☕️ Alice’s Mad Tea Party Presents
🫖 Alice Spills the Tea: The Legend of the Hollow Eyed Bride
Oh, darlings. Gather close, light a flickering candle, and for the love of tea and terror, do not look over your shoulder. Tonight, I am spinning a tale older than cobwebs clinging to forgotten crypts. This is a story whispered by ghosts and scribbled in the margins of cursed tomes. You will not find it in tidy bedtime books. This one bites.
Long before Sonia Bloodthorn carved her name into immortal history, and long before Dracula’s shadow stretched across the world, there stood a small village at the edge of Ashenwood Forest. Quaint, as such places go. Ivy wrapped cottages. Moss sunk wells. Villagers who smiled too quickly when dusk fell.
Because the forest did not sleep.
And in its depths, she waited.
They called her the Hollow-Eyed Bride.
Not because she had no eyes. Oh no, darlings. She had eyes.
They were black as dried blood and bottomless as a well of forgotten souls. Her veil was torn silk drifting like mist. Her gown was once white, now steeped in centuries of grime and grief. Her fingers were clawed. Her smile was crooked and cracked like old porcelain.
But once, she was beautiful.
Once, she had a name.
Legend tells of her betrothal to a nobleman who ruled from Crimson Spire, a citadel now swallowed by vines and silence. The union was arranged. Of course it was. Her heart belonged elsewhere. To a woodsman with kind eyes and steady hands, a man who carved love into every tree he touched.
They swore secret vows beneath a blood moon. They planned to flee at dawn on her wedding day.
Dawn never came.
The woodsman vanished. His hut was found splintered. His axe was buried deep in a tree that bled.
The bride was forced to marry the nobleman. She walked the aisle in silence, her veil heavy with unshed tears. That very night, the citadel burned.
She was last seen fleeing into Ashenwood, her gown aflame, her screams swallowed by the trees. Some say she cursed the forest. Others say the forest claimed her.
From that night on, those who entered the woods alone were found days later. Eyes missing. Lips sewn shut with red thread. A dried rose pressed into their palm.
And the worst part?
No one ever sees her coming.
No snapping twigs. No rustling leaves. Only a sudden chill. The faint scent of burned lace. A soft, broken hum of a wedding song no one remembers learning.
The villagers began leaving offerings at the forest’s edge. Wedding rings. Lace gloves. Small vials of tears. Anything to appease her. Anything to stay alive.
Then a child vanished. Then another. Then a hunter’s wife was found barefoot in a forest clearing, rocking back and forth, repeating a single phrase.
“She’s gathering guests for the wedding.”
Guests, darlings.
That is the newest whisper. The Hollow-Eyed Bride is preparing another ceremony. A wedding with no groom. A celebration soaked in sorrow, madness, and flame.
And when the guest list is complete, she will return.
But you did not hear that from me.
Now sip your tea. Light a protection candle. And perhaps skip your evening walk.
Yours wickedly,
Alice, Queen of Ink & Lore
✒ Pip’s Editorial Note
The legend of the Hollow-Eyed Bride belongs to a long tradition of European forest specters tied to broken betrothals, burned brides, and cursed weddings. Variants of this tale appear across folklore, though names, settings, and methods change with each telling.
Some versions place her death before the wedding. Others insist she completed the ceremony before fleeing into the woods. The missing eyes and sewn lips are later additions, likely born from village warnings rather than original myth.
What remains consistent is this. The forest is not merely a setting. It is an accomplice.
Alice’s retelling leans into theatrical dread and ritual imagery, favoring atmosphere over tidy origin dates. As always, this is performance folklore, not courtroom testimony.
Proceed with caution. And do not accept wedding invitations found in the woods.
- Pip, Editorial Desk, Alice’s Mad Tea Party
