As the wind meandered through the trees of Pachaug State Forest, it whispered forgotten stories. The forest had borne the burden of centuries. The tree roots twisted and entwined with the bones of a people long forgotten. Deep in the forest, where the earth dipped into a shaded vale, was Hell Hollow—a place where the past never dies.
This story starts in the late 1600s, when the British colonists fought against the Narragansett people. Along them was Wutawi, a healer and protector of her tribe’s land. And her voice, strong and tender, shared stories of spirits and ancestors binding her people to the earth that had nourished them for generations.
But war, that cares no jot for wise council, destroys it with musket fire and steel.
On a chilling November night, British troops poured into the village, lit up by their torches. The attack was swift and ruthless. Shouting was all around, confusion making escape near impossible. Wutawi sprinted through the forest, breathing fast, heart beating hard in her chest. The dying screams of her people grew more and more distant.
She didn’t get far.
She was cornered at the edge of Hell Hollow, where the sharp rocks and the thick undergrowth worked against her. She fought for all she was worth, but the soldiers were too much. A blade claimed her and silenced her forever. They left her to be lost and forgotten.
But the land does not forget.
For centuries, Wutawi’s tormented cries have echoed throughout Hell’s Hollow. “They’re just the wind”, some say, “moving through the trees like a song of sorrow.” Others say they heard her desperate screams pierce the midnight silence, wailing with rage and grief. There are tales from tourists about dark figures moving between the trees, watching and waiting
On a cold November night, a local historian named Daniel Mercer, with only a lantern and a map, ventured alone into the dark woods. He had always been interested in stories about the restless dead.
The forest thickened as he neared Hell Hollow and seemed to close in on him. Something in the air seemed different, almost unnatural, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. And then — a scream.
It pierced through the night, tormented and agonized. Daniel came to a standstill. His breathing stopped for a moment. The voice was human, but it didn’t belong in the here and now. It was full of grief, ancient and tormented.
His lantern flickered and almost went out.
And there she was.
Standing amid the trees, shrouded in mist. Her long black hair whipping in the wind and her eyes…her eyes that should not have been, burned like embers. She raised a trembling hand and pointed at him and her lips moved but nothing came out.
Daniel recoiled and his mind screamed at him to run away. But something kept him there, some terrible force held him to the forest floor. The wind moaned, caring voices too fragmented to comprehend.
And then . . . she was gone.
But the scream remained.
Daniel ran away from Hell Hollow that night, but he never really left it. He spoke about the experience once, his voice full of unease. “She wasn’t supposed to be forgotten,” he said. “And she never will be.”
While some think Wutawi may still be wandering in the forest, searching for the home that was ripped away from her. And some say her shriek is a warning, a warning that blood stains land more than time itself.
And if you ever wander the trails of Pachaug after dark, in a moonless sky obscured by cloud — listen.
You just might hear her.