The Lake of Hollow Eyes (Horror Story)

The lake was always there, cold and silent, at the edge of the village. No one swam in its dark waters, and no one dared venture too close after dusk. Its surface was glassy and still, save for the occasional ripple that appeared even when the air was calm. The villagers called it The Lake of Hollow Eyes because, on quiet nights, if you looked closely enough, you could see faces—hundreds of them—beneath the surface, staring up with eyes that were nothing more than empty voids.

Some said the lake was cursed, others whispered of long-lost souls trapped beneath its depths, forever waiting to drag another down. No one really knew the truth, but the fear was real. And for good reason.

One autumn evening, a young man who had recently moved to the village decided to test the legends. He had heard the warnings, the stories passed down through generations, but he wasn’t one to be swayed by superstition. To him, the lake was just another body of water. It couldn’t hurt him.

Could it?

As twilight descended, painting the sky in hues of blood red and violet, he made his way down to the shoreline. The villagers watched him from their windows, murmuring among themselves, but no one dared to follow. They had seen too many disappear into that lake.

He reached the water's edge just as the last sliver of the sun disappeared behind the hills. The air was cool, unnervingly still, and the lake’s surface looked like black glass. He knelt down, staring into the water, half-expecting to see his own reflection, but there was nothing. The surface seemed too dark, too deep.

He threw a small stone into the lake, breaking the silence with a sharp splash. The ripples spread out in perfect circles, distorting the water for a moment. But then it grew still again—too still.

That’s when he saw them.

Just below the surface, faces began to appear. Pale, ghostly, and hollow. Their eyes were black pits, their mouths twisted in silent screams. They stared up at him, unblinking, their expressions frozen in terror. He blinked, his heart pounding, but the faces remained. There were so many of them, each one more ghastly than the last.

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. His instincts screamed at him to leave, but something… something in the water was pulling him closer.

He leaned forward, almost as if in a trance, peering into the depths. One of the faces—closer now—seemed to move. Its lips trembled, forming words he couldn’t hear. And then, a hand shot up from the water, cold and skeletal, its fingers wrapping around his wrist with a strength that didn’t belong to something so frail.

He gasped, stumbling back, but the grip was unrelenting. More hands emerged, clawing at his arms, his legs, pulling him closer to the water’s edge. The hollow eyes in the lake stared up at him with a hunger he had never known—a void that wanted to consume him.

“No!” he shouted, trying to yank himself free, but it was no use. The more he struggled, the tighter the hands gripped him, pulling him closer to the inky blackness. His feet slipped into the water, the cold seeping into his bones like ice. The lake felt alive, as though it were welcoming him, claiming him as its own.

The faces below the surface began to change. They were no longer just watching—they were smiling, their hollow eyes gleaming with twisted delight. They wanted him. He was next.

With a final, desperate lunge, he managed to wrench his arm free, the ghostly hands sliding off his skin like mist. He stumbled backward, falling onto the muddy shore, gasping for air. His heart raced, and his body shook from the cold and the terror. The lake rippled again, but this time, the faces were gone, sinking back into the depths, leaving nothing but the cold, still water behind.

He scrambled to his feet and ran—ran faster than he ever had in his life. The village lights seemed so far away, flickering like distant stars in the growing darkness. When he reached the safety of the first house, he collapsed, breathless and shaking.

The villagers found him there, his eyes wide with fear, his body soaked and cold. They knew without asking what had happened. He had seen them.

They took him inside, gave him a blanket, and tried to calm him. But as he sat there, trembling, he noticed something.

His wrist—the one that had been grabbed—was ice cold, the skin pale and sickly. And when he looked closer, he saw something that made his stomach drop: the faint impression of fingers, still wrapped around his skin, like a brand that wouldn’t fade.

Days passed, but the mark never went away. It burned in the dark, a constant reminder of what waited for him in the lake. And every night, without fail, he would dream of the faces—the hollow eyes, the twisted smiles, the hands reaching for him, pulling him down into the depths.

The villagers told him there was no escaping the lake’s curse. Once it had touched you, it would call you back, again and again, until you finally gave in.

Weeks later, on a cold, moonless night, the villagers heard the sound of footsteps moving down to the lake. They watched from their windows, their faces grim, as the young man, pale and gaunt, walked silently toward the water.

He didn’t struggle this time.

The lake’s surface rippled once, and then all was still again.

No one ever saw him again. But the next morning, the villagers noticed something different about the lake.

There was a new face beneath the surface.

And its eyes were hollow.

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