The Hollow Circle
They told her never to go past the stone wall.
The villagers said it was just old superstition — the kind people forget the origins of, but obey anyway. The low moss-covered wall marked the edge of the Penlow Woods, a tangle of hawthorn, yew, and birch. The forest always seemed too still. Birds didn’t sing there. Wind didn’t rustle its leaves. Dogs barked at it, but wouldn’t go near.
Lena had grown up hearing stories: witches who once ruled the hills, women who spoke to crows and made fires burn blue. They’d vanished, the stories said, or been driven underground when the church bells came. Some claimed the forest swallowed them. Others whispered the witches were never really gone — only waiting.
But Lena, now seventeen and far too curious for her own good, didn’t believe in old wives’ tales. She believed in facts. She read books. She helped her mother milk goats. She fixed roofs and fetched firewood. Her life was solid, grounded — until the day her reflection blinked before she did.
It happened as she washed her hands in the stream near the edge of the woods. The water was still. Clear. But when she looked down, the girl staring back at her blinked — twice — then smiled.
Lena stumbled backward. The smile hadn’t been hers.
She should have run. Instead, she stepped over the stone wall.
The trees seemed to shift as she entered — not move, exactly, but reposition themselves. The path she thought she knew twisted. The light dimmed. She heard a soft rustling, not of animals or wind, but of whispers—hundreds of them, too quiet to make sense of. Still, she followed.
Deeper and deeper.
The forest floor became soft and spongy, carpeted in moss that glittered faintly. A scent filled the air — not unpleasant, but strange: like burnt lavender and wet earth. She passed a tree with charms tied to its branches. Dried flowers, small bones, thread and glass beads. They tinkled softly as she walked by, though there was no breeze.
Then she saw the circle.
It was carved into the earth — a perfect ring of white ash, wide as a cottage. Seven stones stood around it, tall and blackened, etched with symbols that hurt to look at. In the center, a fire burned, but no wood fed it. Its flame was green and silent.
Around the fire stood women — seven of them, cloaked in fabrics that shimmered like oil on water. Their faces were shadowed, but Lena could feel them watching her. Not with malice. Not even with surprise.
Almost as if they had been expecting her.
“Child,” one of them said, her voice layered with echoes, “you crossed the wall.”
“I… I didn’t mean—” Lena started, but the words felt false even as she said them.
“You did,” said another. “The wall is not a fence. It is a choice.”
Lena didn’t understand. But something inside her whispered to stay still, not to run. The fire in the center flared once, and for a moment she saw their faces — each different, and yet somehow the same. Ageless. Timeless. Like masks worn by the same soul.
“Why am I here?” Lena asked.
The third woman stepped forward. Her cloak was darker than the others. She held something in her hand — a small mirror. She lifted it toward Lena.
“Because you blinked second,” she said.
Lena looked into the mirror and saw not herself, but a version of her wrapped in shadow, hair blowing though no wind stirred, eyes glowing faintly gold. That version smiled.
She dropped the mirror. It didn’t shatter. It vanished before it touched the ground.
“You have a thread in you,” said the first witch. “One we spun long ago. A drop of old magic, buried and forgotten.”
“I’m not a witch,” Lena whispered.
“Not yet,” said the second. “But there’s still time.”
The coven stepped back, revealing a stone basin filled with dark water. At the bottom, she saw a small flame — pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
“We offer a choice,” they said in unison.
Lena didn’t ask what would happen if she drank. She already knew, in the part of her mind that had been silent until now. She would no longer be Lena-the-villager, Lena-the-farmer’s daughter. She would remember things she never lived. She would hear the trees speak her name. She would belong to the forest.
She turned to leave. The circle didn’t stop her. Neither did the witches.
As she crossed the stone wall again, the sun was setting. Her hands trembled. Her mouth tasted like smoke.
But behind her eyes, something remained.
A flicker.
A thread.
—
Weeks passed. Lena returned to her life. The villagers noticed little things. She no longer wore shoes. Birds followed her. The goats gave more milk when she sang. Her eyes shimmered gold in certain lights.
No one asked about the forest. But people began placing small bundles of herbs outside their doors. Old symbols returned, carved into doors.
And sometimes, late at night, Lena stood at the stone wall and stared into the woods. She never spoke of what she saw there. She never stepped over again.
But the forest whispered to her.
And she listened.
She crossed the wall for truth—what followed was a whisper, a fire, and a name the trees still remember.
Note:
Thank you for reading “The Hollow Circle”! This is a story in a series created for avid readers and English learners who want to enjoy captivating tales while practicing their language skills. Stay tuned for more stories and language tips to enhance your journey!
Explore more short stories in English and Spanish by visiting the section:
Short Stories / Cuentos Cortos
When the world feels dull, your mind restless, or your heart heavy, let a story be your escape. Just one page, one sentence, one word—and suddenly, you’re somewhere new, where imagination breathes life into the ordinary and turns the simplest moments into magic.
“Liked it? Smash that like button! 💥❤️”
The English Nook 
Leave a comment