History has always carried horrors—but some do not stay buried.

In 897, a pope’s corpse was dragged from the grave, dressed in robes, and placed on trial. Witnesses swore the body moved, its silence a verdict that cursed the church. Fragments of those robes traveled across centuries… until they found their way into the reliquary of Hollow Hill’s chapel, where the dead still demand confessions.

Centuries later, in the 1920s, young women painted glowing watch dials with radium, laughing as their hair and clothes shimmered in the dark. They called themselves “ghost girls,” never realizing the glow came not from health—but from death rotting their bones. Some of their remains were brought to Hollow Hill, where their laughter still echoes, brittle and hollow, and the chapel glows without candles.

Two histories. Two horrors. One place where the trials of the dead never end.

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