Previously : General Elias Monroe, once a feared warlord, fought beside the Lady in Black, feeding her endless hunger with the souls of the dying. But when time weakened his mortal body, she refused to let him go, binding his soul in undeath to serve her for eternity.
November 1999 — Cold Hollow, Vermont
Sheriff Jonathan “Jon” Carter sighed as he stepped out of his patrol truck, the late afternoon sky already darkening with the weight of winter. Cold Hollow, a quiet village of just under 500 souls, sat nestled in the shadow of the Green Mountains. It was a place where everyone knew everyone, where doors were rarely locked, and where the harsh Vermont winters bound the community together in an unspoken pact of survival.
The wind carried the scent of burning firewood and the promise of the season’s first major snowfall. With December around the corner, Jon had spent the last week checking in on the townsfolk, making sure everyone had enough food, firewood, and fuel to make it through.
He adjusted his sheriff’s hat and knocked on the first door—Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore, an 82-year-old widow who had lived in Cold Hollow all her life.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and Eleanor peered up at him with warm but tired eyes.
“Jon, dear, you’re making your rounds again?” she asked with a knowing smile.
He chuckled. “You know me, Eleanor. Just making sure my favorite town is ready for winter.”
She smirked. “You tell that to all the old ladies?”
“Only the ones who bake me cookies.”
She laughed and stepped aside. “Come in, then. I’ve got a fresh batch cooling.”
Jon stepped inside, the warmth of her home a welcome contrast to the bitter wind outside.
“How’s the generator holding up?” he asked as she poured him a cup of tea.
“It sputters, but it’s still kicking,” she said, handing him the cup. “Old Mr. Holloway came by and helped fix the oil leak.”
Jon nodded. Thomas Holloway was the town’s closest thing to a mechanic, always tinkering in his garage. “Good man, Holloway.”
Eleanor’s smile faded slightly. “Sheriff… have you heard about what happened at the retirement home?”
Jon frowned. “No. What’s wrong?”
Eleanor hesitated. “One of the residents—Mr. Grayson—passed in his sleep last night.”
Jon sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”
She nodded but looked uneasy. “It wasn’t… normal, Jon. They said when they found him, his mouth was open, like he was gasping for air. And his eyes—” she shivered. “It was like they were… empty.”
Jon set his cup down. A chill—not from the winter air—crawled up his spine.
“I’ll check it out.”
The Retirement Home
The Cold Hollow Retirement Home sat on the edge of town, a modest two-story building surrounded by a thin line of pines.
Inside, the air smelled of disinfectant and old paper. Nurse Lisa Gardner, a young woman with a nervous expression, met Jon at the door.
“You here about Mr. Grayson?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably.
Jon nodded. “I heard something about… empty eyes?”
Lisa paled. “Sheriff, I’ve seen a lot of peaceful deaths. This wasn’t one of them.” She swallowed. “It’s like… whatever makes us human was just… gone.”
Jon frowned. “And there were no signs of struggle? No heart failure?”
She shook her head. “His body looked fine. It was just… him that wasn’t there anymore.”
Jon exhaled sharply. “I want to see the body.”
Lisa hesitated, then led him to the morgue.
The second Jon saw Mr. Grayson, his stomach twisted.
The old man lay perfectly still, his mouth slightly agape—as if caught in his final breath. His eyes were wide open, blackened pits where life had once been. It was not the face of a man who had died naturally.
Jon stepped closer.
Something about this felt… wrong.
Familiar, even.
Then, a whisper brushed against his ear.
“He is only the first.”
Jon spun around, hand on his holster. The room was empty.
Lisa gasped. “Did you hear that?”
Jon’s mouth went dry. “You heard it too?”
Lisa nodded, her hands shaking. “It sounded like a woman.”
Jon’s grip on his revolver tightened.
This wasn’t just a death.
It was something worse.
Flashback: The Battle of Ashfield, 1863
A field of corpses. The air thick with the stench of blood.
General Elias Monroe stood frozen, staring at the massacre before him. The Confederates—his enemies—lay in heaps of twisted flesh, their bodies desecrated in ways that no man, no war, could explain.
And in the center, she stood.
The Lady in Black.
She turned to him, her lips red with something darker than war.
“I have won your war,” she murmured.
He staggered backward. “This… this isn’t war. This is slaughter.”
She stepped closer, brushing her fingers over his cheek. “Did you not ask for victory?”
His stomach churned. “Not like this.”
She smiled, her black eyes gleaming.
“Then you should have been more specific.”
Cold Hollow, 1999
Jon jolted, the memory vanishing as quickly as it had come.
He stood there, breathless, his fingers twitching at his side.
What the hell was that?
He had never fought in any war, never heard of any General Monroe, but the vision felt real.
Like something buried deep in his blood.
Lisa looked at him, wide-eyed. “Sheriff…?”
He exhaled sharply. “Lisa, listen to me carefully. If anyone else dies like this, you call me. Immediately.”
She nodded, her face pale. “What do you think is happening?”
Jon looked at the lifeless face of Mr. Grayson one last time.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I intend to find out.”
Outside, the wind howled through the trees, whispering through the town.
Something had come to Cold Hollow.
And it would not leave without a feast.
To be continued…stay tuned every week for a new episode.
If you enjoy Horror Stories in Episodes, don’t miss the finished episodic series of the Lake Lady.
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