Bad Land

 

The

Bad Land

The land lay in the center of the valley like a scar.
From the high ridge, you could see where the green faded into brittle brown, where the living earth gave way to something else—something that had forgotten the taste of rain.

The villagers called it Karun Hollow, though no one agreed on the meaning. Some claimed “Karun” meant mourning in the tongue of their ancestors; others insisted it was a name—perhaps the name of the man who had cursed it. Either way, it was not a place people spoke of after sunset.

---

The Whisper of History

Long ago—so the elders said—Karun Hollow had been fertile. The soil was black and soft, the river bent towards it as if to offer its lifeblood. It was ruled by Lord Karun, a man of noble blood and no noble heart. He bled his tenants with taxes they could not pay, and when they failed, he took their fields, their animals, and sometimes even their children.

One bitter winter, when famine swept the valley, the peasants begged him for grain from his storerooms. Karun refused. He demanded gold instead, knowing they had none. In their desperation, they plotted his murder. They say the night he died, the snow was so red it looked like spring poppies had bloomed under the moonlight.

But his death brought no peace.

The soil began to change. Crops failed, animals miscarried, and the water tasted faintly of metal. Some swore Karun’s last words were a curse: “You will eat dust and drink sorrow.”

---

The Silence That Watches

In summer, the Hollow looked deceptively calm—rolling ground under a flat white sky. No trees. No shadows. Just wind, dry and sharp as broken glass. The most unsettling thing was the silence. Even the flies refused to cross its border.

Those who dared to enter spoke of strange sensations:

• A pressure on the chest, as though the air itself pushed back.

• Footsteps that kept pace behind them but vanished when they turned.

• Faint voices speaking in a language that felt familiar but could not be understood.

Children were told, “If you hear your name in the Hollow, never answer.”

---

The Outsider

In the year of the long drought, a man came from the city. His name was Mr. Veylen—a tall, confident fellow with polished boots and a smile that spoke of money. He scoffed at the villagers’ warnings.

“This is just fallow land,” he said. “I’ll build here, and you’ll see it’s worth gold.”

He hired men to plough the soil. The first day, two workers quit without pay, pale as milk. The second day, the plough blades snapped on stones that crumbled to dust when touched. The third day, Veylen stood alone in the field, shouting at something unseen.

---

The Disappearance

One winter morning, smoke rose from Veylen’s camp. By nightfall, it was gone.

The villagers found only scraps—twisted tools, a broken lantern, and two boots standing upright in the dirt, toes pointed towards the horizon. Inside them, nothing. No footprints led away.

The wind that day had a voice. It wasn’t loud, but it was close—whispering a single word again and again.

Some claimed it was Karun. Others thought it was their own names.

---

The Waiting

Karun Hollow remains untouched. Grass grows tall at its edges but never crosses in. The earth in the Hollow is not dead—it breathes. Slowly. Patiently.

Because land, when it turns against man, is not in a hurry.
And when land hates, it can hate forever.