The Cursed Reel of Pine Hollow

Three months ago, I stumbled into something that defies every rational explanation I hold dear. It started with a yard sale at my sister’s place in the dusty outskirts of Pine Hollow. I had hauled over a box of my old junk—books, records, a tangle of cables—hoping to offload them for beer money. By the end of the day, a few trinkets sold, but most sat in a cracked plastic bin that had once held winter tires. My sister said she’d drop it back at my apartment. I didn’t think twice when she handed it over a week later, the bin heavier than I remembered, now filled with odds and ends that weren’t mine: a ceramic frog with a missing eye, a rusted keychain, a stack of faded magazines, and—buried at the bottom—a VHS tape with no label.

My apartment, a cramped studio above a 24-hour laundromat, had always been quiet. But within a week of that bin sliding under my bed, the quiet started to crack. It began with small things—the hum of my refrigerator growing deeper, as if straining under a weight, and the flicker of my bathroom light even after I changed the bulb. Then came the sounds: a faint, rhythmic scratching from the closet at 3 a.m., like nails dragging across wood. I convinced myself it was mice, but the pest control guy found nothing. Then the air grew heavy, thick with a smell like old dust and burnt sugar, and my dreams filled with a woman’s face—beautiful, pale, her eyes hollow as if scooped out—whispering my name.

I tried to ignore it, burying myself in work. But one night, I woke to find my TV on, static hissing, and a single frame frozen on the screen: a woman standing in a field of dead sunflowers, her back to me. I didn’t own any tapes, let alone one that played itself. That’s when I remembered the bin. I pulled it out, my hands trembling, and there it was—a VHS tape with no label, just a faint smear of red on its side. I shoved it into the old player I kept for nostalgia, and the screen filled with grainy footage from the ’80s: a cheap motel room, a woman in a silk robe, the same face from my dreams, laughing as she danced to a tinny synth track. The tape was just a cheesy adult film, but as I watched, the static at the edges seemed to breathe, and the woman’s eyes—for a split second—looked straight at me.

That was the catalyst. After watching it, my apartment turned hostile. Dishes shattered in the sink without being touched. My reflection in the mirror lagged a half-second behind. I’d hear my own voice call my name from the hallway when I was alone. The scratching grew louder, and the smell of burnt sugar became so thick I gagged. Desperate, I called my sister, but she laughed it off, saying I was stressed. Then I remembered the bin—it had been at her house too, mixed with her stuff. I asked if she’d had any strange occurrences. She went silent, then admitted that her toddler had been having night terrors, screaming about a ‘lady with no eyes’ standing in the corner. But she’d thrown the bin out weeks ago. It didn’t matter. The damage was done.

I stopped sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that field of dead sunflowers, and the woman turning slowly, her face morphing into something worse—a gaping maw where her features should be. I knew I had to get rid of the tape. But when I tried to toss it in the dumpster behind the laundromat, it reappeared on my kitchen counter the next morning. I burned it in the bathtub, but the fire died as if smothered, the tape intact, still cold to the touch. Finally, I remembered my grandmother’s warnings about cursed objects. I drove to the old church on the edge of town, the one with the crumbling steeple, and begged the priest for help.

Father Miguel came to my apartment with a kit bag of holy items. He didn’t ask questions, just looked around, his face pale. He sprinkled holy water across my doorways, muttered prayers, and swathed the tape in a cloth soaked in salt water. He told me to bury it in consecrated ground, but as I drove to the cemetery, I felt the tape heat up in my glovebox, pulsing like a heart. I buried it anyway, under a gnarled oak near the mausoleum. That night, I was wracked with nightmares—the woman clawing her way out of the grave, her voice a discordant choir. The next morning, I went to check. The ground was undisturbed, but the tape was gone. I’d like to say it ended there, but the activity merely softened.

Now, weeks later, I live in a different apartment, but the unease lingers. I still sleep with the lights on, and I swear I feel a presence watching me from the shadows. Last week, I found a new tape in my mailbox—blank, but with the same red smear on its side. I didn’t bring it inside. I left it on the curb, and by morning it was gone. I’ve taken to carrying a pocketful of salt, and I say a prayer every night. But I know it’s not over. That woman, that empty-eyed thing, she’s patient. She’s waiting for me to let my guard down. And I fear that next time, the tape won’t just show me visions—it’ll show me the end.