Chapter 1: The Blood Moon Wedding Curse

Funny thing about our town—it’s called Hollow Creek.

The name always sounded so peaceful, like something you’d see on a postcard—barely a dot on the map, nestled between the Appalachian foothills and the old state highway. Folks around here used to joke that nothing ever happened except the seasons changing and the creek getting rowdy after a good rain. But that was before last year. Before everything went straight to hell.

A year ago, Hollow Creek lost its children. Lost its future—almost overnight.

One day, laughter echoed down Main Street, kids racing their bikes past the general store, old-timers sipping coffee on the porch. The next day? Nothing. No school bus in the morning, no baseball games behind the church. Just empty houses and a heaviness you just couldn’t shake. Sometimes, when the wind picked up, it sounded like crying.

Everyone else died. Except for me.

I don’t know why I was spared. Maybe I just got lucky. Or maybe it was something worse. I’ll never know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just the ghost left behind, wandering through a town full of memories and shadows.

It all started with the "Blood Moon Wedding Feast"—supposed to bring the Whitlocks a fortune, or so folks said.

Folks talked about omens and curses, sure, but nobody thought it would ever happen here. The Whitlocks were always big on tradition, but this…this was something darker, something twisted. The night of the Blood Moon, everything changed.

Thing is, the bride at that wedding? She’d been kidnapped.

Not some local girl, not someone’s cousin from the next county. A stranger—dragged in like a prize deer, battered and broken. Folks pretended not to see, pretended it wasn’t their business. But we all saw. And none of us did a damn thing. We’re all guilty, every last one of us.

A drifter. Beaten half to death. And because of her, the whole town paid.

Funny how one person’s pain can drown a whole town. That’s how it started—the curse, the deaths, the silence. All because we turned our backs.

It all started the day the mayor’s oldest boy, Lucas Whitlock, was set to get married.

The Whitlocks lived in the biggest house on the hill, white columns and wraparound porch, always throwing their weight around like they owned the county. Everyone knew the Whitlocks. You couldn’t miss them. When Lucas was set to marry, everyone expected a celebration—music, barbecue, maybe even fireworks if the old men could get their hands on some. But right from the start, there was a heaviness, a chill in the air that made your skin prickle.

Should’ve been a celebration. But it wasn’t. From the very start, there was something off—something dark about it all.

Maybe it was the way folks avoided each other’s eyes, or the hush that fell every time the Whitlocks walked by. Even the birds stayed away. Weird, right? The woods were quieter than usual. Nobody said it out loud, but everyone felt it—something bad was coming.

Why?

Because the bride? Lucas and his buddies snatched her from outside the hills.

Not from our town, not even from our state. She was a nobody to us, just a face we’d never seen, and that’s how the Whitlocks wanted it. Someone nobody would miss. Or so they thought. Folks around here know how to keep their mouths shut, especially when the powerful are involved.

I remember it clearly. When they dragged her into town, her hair was a mess, her face bruised, her eyes…empty. Like her soul had been sucked right out of her.

She stumbled as they yanked her down Main Street, her bare feet scraping the gravel. I was just a kid, hiding behind the rain barrel. But I saw it all.

Lucas tossed her into his dad’s old woodshed like she was just some stray animal. Didn’t even bother to lock the door. Just slammed it so hard the hinges rattled.

For the next three days and nights, the whole town could hear her screams—raw, heart-wrenching, like a wounded wildcat. Nobody did a thing.

At night, her cries drifted through the trees, bouncing off the hills. Even the dogs stopped barking. Like they knew better.

People whispered Lucas did things to her you couldn’t even say out loud.

Nobody knew for sure what went on in that shed, but everyone guessed. The stories grew darker with every telling—broken bones, burned skin, horrors you couldn’t say out loud. But all we did was whisper. That’s what Hollow Creek was good at: pretending nothing was wrong, as long as the Whitlocks kept the lights on.

Nobody said a word. Not one.

Cross the Whitlocks, you lose your job, your house, maybe your teeth. Sheriff looked the other way, preacher kept his sermons vague. Folks learned early on that some things were better left unspoken, even if it ate you alive.

The Whitlocks ran this place.

They owned the mill, the store, half the land. Mayor Whitlock was king. Lucas? Meaner than a rattlesnake. If you wanted a loan, a job, or a favor, you went through them. His friends followed him like hounds, always looking for someone weaker to pick on.

Mayor Whitlock was the town’s top dog, and his eldest son, Lucas, was an even bigger bully, always flanked by a pack of thugs, strutting around like he owned Main Street. Who would dare cross them? Just the way I saw it—nobody ever did, not really.

Nobody, that’s who.

Only me. Twice.

I was just a scrawny kid, but I couldn’t sleep with her screams rattling my brain. Still, I had to try.

Once, half a cold biscuit. Once, a bowl of watery chicken broth so thin you could see the bottom. It wasn’t much. But it was all I had.

It wasn’t much, but it was all I could steal from our kitchen without Grandma noticing. I wrapped the biscuit in a napkin, hoping she wouldn’t choke on it. The broth was more water than chicken, but it was warm, and I figured it might help.

I waited until late at night, then passed the food through the broken window of the woodshed.

Her trembling hands took it. Hope. Just a flicker.

She didn’t speak, just stared at me like I was a ghost. Maybe I was.

I didn’t dare stay long. I dropped the food and ran.

My feet barely touched the ground as I bolted back to the house. But the next night, I went back. Guilt eats you alive.

Truth is, she was never meant for Lucas.

She wasn’t his fiancée, wasn’t even his type. She was supposed to be something else. A sacrifice.

A ghost wedding—yeah, you heard right: a marriage to the dead.

Mason had always been the golden boy, the one who was supposed to make something of himself. He was gone, but not forgotten. His death left a hole in the Whitlocks, and the mayor never recovered. He started talking about old traditions, about the need to keep the family’s luck from running dry.

Some folks said it was an accident—fell off the quarry ledge after too many beers. Others whispered darker things, but nobody dared dig too deep. After Mason died, everything changed.

Mayor Whitlock loved that boy to pieces. After his death, the mayor wanted to find him a ghost bride, believing it would let his soul rest in peace and bring luck to the Whitlocks in the living world.

He started talking to preachers, old folk healers, even some of the Cherokee elders from across the river. He’d do anything. Even this.

That was the woman’s intended fate. She never stood a chance.

She was never meant to live in Hollow Creek, never meant to be anyone’s wife. She was just a pawn in someone else’s game, and the rest of us were too scared to stop it.

But the problem was, Lucas took a liking to her too. Lucas always wanted what wasn’t his.

Lucas was greedy. Simple as that. It wasn’t enough that she was supposed to marry his dead brother; he wanted her for himself, too. Like a kid grabbing the last piece of pie, just because he could.

Some lines you just don’t cross.

Even in a town that barely followed the rules, some lines weren’t meant to be crossed. Folks whispered that messing with the dead’s bride was bad luck—worse than breaking a mirror or stepping on a grave. But Lucas didn’t care about curses or consequences.

But Lucas? He was notorious for being reckless and a creep.

He’d always been wild, but after Mason died… He was a ticking time bomb.

Mayor Whitlock always found a loophole.

He always did have a way of twisting things to suit himself. If there was a loophole, he’d find it. This time, he decided to have his cake and eat it, too.

So, the “Blood Moon Wedding Feast” was arranged. Not your average wedding.

A blood moon wedding means the woman would marry both brothers at once—one alive, one dead.

That’s the kind of twisted logic only the Whitlocks could pull off. Double the fortune, double the curse.

The mayor called it “brothers united, double the fortune.”

He stood on the porch, grinning like he’d just solved world hunger, telling anyone who’d listen that this was the way to bring luck back to Hollow Creek. Most folks just nodded and kept their distance.

When I heard that, a chill ran down my spine. I’d heard stories, but never like this.

What kind of wedding was this?

It wasn’t the kind with white dresses and bouquets, that’s for sure. It felt like a funeral.

The feast was held in the Whitlocks’ backyard.

They’d strung up lights between the trees, set out picnic tables, fired up the old smoker. The whole town showed up. Like always. The smell of barbecue mingled with the scent of wildflowers and something sour—maybe fear, maybe something else.

That morning, the place was bustling—red and white—and black.

The decorations looked festive from a distance, but up close, the black ribbons stood out like bruises. Black and red. Like bruises.

People came for the spectacle and for the Whitlocks’ lavish barbecue, eager to offer congratulations. But everyone was on edge.

Mayor Whitlock wore a brand-new blue suit, his face beaming, greeting everyone with a handshake, repeating, “Congratulations, congratulations.” But his eyes kept darting to the porch.

Lucas was even more pleased with himself, drunk and bragging with his buddies, his eyes darting to the room where the bride was kept. The tension was sharp enough to cut.