When James Holler, an engineer from Chicago, bought the sprawling farm in Ashton County, he believed he was its new owner. The locals called the place Hollow Hill and spoke of its guardians in hushed tones, but James dismissed their superstitions. He sought solitude and a connection to the land, not ghost stories. His first nights were peaceful, but that tranquility was shattered when he discovered he was not alone. Three figures, impossibly tall and moving with an ancient grace, resided in a cabin on the far edge of his property. They informed him that his deed was meaningless; they belonged to the land, and the land belonged to them.
James’s life quickly unraveled. He grew pale and nervous, muttering about balance and promises. He covered his doors with iron horseshoes and strung wires around his home, desperate defenses against an unseen threat. The final act came during a violent storm, when a column of blue light was seen erupting from the western field. By morning, James was gone, his truck abandoned with the doors wide open. The only clues were words scratched into the cabin wall and three massive footprints pressed into the earth.
The investigation that followed unearthed more mysteries than answers. Anthropologists spoke of local legends, the “Daughters of the Crest,” three sisters who tested new owners of the land. Drone footage revealed geometric patterns in the crops, and soil samples showed strange magnetic properties. The case reached a national audience, but the truth remained buried. When the sheriff also vanished, his dashboard etched with the words “He promised us,” the state sealed the property for good. The farm, it seems, was never truly for sale. It had keepers far older than any deed, and they had simply reclaimed what was always theirs.
