The Hobb in the Ash-House

(A Fire Season Tale )

No one in Ember’s Hollow dared step past the broken gate of the Ash-House once the sun set.

By day it looked harmless enough — a sagging farmhouse on the edge of the burned fields, its windows blind with soot, its roof chewed bare by storms. But after dusk, the place changed. Children swore they saw a light flicker inside the hearth, though no one had tended it for years. Old folk muttered that the air stank of coal smoke when the wind turned.

Everyone agreed on one thing: a hobb had taken root there.

Hobbs were creatures of the forgotten places, born where ash clung longest after fire season. They whispered in chimneys, rattled pans, and feasted on grief like carrion. Some said they were the Hollow’s punishment, others its memory. Either way, no one wanted to cross one.

No one but Marla.

Marla had always been too curious for her own good. She was seventeen that autumn, tall and restless, with a sharp laugh that unsettled the church women and a hunger for things that didn’t fit inside Ember’s Hollow. The Ash-House fascinated her, the way it sat waiting at the edge of town like an untended wound.

Her friends dared her sometimes, but none would go with her. So on All Hallows Eve, when the veil between mortal and kin thinned, Marla went alone.

The Crossing

The gate groaned when she pushed it open. Weeds snagged her boots. The porch steps sagged under her weight, threatening to collapse, but held.

She paused at the door, palm against the warped wood. A chill leaked from the gap where the handle had once been. For a moment she thought she heard laughter inside, brittle and dry like twigs snapping.

Marla swallowed and pushed.

The door scraped open.

Dust rolled in the air like smoke. The parlor smelled of damp ash, sharp enough to sting her nose. A broken chair leaned against the wall. The hearth yawned black and empty — but her skin prickled as though something inside it was watching.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded foolish in the stillness.

The silence stretched. Then the chimney rasped a reply.

“Who treads my hearth?”

The words were thick, like stones grinding in a riverbed. Ash sifted down from the flue, settling in her hair.

Marla forced herself forward. “This house is empty. You don’t belong here.”

A sound like teeth clicking echoed inside the chimney. Slowly, something uncurled itself from the darkness.

The Hobb

It spilled onto the hearthstone like a spill of soot, gathering itself into a crouched shape. Its limbs were too long, thin as kindling. Its face was a cracked brick mask, glowing faint red through the seams. Its eyes burned with ember-light.

The hobb tilted its head, teeth clattering. “Every empty hearth belongs to me. I feed on what was lost. And here…” Its voice grew hungry. “So much has been lost.”

Marla’s throat tightened. She thought of the burned fields, the hollowed barns, the neighbors who had left after the last fire season. Loss hung over Ember’s Hollow like smoke that never cleared.

Maybe the hobb was only the shape their sorrow took.

“You don’t need to stay,” she tried. “The fire’s out. The grief’s passed.”

The hobb’s teeth clicked in a smile. “Passed? Oh child. Loss does not pass. It smolders. It waits. You burn again, and again, and I feast.”

It stepped closer. Its breath stank of coal.

The Trick

Her grandmother had told stories — hobbs feared laughter, because laughter made loss bearable. Marla’s lips were dry, but she forced out a shaky chuckle.

The hobb hissed, flickering, its shape breaking apart like ash in wind.

Marla laughed louder, a sound more desperate than merry. It rang strange in the ruined parlor. The hobb shrieked and recoiled into the fireplace, teeth snapping like firewood.

Marla bolted, heart hammering, her laughter turning to real, wild giggles as adrenaline surged. She stumbled out the door, across the porch, down the weed-choked path, and didn’t stop until she reached the gate.

Behind her, the Ash-House went silent.

The Return

She could have left it there — told the tale in whispers, claimed victory. But the Hollow had long memories, and so did Marla. In the weeks after, she noticed changes.

Sometimes she’d pass the Ash-House at dawn and see smoke curling faintly from the chimney. Sometimes she’d hear a clatter of teeth in her dreams.

And then one night, she woke to the smell of soot in her own bedroom.

The hobb stood at the foot of her bed. Its ember-eyes smoldered in the dark.

“You laughed,” it rasped. “You think laughter burns me away. But child — laughter only calls me close.”

Marla froze.

The hobb leaned nearer. Its teeth clicked like a clock counting down. “Do you know why I linger here? Because your Hollow cannot forget its losses. The burned fields. The hungry winters. The families who fled and never came home. That grief is mine. And you carry it too.”

Its ember eyes bored into her. “You think you can banish me? Then banish sorrow. You think you can drive me out? Then heal the Hollow.”

And just like that, it was gone. Only the stink of ash remained.

The Bargain

The next morning, Marla went to the elders. She told them what she had seen, what the hobb had said. Most scoffed. Some crossed themselves.

But one old woman, blind with smoke-scars from the last fire, nodded slowly. “A hobb binds to sorrow, child. If it said so, then it spoke true. If we want it gone, we must starve it.”

“How?” Marla asked.

“By mending. By remembering joy. By keeping the hearth warm not with grief, but with laughter.”

So that night, for the first time in years, Ember’s Hollow gathered in the square. They lit lanterns, told stories, sang songs. Some cried, but they cried together. And when the crying ended, they laughed. Not forced, not brittle — but real.

From then on, every All Hallows Eve, they made it a ritual. Families left lanterns burning at their doors. Children ran through the streets laughing loud enough to shake the rafters. Neighbors feasted together instead of mourning alone.

And though the Ash-House still stands, leaning and blackened, its chimney silent, the hobb has not been seen since.

The Lesson

Marla never forgot the ember-eyes at her bed. She knew hobbs did not die — they only moved on. But she also knew the Hollow was stronger than it had been.

Loss would always come. The fires would rage again someday. But as long as they remembered to laugh, the hobbs of sorrow would never truly own them.

And on All Hallows Eve, when the lanterns burned bright and laughter rang through Ember’s Hollow, the people would say:

“Light the hearth. Tell the stories. Keep the hobbs at bay.”