The Rope ~ The Hollow Hours Volume I ~ By Britt Wolfe
Daniel needed a place to disappear. Ashridge Hollow—a small, secluded town lost in the woods—seemed perfect. Quiet streets. Empty houses. Neighbours who smiled politely but never asked too many questions.
It was supposed to be a fresh start.
But the Hollow isn’t the kind of town you find by accident. It’s the kind that finds you.
In the crumbling house at the end of Turner Lane, Daniel discovers something waiting for him: a rope, hanging from the attic beams, that never stops swinging. At first, he tells himself it’s just an old house settling. Creaks. Drafts. Shadows. Things he can explain away.
But the creaking grows louder. The shadows sharper. And the past Daniel thought he left behind begins to unravel around him, thread by thread.
Because in Ashridge Hollow, nothing ever really leaves. Not the guilt. Not the dead. And not the rope, still swinging, slow and patient, waiting for the next.
Daniel needed a place to disappear. Ashridge Hollow—a small, secluded town lost in the woods—seemed perfect. Quiet streets. Empty houses. Neighbours who smiled politely but never asked too many questions.
It was supposed to be a fresh start.
But the Hollow isn’t the kind of town you find by accident. It’s the kind that finds you.
In the crumbling house at the end of Turner Lane, Daniel discovers something waiting for him: a rope, hanging from the attic beams, that never stops swinging. At first, he tells himself it’s just an old house settling. Creaks. Drafts. Shadows. Things he can explain away.
But the creaking grows louder. The shadows sharper. And the past Daniel thought he left behind begins to unravel around him, thread by thread.
Because in Ashridge Hollow, nothing ever really leaves. Not the guilt. Not the dead. And not the rope, still swinging, slow and patient, waiting for the next.
Daniel needed a place to disappear. Ashridge Hollow—a small, secluded town lost in the woods—seemed perfect. Quiet streets. Empty houses. Neighbours who smiled politely but never asked too many questions.
It was supposed to be a fresh start.
But the Hollow isn’t the kind of town you find by accident. It’s the kind that finds you.
In the crumbling house at the end of Turner Lane, Daniel discovers something waiting for him: a rope, hanging from the attic beams, that never stops swinging. At first, he tells himself it’s just an old house settling. Creaks. Drafts. Shadows. Things he can explain away.
But the creaking grows louder. The shadows sharper. And the past Daniel thought he left behind begins to unravel around him, thread by thread.
Because in Ashridge Hollow, nothing ever really leaves. Not the guilt. Not the dead. And not the rope, still swinging, slow and patient, waiting for the next.
Excerpt From The Rope By Britt Wolfe
The attic was dark. The kind of dark that felt like it saw you coming. Darker than it should have been. The window that had been there the first time he came up here was gone.
The air was damp, close, and cool. It smelled of rot and memory. Of lavender gone sour.
And there it was.
The rope.
No longer swaying.
No longer creaking.
Just waiting.
It hung from the rafters, still and centred. Low now.
Almost reverent in the way it dangled—like it had bowed its head to meet him.
Beneath it, the bloom remained.
Faint, but undeniable.
That rust-red stain at the heart of the attic. A splay of dark, dry petals on the wide floorboards.
The same place where Penny’s blood had fallen.
He didn’t speak her name.
Not now.
And when he stepped toward the rope, the air shifted—welcoming, heavy, inevitable.
Somewhere behind him, the house exhaled.
The rope no longer sways.
It waits.
The Rope, the first novella in The Hollow Hours series, is now available. A new tale unfolds on the final day of each month.
🌫️ Enter Ashridge Hollow—if you dare.
💀 The Hollow keeps what it claims.
More From The Hollow Hours Series By Britt Wolfe:
Coming July 31st ~ Preorder Now!
They moved to Ashridge Hollow in early spring. Newly married. Hopeful. The house was old, ivy-clad, and quiet. It had charm, the agent said. Good bones.
But history doesn’t stay buried in Ashridge Hollow.
It started with cold air in the nursery. A lullaby Becca didn’t remember learning. A cough behind the wall.
Joel thought it was stress. Becca said it was memory.
She spoke of winters she never lived through. Names she shouldn’t know. A girl she claimed had once shared her room.
The house changed around her. So did Becca.
And in Ashridge Hollow, when a house starts to remember you—
it rarely forgets.