 That meant the hollow one had already lost there, and it kept others from creeping in. But peace never lasts. And the hollow one in time returned, not with a scream, not with blood, but with a wedding invitation. It was delivered by a boy with eyes too wide. His shirt was stained with wild flower petals, and he never blinked. He handed Lorna a wax sealed envelope.

Inside a single card, gold filigree, elegant font. You are cordially invited to the binding of bliss. Date harvest moon. Location where you first lied. That was all. Warren’s jaw clenched. Lorna closed her eyes. They knew where that was. Not the wedding, not the canyon, not even the orphanage, but a small creek in a dry basin where Lorna had once whispered to herself, “Maybe I do deserve this life.

” A lie born not of evil, but of exhaustion. That’s all the hollow one needed. They arrived 3 days before the harvest moon. The creek but was dry, the sky cloudless, but there were decorations. Veils hung from the trees like rotten fruit. Benches carved from twisted roots. A preacher’s stand. And a bride. Not Lorna. Will it come for me? She asked. Lorna looked her in the eye.

 It might, but it won’t find you alone. And from the wall, Warren lifted a nail where a single sackloth veil hung. Not worn, not feared, just displayed. A relic, a reminder that the dark loses its grip when we name it. That false vows break under real love. And that even the hollow one who thought he could own forever was just a shadow. and shadows.

 They can’t hold what stands in the light.