Echoes of Hemlock

Mara Vale had built her brand on debunking hauntings. Her podcast, Phantom Files, boasted millions of downloads each week—and every episode ended with a live audience Q&A. Yet tonight’s broadcast would be different. In the abandoned Wingate Asylum, she stood before a weathered Ouija board laid across a rotting desk. A crystal ball glinted behind her, its facets catching the moonlight. “This is my final experiment,” she whispered into her mic, voice steady despite the chill crawling up her spine.

Fans tuned in by the thousands as Mara introduced her guest medium, Lucien Gray. With a flourish, Lucien traced the Ouija’s planchette across the letters. “We call upon Hemlock,” he intoned, voice deep as thunder. Mara scoffed quietly for the camera until the planchette jerked beneath Lucien’s fingertips, spelling out H-E-M-L-O-C-K with unnerving precision. The chat exploded: “It’s moving!” “Is he tricking us?” “Do it again!” Mara leaned in, heart pounding.

Suddenly, the lights went out. The feed went black. For two seconds, viewers panicked then the cameras blinked back on. The asylum’s hall lights were dead; only the Ouija board glowed with faint, phosphorescent letters. In the crystal ball, a shape formed: a towering ghost cloaked in dripping scarlet, crowned with black. Hemlock.

Lucien gasped. “She’s here.”

Mara’s bravado cracked. She whispered, “Who are you?” The planchette fluttered to YES. A thousand tiny voices hissed through the speakers so quiet Mara struggled to make out the words. Then, one clear syllable: “Join.” An unseen breath grazed Mara’s ear. The chat log scrolled alarmingly fast: “She’s behind her!” “I can’t hear!” “OH GOD.” Mara’s pulse thundered as she scanned the gloom.

Viewers began disappearing. First it was Stephanie42 her avatar vanished from the live chat. Then DerekTheSkeptic his live thumbnail froze mid-scream. By minute fifteen, dozens had dropped out. Mara tried to reassure her followers: “Technical glitch, stay calm!” But her voice trembled. Lucien fell to his knees, pressing palms into the splintered wood. “They’re gone,” he murmured. “She’s pulling them into the other side.”

Mara scanned the comments. One message stood out: “Stop the stream or she’ll take you next.” She twisted the camera toward Lucien. He nodded once—a silent plea. Mara reached for the planchette: “Goodbye,” she commanded. But it moved of its own accord, spelling N-O. The board rattled. Hemlock’s towering form rippled behind them, the tiny wraiths clinging to her robes like clutching fingers.

Panic seized Mara. She lunged to shut off the camera as Lucien’s chant rose in a tremor. “Mother of many, release your captives, return them to the light…” The planchette spelled out W-R-O-N-G. The ghost’s black crown tipped forward, ovoid eyes glinting. Hundreds of whispers swelled into a chorus, drowning Lucien’s voice. One by one, the miniature wraiths detached themselves and floated toward Mara, their faces blank.

Mara stumbled back, tripping over debris. The screen wavered, the audience saw only a blur of crimson and black. A wraith brushed Mara’s ankle. Electric terror sketched through her veins as she remembered: Hemlock fed on fear. She straightened, fists clenched, and found Lucien’s gaze. He pointed at the crystal ball. Through its smoky depths flickered an image: the asylum’s chapel, lit by a single candle. Lucien mouthed, Go there.

With a final push, Mara tore the camera from its tripod and sprinted down the corridor, Lucien close behind. Hemlock’s clangorous laughter echoed through the halls. Every side room birthed more wraiths, each one reaching toward Mara’s throat. She slammed open the chapel door. A dusty altar stood under shattered stained-glass windows. Lucien set the crystal ball atop the altar and lit the lone candle.

He began a solemn invocation in ancient tongue. The flame pulsed, painting their faces in orange. Outside, the air trembled with the hiss of a gathering storm. Mara’s vision blurred with tears regret, desperation, fear. As Lucien’s voice reached its crescendo, a roar of wind shattered the windows. The board’s spirit host surged forward but the candle’s glow flared, and a brilliant barrier of light slammed around Hemlock’s spectral form.

Hemlock screamed a howl of a thousand souls—and the tiny wraiths recoiled. Then, as Lucien finished his rite, the light condensed into the crystal ball. It pulsed once, twice, and with a final hiss, sucked every shade of red and black back into its core. The candle guttered out. Silence fell.

Mara pressed record again. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “It’s over.” Lucien closed his eyes in exhausted relief. When they dared to check the live chat, they found every viewer returned avatars blinking back with messages of relief and disbelief. No one remembered what happened during the blackout. They only saw that Mara and Lucien emerged from the chapel, shaken but alive.

Later, in her studio, Mara reviewed the footage. Hemlock’s form flickered on screen for a split second—gone before most viewers caught it. But Mara knew better. Hemlock had been summoned, her wraiths unleashed and though they were contained for now, their mother waited. And Mara’s final experiment had only begun…