crime story
Khan GによるIn the autumn of 1878, the small town of Hollowell, nestled in the fog-choked valleys of eastern Tennessee, was a place where the world seemed to pause. Tucked between jagged cliffs and ancient pines, its 400 residents lived quiet lives, sustained by coal mining and the stubborn cornfields that clung to the rocky soil. The town’s heartbeat was its single church, a weathered structure of gray wood perched on a hill, its steeple leaning slightly as if tired from years of watching over the valley. Hollowell was unremarkable, save for the whispers that drifted through its taverns and kitchens—whispers of something old and hungry in the forests, something that had been there long before the first settlers arrived.
The trouble began when Dr. Elias Varnholt arrived in the spring of that year. He was a tall man, gaunt and pale, with eyes like polished slate and a voice that carried the weight of too much knowledge. He claimed to be a physician from Philadelphia, seeking respite from city life after a personal tragedy he never detailed. His manners were impeccable, his speech laced with references to books most townsfolk had never heard of. He set up a small practice in a rented house at the edge of town, a squat building half-swallowed by ivy, its windows always shuttered. The people of Hollowell, wary but practical, welcomed him. Their only doctor had died the previous winter, and Varnholt’s arrival seemed a small blessing.
At first, he was a model citizen. He treated fevers, set broken bones, and delivered babies with a skill that bordered on miraculous. His hands, though thin, were steady, and he had a way of calming patients with a touch or a murmured word. But there was something unsettling about him—his smile never reached his eyes, and he had a habit of staring too long, as if seeing something beyond the person in front of him. Children swore they saw shadows move behind him when he walked at night, though their parents dismissed it as fancy. By summer, Varnholt had earned the town’s trust, but not its affection.
The first disappearance came in July. Mary Tuttle, a 19-year-old seamstress, vanished after leaving her shift at the general store. She was last seen walking the dirt path toward her family’s farm, a route that cut through a dense stretch of forest known as the Black Hollow. Search parties combed the woods for days, finding nothing but a single shoe, its leather torn as if clawed. The townsfolk chalked it up to a bear or a fall from the cliffs, though no body was ever found. Grief settled over the Tuttle family, but life in Hollowell pressed on.
Then, in August, Samuel Crane, a miner with a reputation for drinking too much, failed to return home after a late shift. His friends assumed he’d passed out in a ditch, but when days turned to weeks with no sign of him, unease began to spread. By September, two more had gone missing: Eliza Morrow, a schoolteacher, and young Thomas Bell, a 12-year-old who’d been sent to gather firewood. Each had last been seen near the Black Hollow, and each left behind a single item—a ribbon, a cap, a broken axe handle—strewn along the forest’s edge.
Whispers turned to rumors, and rumors to fear. The Black Hollow had always been a place of superstition. Older residents spoke of strange lights flickering among the trees at night, of voices that seemed to call from nowhere. Some claimed the forest was cursed, tied to stories of a Native American burial ground desecrated by early settlers. Others said it was just the wind, twisting through the pines in a way that sounded like words. But now, with four people gone, the stories felt heavier, more real. The town council banned travel through the Black Hollow after dusk, and parents kept their children close.
Dr. Varnholt, ever the rationalist, offered to help. He joined the search parties, his long coat flapping as he moved through the woods with a lantern, his face unreadable. He suggested the disappearances might be the work of a drifter or a pack of wolves, though no one had seen either in the area for years. He also began hosting gatherings at his home, inviting townsfolk to discuss their fears over tea and weak whiskey. These meetings were strange affairs—Varnholt spoke of the fragility of life, of the need to confront fear rather than flee from it. His words were soothing, yet they left listeners with a vague sense of dread, as if he were speaking to something inside them they hadn’t known was there.
By October, Hollowell was a town on edge. The church, once a place of comfort, felt hollow during Sunday services, as if the prayers couldn’t reach the ceiling. Reverend Amos Hale, a wiry man with a voice like gravel, preached about vigilance, warning that the devil walked among them. His sermons grew fevered, his eyes darting to Varnholt, who sat in the back pew, hands folded, watching with that same unblinking stare. Some began to suspect the doctor, though no one could say why. He was too kind, too helpful, too present. Yet the disappearances had started with his arrival, and the coincidence gnawed at them.
The truth began to unravel on a cold November night, when Caleb Rourke, a trapper who lived on the outskirts of town, stumbled into the tavern, his face pale and his hands trembling. He claimed to have seen something in the Black Hollow while checking his snares. “It weren’t no animal,” he stammered, clutching a mug of ale. “It was tall, like a man, but wrong—like it didn’t fit in its skin. It was carryin’ somethin’ heavy, wrapped in cloth, and it went into a cave I never seen before.” The tavern fell silent. Caves weren’t uncommon in the cliffs, but none were known in that part of the forest. A few men, emboldened by liquor and fear, agreed to investigate at dawn.
The next morning, a group of seven, including Caleb, Reverend Hale, and Sheriff Daniel Boone—not related to the famous explorer, though he liked to pretend he was—set out for the Black Hollow. Varnholt insisted on joining, claiming his medical knowledge might be useful. The men carried rifles, lanterns, and a grim determination. Caleb led them to a spot deep in the forest, where the trees grew so thick they blocked the sun. There, hidden behind a tangle of roots, was the mouth of a cave, its entrance barely wide enough for a man to pass. The air around it was cold, unnaturally so, and carried a faint smell of copper and decay.
Inside, the cave was narrow at first, then widened into a chamber that seemed too large to fit within the cliff. The walls were smooth, almost polished, and carved with symbols none could decipher—spirals, jagged lines, and shapes that hurt the eyes to look at. Lantern light revealed a stone slab in the center, stained dark with something that wasn’t water. Around it were tools: scalpels, saws, and strange metal instruments that gleamed despite the damp. In one corner, a pile of cloth bundles, each about the size of a person, was stacked against the wall. When Sheriff Boone cut one open, the men recoiled. Inside was Mary Tuttle, her body preserved in a way that made her look almost alive, her skin waxy and her eyes sewn shut.
The men turned to Varnholt, who stood near the entrance, his face calm but his eyes glittering. “This is a place of study,” he said softly, as if explaining a simple truth. “The human body holds secrets we are only beginning to understand. These people, they gave themselves to a greater purpose.” Reverend Hale lunged at him, shouting about blasphemy, but Varnholt sidestepped with an ease that seemed inhuman. Before anyone could stop him, he slipped into the shadows of the cave, vanishing down a passage they hadn’t noticed.
The men, shaken but resolute, carried Mary’s body back to town, along with as many of the cloth bundles as they could manage. By nightfall, Hollowell was in chaos. The bundles contained the missing—Samuel, Eliza, Thomas, and others, nearly a dozen in all. Each had been meticulously preserved, their bodies bearing marks of precise incisions, as if someone had been mapping their insides. Worse, some showed signs of having been alive during the process, their limbs bound and their mouths stuffed with cloth to muffle screams.
Sheriff Boone organized a manhunt, but Varnholt was gone. His house was empty, the shutters torn off, the rooms stripped of anything personal. The only trace was a journal found beneath a floorboard, its pages filled with dense, spidery handwriting. It described experiments not just on the body but on the soul, as Varnholt called it. He wrote of pain as a key to unlocking hidden truths, of death as a doorway to something he called “the eternal current.” He claimed the symbols in the cave were taught to him by “voices from the deep,” entities he believed had chosen him to bridge the mortal and the divine. The final entry, dated the night before the cave’s discovery, read: “The work is incomplete, but Hollowell has served its purpose. The current flows elsewhere now. They will not find me.”
The town tried to make sense of it all. Reverend Hale called Varnholt a servant of Satan, while others whispered he was something older, something that had haunted the Black Hollow long before the town was built. The cave was sealed with dynamite, though some swore they heard sounds from within as the rocks collapsed—low, rhythmic chants that faded into silence. The bodies were buried in the churchyard, but their families found no peace. Dreams plagued Hollowell that winter, dreams of Varnholt’s slate-gray eyes and hands that cut without mercy.
By spring, the town began to fracture. Some left, unable to live in a place marked by such horror. Others stayed, drawn to the Black Hollow despite themselves, as if the forest called to them. Stories spread beyond Hollowell, carried by travelers and newspapers. The Knoxville Herald ran a headline: “Tennessee Town Unearths House of Death in Forest Depths.” Authorities investigated but found no trace of Varnholt. His journal was sent to a university in Nashville, where scholars debated whether he was a madman or a genius. Some of his notes, they admitted, hinted at medical knowledge decades ahead of its time, though none could stomach the methods.
Years passed, and Hollowell dwindled. The mine closed in 1885, and the church burned down in a lightning storm two years later. By 1900, the town was little more than a scattering of empty houses, the Black Hollow swallowing what remained of its history. But the stories didn’t die. In 1912, a hiker in the Smoky Mountains reported finding a cave with strange carvings, though he couldn’t locate it again when he returned with rangers. In 1927, a doctor in Chattanooga was arrested for illegal experiments on vagrants, his notes referencing a “Dr. V” who had inspired his work. And in 1943, during a flood that uncovered old graves near Hollowell, workers found bones with markings that matched those described in Varnholt’s journal.
The last known trace came in 1968, when a graduate student researching forgotten Tennessee towns received an anonymous package. Inside was a single page, written in the same spidery hand as Varnholt’s journal. It described a new experiment, one that required “a thousand vessels” to complete the work begun in Hollowell. The page ended with a single line: “The current flows eternal, and I am its keeper.” The student tried to trace the package, but it had no return address, and the postmark was smudged beyond recognition.
Today, Hollowell is gone, its location marked only by a few rotting fence posts and the faint outline of a road swallowed by the forest. The Black Hollow remains, though hikers avoid it, claiming the air feels wrong, like it’s watching. Locals in nearby towns still tell the story of Dr. Elias Varnholt, the man who came to heal and stayed to destroy. Some say he was a monster, others a visionary driven mad by truths too vast for mortal minds. But all agree on one thing: the Black Hollow is no place for the living. On quiet nights, they say, you can still hear it—a low hum, like a heartbeat, pulsing from the earth, waiting for someone new to answer its call.
