The Tales of Hollow Hills
The Wreath In The Window
(music) Welcome to Christmas in Hollow Hills. We will journey deep into the legends of this awesome little town. Today's episode, the Reef in the Window. This podcast is presented by VCDI and TCDI. There's something magical about Hollow Hills in Winter, as soon as the first snow falls. The whole town seems to transform into a scene from a postcard. bicycles dangle from the eaves of century-old houses. The pine trees wear coats of powder, and the little main street twinkles with lights as if Christmas has come early. For the Brendan family, Christmas in Hollow Hills was supposed to be an escape. Their usual hectic holiday routine was going to be replaced with peace and quiet. Emily Brennan had booked to stay at the Ivy House Inn, a bed and breakfast, nestled at the edge of town. Her husband, David, and their two children, Sarah and Tommy, were thrilled by the idea of a snowy secluded Christmas. What could go wrong? But there was something else about Hollow Hills that travelers often don't know until they arrive. The town is famous for its legends, especially at Christmas. The Brennans arrive at the Ivy House late in the afternoon. Just as the sun was setting behind the Appalachian Mountains, the Inn was an old Victorian house. Its brick walls covered an ivy, with a wraparound porch that creaked under the weight of snow. A large wreath hung in the front window, a faded red ribbon tied loosely around it. "It's about old-fashioned, don't you think?" David said, glancing at the wreath as they climbed the front step. Emily gave him a playful night, "It's charming, perfect for a quiet Christmas getaway." The owner, Miss Owens, greeted them with a warm, if not slightly weary smile. Her silver hair was pulled back in her neat bun. Her hands were as delicate as the teacups she offered them upon arrival. "I hope you find an ivy house comfortable," she said. Though her voice carried a hint of something else, something unsaid. "It's been a good home to many travelers, especially this time of year." The Brennan settled into their room, which overlooked the snowy landscape. The first night passed quietly. They spent the evening in front of the fireplace, playing board games and sipping hot cocoa, but by the second night, strange things began to happen. It started with small sounds, a soft tapping on the window, which Sarah insisted it was just the branches from the nearby trees swinging the wind. But when David looked outside, the trees were still, their branches heavy with snow. Then there was the whispering. Tommy, the youngest, said he heard a woman's voice humming a Christmas carol just outside their door. Emily brushed it off, saying it was probably one of the guests in the hall. But when David checked the hallway, it was empty. The real trouble began on the third night. Emily had always been a light sleeper, but this time, she awoke to something that made her sit up in bed, heart pounding. A cold draft blew through the room, through the windows were shut tight. At the foot of the bed she saw it, the wreath, the same one that had been hanging in the front window of the inn, now lying on the floor beside her feet. "Tafen?" She whispered, shaking her husband awake. "Wreath, it's in her room," David rubbed his eyes, groggy and looked down at the floor. "What did that get there?" Before Emily could answer, there was a knock at the door. Miss Owen stood there, a lantern in hand, her face pale. "I thought I'd check on you," she said, her voice trembling. "I saw the wreath. Was it here when you went to bed?" David shook his head. "No, we're not even sure who had got here," Miss Owen sighed deeply, sitting down on the chair near the window. Ivy House has a history. Most don't know anything, but around Christmas, well, that wreath belonged to my grandmother. She was the first innkeeper here, and every Christmas Eve she'd hang in the window waiting for her husband to come home. He never did. The Brennan's listened, captivated. They say her spirit still lingers here. Mrs. Owens continued. "She's never meant harm, but she's been known to move that wreath, looking for him, I suppose, trying to leave a message. Sometimes she even homes, carols, waiting." Emily's skin parched gold. "What should we do?" Mrs. Owens stood, adjusting her show. "Nothing. She's always gone by Christmas morning, but I think the wreath is a sign she's gone. Close. I'll take it back to the front window." The night passed slowly, and even after Mrs. Owens replaced the wreath, Emily found it hard to sleep. She lay in bed, listening to every creek and groan of the old house, expecting to hear the whispering again. But instead, there was silence. On Christmas morning, the family awoke to the smell of cinnamon and pine. It gathered in the dining-room, where Mrs. Owens had prepared a lavish Christmas feast. The air was lighter now, as if the weight of the previous night's mystery had lifted. Just as they were finishing their meal, Tommy, ever curious, walked toward the front door. "Mom! Dad! Look!" He shouted. Their hanging in the front window was the wreath, but something was different. Side to the wreath was a small, yellow note. Mrs. Owens approached, her hands trembling as she took the note and read it out loud. "Thank you for waiting. I'm home now." The room fell silent. A smile, bittersweet and full of peace. "I think she's finally found him." As the breadens packed their bags and prepared to leave hollow hills, Emily looked back at the inn one last time. The re-sweet gently in the window, the ribbon fluttering in the breeze, a sense of calm washed over her as if the house itself was finally at worst. And though they never spoke of it again, the breadens left hollow hills with a deeper sense of what Christmas truly meant. It wasn't just about the decorations or their presents or even snow. It was about the love that binds us across time, even from beyond. As they drove away, the less the snowflakes drifted down, covering the town in a soft, peaceful blanket. Hollow hills was quiet once more. . . . . . . (upbeat music) (upbeat music)