Ny's Writing Blog ✍️

Every winter, Blackpine Hollow wrapped itself in quiet snow and soft lantern light. For most of the year, it was peaceful—sleepy even—but once the first frost touched the treetops, the townspeople began locking their doors early and whispering warnings to their children.

Because winter meant it would return.

The locals called it the Winter Stalker, though older folks still used its original name:
The Reindeer of Blackpine Hollow.

A Creature Forgotten by Nature

Long ago, a hunter named Elias Grange shot a magnificent white reindeer in the woods—a creature locals swore carried ancient magic in its bones. Elias ignored the warnings of the elders and dragged it home, boasting about the prize he would mount above his hearth.

But that night, the reindeer’s heart—cold, heavy, and furious—began beating again.

Elias’ neighbors heard the screams first.
When they sprinted into his cabin, they found nothing human left inside—only gore dragged across the floor, hoofprints burned into the wood, and a single antler embedded in the wall like a spear.

Elias’ body was never found.

A Legend That Never Died

Now, decades later, the creature returned every winter, its appearance always marked by three signs:

1. Hoofprints leading from the forest to a home, never back.

2. A bell-like sound far too slow and deep to belong to anything alive.

3. A sour, icy smell, like snow mixed with rotting meat.

It was said to be impossibly tall on its skeletal legs, its ribs pushing against its pale, leathery skin. Its antlers twisted like dead tree branches, and its eyes glowed with a cold, bluish fire—the last spark of a creature wronged by man.

This Winter, It Chose the Town Again

At first, the town tried to ignore the signs.

But then the screams began.

A young woman living alone found giant hoofprints circling her house. The next morning, she was gone—her windows shattered outward, glass lying on fresh snow as though something had reached inside and pulled her out.

Children playing in the schoolyard reported seeing a tall, pale figure standing in the trees, its antlers scraping the branches. When their teacher looked, nothing was there except snow falling harder than before.

The sheriff tried to patrol the outskirts. His radio picked up slow, rhythmic chimes—like a warped, dying Christmas bell. It was the last anyone heard from him.

The Final Night

The blizzard arrived without warning.

Snow hammered rooftops. Power lines snapped. Lanterns flickered and died. In the darkness, the townspeople heard it:

Clomp…
Clomp…
Clomp…

Heavy hooves moving slowly through the streets.

The bell sound deepened, echoing between the storefronts like a funeral toll.

One by one, houses went silent.

By dawn, the storm had passed.

Blackpine Hollow was empty.

All that remained were hoofprints—massive, twisted, and leading back toward the tree line—and dozens of lanterns lying in the snow, their glass cracked, their flames long gone cold.

But Some Nights…

If you stand on the edge of Blackpine Hollow and listen closely on a snowy night, you can hear it:

The deep, dragging chime.

The crunch of hooves in snow.

And sometimes…
if you’re very unlucky…
you’ll see glowing blue eyes staring at you from between the pines.

Waiting.

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