The darkness was heavy, like a weight pressing down on every breath. Ethan sat with his back against the damp wall, the other children huddled close around him. Their faces were pale in the faint glow that seeped from cracks above, their eyes wide with exhaustion and fear.
Somewhere in the blackness, water dripped steadily, each drop echoing like a clock ticking too slowly.
A little boy whimpered, clutching at Ethan's sleeve. "It's coming back, isn't it?"
Ethan didn't answer. He had no comfort left to give, only the memory of the voice that had tried to force him to scream. He still felt the shadow's presence, circling them like a predator in the dark.
Then the ground beneath them shifted, subtle but real. A shudder ran through the cavern. The younger children began to cry softly.
Ethan closed his eyes, forcing himself to steady his breathing. Don't let it feed. That's what he had realized—the shadow wanted their fear. Every scream, every sob, gave it more strength.
But not all the children understood. Not all of them could resist.
A low sound began to stir in the dark—like a hum, or a growl, impossible to place. The children stiffened.
One of the older girls clapped her hands over her mouth, trying not to scream. Another child started praying under his breath.
Ethan pushed himself to his feet, trembling but determined. "Stay quiet," he whispered, though his own voice shook. "Don't give it what it wants."
The humming grew louder, closer, until the air itself seemed to vibrate. Then, from the far side of the chamber, two faint pinpricks of light appeared—like eyes opening in the dark.
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The soil writhed like black serpents, curling across the chamber. Ethan held his ground, though the younger children whimpered behind him.
Then, above them, came a muffled sound—a scream, distant but real. The cavern shuddered, earth trembling as if answering a call.
The children looked up in terror. They all knew what that sound meant.
A crack split open in the ceiling, spilling dirt and a shaft of pale moonlight. Something fell through, landing hard on the cavern floor with a dull thud.
It was Jacob Miller—the baker's youngest son. Nine years old, his face streaked with soil and tears. He scrambled upright, coughing, his voice breaking as he cried out:
"Papa? Mama?"
The other children gasped. They all knew Jacob. They had seen him running errands in town, laughing as he carried loaves of bread bigger than his arms. Now he was here, thrown into the hollow like the rest of them.
The whisper wound through the darkness, curling around the children like smoke.
"Yesss… another for the hollow…"
Jacob's cries grew louder, raw with terror. The lights flared, feeding on the sound. The earth beneath their feet vibrated, greedy.
Ethan lunged forward, grabbing Jacob's arm before the tendrils of soil could close around him. "Stay with us," he hissed, pulling the boy into the huddle. "Don't scream, don't cry—don't give it what it wants."
But Jacob was too young, too terrified. His sobs tore through the chamber, shaking the other children's fragile resolve.
The shadow swelled at the noise, its presence filling every corner of the cavern. The air grew colder, tighter, until it felt like the dark itself was pressing down on their chests.
Ethan held Jacob tighter, glaring at the unseen presence. His whisper was sharp, defiant:
"You can take him from the town… but you won't take him from us."
For a moment, the hollow stilled. Then the lights narrowed, focusing only on Ethan.
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The hollow stilled, its lights burning into Ethan's face. Jacob sobbed quietly against his shoulder, the sound carrying through the chamber like a wound torn open.
And then—above ground—another sound pierced the night. A scream. A mother's scream.
---
Robert woke with a start, his heart pounding. For a moment, he wasn't sure if the cry had been part of a dream. But then it came again, raw and agonized, echoing through the quiet town.
He threw on his coat and rushed to the window. Outside, lanterns were already flaring to life as neighbors emerged from their homes. The cries grew clearer, cutting through the night:
"Jacob! My baby, where is he?!"
It was Mrs. Miller, her voice breaking as she stumbled into the street, clutching at anyone who came near. Her husband followed close behind, his face ashen, calling Jacob's name into the dark.
Robert's stomach dropped. He didn't need to ask what had happened. Another child was gone.
Behind him, William stirred awake, rubbing his eyes. "Dad? What's happening?"
Robert swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the window frame. His son's voice felt suddenly fragile, breakable, against the chaos outside.
He turned from the window, his face set like stone. "Stay inside, William."
Then he stepped into the night, where Jacob's mother's cries still tore through the air—one more wound in a town already bleeding.