Robert lay awake long after the town had gone quiet again. The screams of Mrs. Miller still echoed in his ears, mixing with the image of shuttered windows and a community too terrified to speak.
Beside him, William stirred. "Dad?" His voice was small, uncertain.
Robert turned, surprised to see his son sitting up, eyes wide open in the dim light.
"You're not going to give up, are you?" William asked. His tone was steady, but beneath it Robert caught something sharper—fear, yes, but also resolve.
Robert sat up, running a hand through his hair. "No," he said quietly. "I can't. Not when it's children being taken. Not when Ethan… and Jacob…" He trailed off.
William's gaze didn't waver. "It's the Hollow, isn't it? That's where they all went."
Robert stiffened. "Who told you that?"
"No one," William said. "I can hear it. Sometimes… when it's quiet. Like tonight." He glanced toward the window. "It calls."
A chill ran down Robert's spine. He put a hand on his son's shoulder, firm but gentle. "Then we'll face it together. But you stay close to me. Promise?"
William nodded, though the unease in his eyes lingered.
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it a faint sound—like a breath rising from the earth itself.
_____________________________
While Robert sat with his son, across town the sheriff nursed a bottle of whiskey in his darkened office. The lamplight flickered low, shadows stretching long against the walls. His desk was cluttered with old reports—names of children, dates, belongings found near the Hollow. All neatly written, all leading nowhere.
He stared at them until the letters blurred.
A knock rattled the door, soft and nervous. He froze, then called, "Go on home."
The knock didn't come again. Only the silence of the street pressed in, heavy and expectant. He rubbed his face, weary to the bone.
He knew Robert was right. The whole town knew. But no one had the courage to speak, not even him—the man sworn to keep them safe. He'd seen what happened to those who tried.
His eyes drifted to the back wall, where a framed photograph hung. A church picnic, nearly twenty years old. Families smiling in the summer sun. Children playing in the grass. Half of those children were gone now. Swallowed by the Hollow.
The sheriff poured another drink, hands shaking as the glass clinked against the bottle. His lips moved around a whisper, cracked and broken.
"It always takes… and it always gives back."
But even as he said it, his voice trembled. Because sometimes, it didn't give back at all.
_____________________________
The sheriff leaned back in his chair, the glass heavy in his hand. His eyes slipped shut, and the years peeled away like old paint.
He was younger then, barely thirty, his badge still bright with promise. It was summer, the air thick with heat and the smell of cut hay.
The first child had gone missing after the Harvest Fair. A girl named Clara. Eight years old, with red ribbons in her hair.
The town had searched for days—through barns, downriver, into the woods. They found nothing. Not until the fourth night, when the Hollow answered.
The sheriff remembered the sound before anything else: a low rumble from beneath the ground, like the earth itself groaning awake. Then the soil by the old sycamore split open, spilling dirt and roots. And Clara crawled out—alive, but not the same.
She didn't cry. She didn't smile. She only stood there, staring at them with eyes that seemed too dark for her face. Her mother screamed with joy and clutched her, but the sheriff never forgot the way the girl's gaze had locked on him. Hollow. Empty.
The town had wanted to believe it was a miracle. That the Hollow had given her back. But in the weeks that followed, Clara grew quiet, then strange. By winter, she was gone again—this time in her sleep. Her parents found her bed empty, the sheets cold.
The sheriff's hand trembled as he dragged the whiskey bottle closer. He'd written it off back then as grief, as madness. But he knew better now. The Hollow didn't just take. It changed what it returned.
And sometimes, it never returned anything at all.
He pressed his palms to his face, whispering to the empty room:
"God forgive me. I should have stopped it then."
But he hadn't. And now more children were vanishing, just as they always had.
_____________________________
The sheriff's gaze drifted to the bottom drawer of his desk. His hand hovered, then slowly pulled it open. Inside lay a bundle of yellowed papers tied with twine, the edges worn soft with age.
He untied them with clumsy fingers, spreading them across the desk. Handwritten notes, church records, and one brittle sheet bearing signatures—dozens of them. Names of men long buried, some he recognized as the town's founders.
His eyes caught on the words scrawled across the top:
"Covenant of Silence."
He read the first lines, though he didn't need to. He'd memorized them years ago.
"What is taken shall not be pursued. What is returned shall not be questioned. The earth gives, the earth takes, and so we endure."
The sheriff pressed his lips together, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
This was the weight pressing on every house, behind every shuttered window. The reason the Millers' cries fell on deaf ears. The reason even Tom bit his tongue bloody rather than speak.
The deal was older than him. Older than his father. Passed down like a curse, binding the town in fear.
But Robert… Robert was different. An outsider. He wouldn't stay silent. And the sheriff knew what happened to those who broke the covenant.
He shoved the papers back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and drained his glass in one swallow. His reflection in the dark window looked like a man already buried, the dirt just waiting to close in.
_____________________________
Dawn crept slowly over the town, pale light spilling through the thin curtains of Tom's guest room. Robert hadn't slept. He sat on the edge of the bed, boots laced, listening to the steady breath of his son beside him.
William stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "You didn't sleep," he said softly.
"No," Robert admitted. He stood and drew the curtain back just enough to see the empty street. Not a soul in sight. Doors still locked, shutters still drawn tight. A town pretending nothing had happened.
William swung his legs over the side of the bed. His voice was quiet, but steady. "They're not going to help us, are they?"
Robert shook his head. "No. They're too scared. Whatever's in that Hollow… it has them all under its thumb."
William hesitated. Then: "So it's just us."
Robert turned, meeting his son's eyes. He saw no childish naivety there—only the same fierce resolve that burned in his own chest. He placed a hand on William's shoulder. "Then it's just us."
From outside came the faint toll of the church bell, slow and heavy, calling the town to gather. For a moment Robert thought it was for prayer—but no. It was for Jacob. Another child gone. Another family broken.
Robert's jaw tightened. Enough waiting. Enough silence.
He looked at William and though fear glimmered in the boy's eyes, William only nodded.