The Cursed Wound That Never Heals: Dark Village Curse

Table of Contents

Catherine’s Painful Curse and the Mirror of Hollowbrook

The night lay heavy over Hollowbrook, cloaked in a silence so thick that even the owls dared not hoot. The moon hung low, dimmed by drifting clouds, casting a pallid glow over the trees that seemed to lean inward, whispering secrets in a language only the dead could understand. Catherine stood at the entrance of the narrow forest path, her heart pounding like a drumbeat beneath her chest. She had returned once more, unable to resist the pull of the curse that had consumed her life.

Her beauty, once admired by many, now seemed to mock her. Her emerald eyes—once full of light—had dulled with sleepless nights and endless pain. She wore her grandmother’s old shawl, torn and damp from the mist. Her left arm was hidden under thick wrappings, soaked through with blood that never ceased to flow. Beneath the cloth, her skin had blackened to the color of coal, veins throbbing as though something inside was trying to claw its way out.

Every step she took sent a burning sensation crawling up her shoulder. But she kept walking. She had to. The villagers’ whispers still echoed in her mind, stories of her grandmother Eleanor, and the Crone who cursed their bloodline. The curse was said to feed on guilt, pain, and lies. And Catherine had plenty of all three.

Two months ago, she had come to Hollowbrook to claim her grandmother’s inheritance—an old house shrouded by ivy and dust. She thought she could sell it, leave, and never return. But the moment she set foot inside, she felt a chill unlike any she’d known before. A whisper brushed her ear that night as she unpacked her things: “You shouldn’t have come.”

At first, she dismissed it as imagination. But the dreams began soon after—dreams of an old woman wrapped in shadow, standing at her bedside, whispering her name over and over: “Catherine… Catherine…” It was as if sleep itself had become a prison, much like in Dreamers: When Sleep Becomes a Trap. Her hand would always burn when she woke, as if marked by unseen fire. By the third night, the wound had appeared—deep, raw, and bleeding black instead of red.

When she sought help from the local healer, Jonas, he had turned pale the moment he saw it. “That wound doesn’t belong to this world,” he said. “It’s a curse born from the sins of your blood.”

“What sins?” Catherine demanded. “I’ve done nothing!”

“Not you,” Jonas said grimly. “Your grandmother.”

He told her of the Crone of Hollowbrook—an ancient woman said to live in the heart of the forest. Decades ago, Eleanor Blackthorn had come to her for power, for beauty, for longevity. But bargains made in the dark always come with a price. When Eleanor refused to pay, the Crone bound her bloodline with a wound that would never heal. Each generation would bear it, until the debt was fulfilled.

Now it was Catherine’s turn to suffer.

“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” Catherine had said at first. But her disbelief faltered as her flesh decayed. The wound didn’t fester—it pulsed. It throbbed with something alive. Sometimes, she thought she could hear whispering beneath her skin, like faint voices trapped in her veins.

Jonas refused to treat her again. The other villagers avoided her. Children threw stones at her windows. They called her the “Dark Hand.”

Desperate, Catherine ventured into the forest, searching for the Crone. The journey was long, the path twisting like a serpent. She walked for hours until she reached a crooked cabin lit by a single flickering lantern. The air smelled of rot and herbs. Inside sat the old woman—eyes milky white, skin sagging like melting wax.

“You’ve come for mercy,” the Crone rasped, her voice like dry leaves. “But mercy died with your grandmother.”

“Please,” Catherine begged. “Whatever my grandmother did, I’ll undo it. Just make this stop!”

The Crone tilted her head. “Undo it? You can’t undo what’s bound by blood. But you can end it.”

“How?”

“Bring me the Mirror of Veils—the one your grandmother stole. Only then can the curse rest.”

Before Catherine could ask where it was, the Crone lifted her hand. The candle beside her blew out, plunging the room into darkness. When Catherine blinked, she found herself standing outside the hut again, the fog swallowing everything. The cabin had vanished.

When she returned home, she tore the house apart searching for the mirror. She found it beneath a loose floorboard—a small silver hand mirror, cracked and cold. Its surface reflected not her face but a distorted version of herself, smiling with a mouth too wide, eyes too dark—like a scene from The Unseen Footage: Beyond the Lens.

That night, she heard her reflection whisper, “You can’t run from it. You are the curse.”

The next days blurred together. Sleep became a luxury. Her wound grew, and the pain spread to her bones. Her body began rejecting food, her reflection moved even when she didn’t, and strange symbols appeared carved into her walls—symbols she hadn’t written.

One night, Catherine awoke to the sound of someone crying. The voice came from inside the mirror. “Help me,” it sobbed. “Please, let me out.” Against her better judgment, Catherine reached for the mirror. The glass rippled beneath her touch, and for a split second, she saw herself—only older, her skin gray and cracked. The reflection smiled. “Switch with me,” it whispered. “You’ll feel no pain.”

“No…” Catherine murmured, pulling her hand away. But the reflection reached out, its fingers pressing from the inside of the glass. Her wound seared in agony. She screamed, dropping the mirror. The sound shattered the night.

The next morning, there were fingerprints—black and burned—on her bedroom wall.

Three days later, Lila arrived. Catherine hadn’t seen her since the city. Lila gasped when she saw her friend’s condition. “Catherine, what happened? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks!”

“It’s worse than that,” Catherine said, her voice hoarse. “It’s not an infection—it’s something alive. Something that won’t stop.”

When Lila saw the wound, she nearly fainted. The flesh had turned obsidian, pulsing faintly with blue light. “That’s not human…”

“I told you,” Catherine said. “It’s a curse. The Crone—she said I need to return something. A mirror.”

“Then we’ll do it together,” Lila said firmly. “We’ll end this.”

They packed supplies and returned to the forest. The fog grew thicker with every step. The trees seemed to shift, their branches curling like skeletal fingers. Whispers floated around them, distant but clear: “Too late… too late…”

“Keep walking,” Catherine muttered, clutching the mirror tightly. The glass seemed to hum against her skin, feeding off her fear.

When they finally reached the clearing, the Crone’s hut stood waiting. The door opened before they could knock. Inside, the Crone sat motionless, as though she had been expecting them.

“You brought it,” the old woman said, her voice low. “Place it on the table.”

Catherine hesitated. “If I give this back… will it stop?”

“If you give it back,” the Crone said slowly, “your pain will end. But you will not remain.”

“What do you mean?”

The Crone smiled faintly. “The curse must live in one. If you remove it from yourself, it must find another vessel.” Her cloudy eyes shifted to Lila.

“No,” Catherine said immediately. “Not her. Take me.”

“You misunderstand,” the Crone whispered. “You have already been taken. You are only the shell.”

The words froze her blood. Before she could react, the Crone slammed her hand on the mirror. The glass cracked, glowing red-hot. Catherine screamed as the wound on her arm split open, releasing a black mist that filled the room. The old woman laughed, a terrible, echoing sound that shook the walls.

Lila tried to pull Catherine away, but something invisible held her in place. “Catherine! Let go of it!” she cried. The mirror pulsed violently, and Catherine’s reflection began to move again—this time, stepping out from the glass.

The other Catherine looked identical but wrong—her smile sharp, her eyes void of light. “I am what she was,” the reflection said, turning to the Crone. “And you kept me trapped long enough.”

“No…” the Crone hissed, backing away. “You belong to the wound!”

The reflection reached forward, touching the Crone’s face. The old woman screamed as her body withered to dust. The hut shook, jars shattered, and the forest roared with unseen voices. Catherine fell to the ground, clutching her burning arm.

Lila dragged her outside as the hut collapsed. The reflection—now free—stood in the flames, watching them flee. Its smile followed them into the dark.

By dawn, the forest was silent again. Catherine lay unconscious, her wound black but no longer bleeding. Lila stayed by her side, praying she would wake. When she finally did, her eyes were different—darker, colder.

“Catherine?” Lila whispered.

“Yes,” Catherine said, sitting up. “It’s over.”

Lila hesitated. There was something wrong about her voice, a hollow echo beneath it. But she wanted to believe. She helped her friend home, unaware that the reflection had won.

Days passed. The villagers noticed strange things. Catherine’s house always glowed faintly at night. Animals avoided the path. And sometimes, people claimed they saw two silhouettes moving inside—one sitting by the window, the other standing behind it.

One evening, Lila returned to visit. The air inside was cold, heavy with the scent of damp earth. Catherine greeted her warmly, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You shouldn’t have come back,” she said softly.

“I just wanted to see if you were all right,” Lila said. “You’ve been distant.”

“I’m better now,” Catherine said. “The pain’s gone.”

Lila noticed the wound on her arm had vanished, replaced by faint gray scars. “That’s… amazing,” she said with relief.

Catherine poured tea for them both. As Lila lifted her cup, she noticed something odd—Catherine’s reflection in the window wasn’t moving the same way. It was smiling… even though Catherine wasn’t. Her hand froze midair.

“Catherine…” she whispered. “Your reflection…”

“Don’t look at it,” Catherine said quickly, her tone sharp. “Don’t—”

But it was too late. The reflection turned its gaze on Lila, eyes gleaming. Lila dropped the cup, and the world tilted. Her vision blurred, and a searing pain erupted in her right hand. She screamed, clutching it. A black line crept up her wrist.

“No…” she gasped. “Not me—”

Catherine stood motionless, tears in her eyes. “It needs to live somewhere,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Lila.”

Lila’s cries echoed through the forest that night. When the villagers arrived the next morning, they found the house empty—no sign of either woman. Only a mirror lay on the table, cracked but whole again, reflecting two faces where there should have been one.

Years later, travelers passing through the ruins of Hollowbrook still tell the story. They speak of a woman with a blackened arm wandering the forest, whispering for help. Others say they’ve seen her reflection move long after she’s gone. The wound, they say, was never meant to heal—it only waits for the next soul to claim.

And sometimes, when you look too long into an old mirror in a quiet room, you might notice your reflection smiling when you aren’t. Then you’ll feel it—a sting in your hand, small at first, but growing. And no matter how much you clean it, how much you pray, it will never close. Because the curse has found you.

The wound that never heals… has begun again.