The Welcome to another edition of creeps and peepers.

I'm Dan Cummins, and I'll be sharing another original short story of the fictional horror variety.

A new standalone episode, as promised. It was really fun to jump

into a new world for a new story. Hope you enjoy listening to it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

And also, if the sound feels a bit different, it's not in your head. I am recording from a different

location this week. Highly recommend noise cancellation headphones for the best experience and hope you

enjoy this new nightmare. Time now for the tale of the hollow hill.

The lone hill that sat behind Blackthorn House looked like something that had been buried there

and badly. Like whoever had left the that had been buried there, and badly.

Like whoever had left the mound had been in a hurry, and had to flee before they had the

chance to flatten the earth above the freshly dug grave and properly blended in with the

surrounding environment. 200 yards beyond the rear garden wall pass a sagging stone fence and the

wet grass and the black fingers

of the old hawthorn trees. It rose from the otherwise flat Highland moor in a smooth, swollen mound,

too steep to be ordinary, too lonely to be part of anything else. A hill with no brothers,

part of no range, no foothills, surrounded by flat fields on every side.

A hill that looked less like land and more like a blister, like something infected.

The moon was still rising above it.

The last of the day had bled out hours earlier, and a cool wind moved through the long grass and silver

waves. Somewhere far off, a fox screamed once in their eerily human way, before returning to a

silence that felt decidedly less peaceful than it had before the shriek, as if whatever had caused

the poor beast to cry out in the first place, had now silenced it, and was possibly

...