The Douen

No one went into Black Hollow after dark. The village elders warned of the things that lived between the trees, their whispers riding the wind like songs half-forgotten. Children who disobeyed and wandered too far never returned—at least, not the way they were before.

Mira’s grandmother, old and gnarled as the roots of the silk-cotton tree in the village square, had told her stories. The Douen are the lost ones, she would say. They wear wide-brimmed hats to hide their faces, and their feet point backward, so you can never tell where they’re truly going. They call out in voices of the dead, leading the foolish deeper into the trees.

But stories were stories. And Mira, being sixteen and braver than most, refused to be afraid of things unseen.

That was before her little brother disappeared.

⸻

It was the third night since Javi had gone missing. He had wandered into the forest after hearing his name whispered from the trees. Mira had been the last to see him, standing barefoot at the edge of the hollow, staring into the darkness with wide, glassy eyes.

She had called to him, screamed for him to come back. But he didn’t even turn around. He had stepped forward, his small body swallowed whole by the forest.

And now, the village had all but given up.

“He’s gone,” the elders said, shaking their heads. “Taken.”

But Mira refused to believe that.

So, that night, she waited until the village was asleep, took a lantern, and followed the path into Black Hollow.

⸻

The deeper she went, the quieter it became. The usual chorus of crickets and frogs had disappeared, replaced by something stranger: the sound of small, shuffling footsteps.

Then, a giggle. High and childlike, coming from the trees.

Mira’s breath caught. “Javi?”

No answer.

The lantern’s glow barely touched the thick trees, but something moved just beyond the light—a shadow, small and round, stepping forward from the underbrush.

Mira’s pulse pounded as she lifted the lantern higher.

It was a child.

A boy, barefoot, wearing tattered clothes. A wide-brimmed straw hat covered most of his face, but his mouth curved into a slow, eerie smile.

Her heart seized in her chest.

“Javi?” she whispered.

The boy giggled again and turned, skipping deeper into the woods.

Mira hesitated only a moment before following. The lantern swung wildly in her grasp as she ran after him, calling his name.

“Javi! Stop!”

But he didn’t stop.

He weaved through the trees effortlessly, as if the forest had no obstacles. It wasn’t until she caught a glimpse of his feet that she stumbled to a halt, cold horror washing over her.

His feet were backward.

Her brother’s face—what little she could see—was still smiling, still joyful. But his feet were wrong.

Mira took a shaky step back, her instincts screaming at her to run.

“Javi,” she said, her voice trembling, “come home with me.”

The boy’s head tilted slightly, his grin widening.

Then, from all around her, other voices rose. Small, whispering voices. Giggles.

The trees rustled, and from the darkness, more shapes emerged.

Children.

All of them barefoot. All of them grinning beneath their wide hats. And all of them had feet pointing the wrong way.

Mira’s breath hitched.

She took a step back, but the children took a step forward.

“Come play,” one of them whispered. “Stay with us.”

Their voices blended together, a lilting, hypnotic chorus. Mira… Mira… They sang her name, soft and inviting, their laughter bubbling like a stream.

She clutched the lantern, its light flickering. The path she had taken was gone, swallowed by the trees.

And then, she felt it.

A tiny, cold hand slipping into hers.

She turned her head slowly, her stomach twisting into knots.

Javi stood beside her now, his face fully visible.

But it wasn’t Javi.

His skin was pale, almost gray, and his eyes were hollowed-out pits of black. His smile stretched too wide, too wrong.

Mira tried to pull away, but his grip tightened like iron.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

The other children crept closer.

The lantern flickered one last time—then died.

And in the suffocating dark, Mira heard them giggling.

⸻

By dawn, the villagers found the lantern, cracked and covered in dirt, lying at the forest’s edge.

Mira was never seen again.

But on some nights, when the wind carried the laughter of lost children through Black Hollow, the villagers swore they could hear a new voice among them.

A girl’s voice.

Calling for someone to follow.