The town was quiet, but the weight of fear hung in every corner. Robert stood in Tom's kitchen, leaning over the worn wooden table, a map of the forest spread before him.
William perched on a chair, scanning the streets outside with his sharp, cautious eyes. "We can't just go in blind," he said. "We need to know… what it is, how it works. Otherwise, we're just feeding it."
Robert nodded. "Exactly. We have to gather everything we can—old records, town stories, legends. Anything that might tell us what the Hollow really is and what it wants."
Tom moved silently to the window, his face drawn. He didn't speak, but the tension in his shoulders told Robert all he needed to know: the Hollow had claimed too many children, and the town's fear ran too deep.
Robert picked up a notebook from the table, flipping it open. "We'll start with what the town won't tell us directly. Old diaries, records from the church, anyone who might remember… anything."
William's gaze sharpened. "Even the sheriff?"
Robert hesitated. "He knows more than anyone. But he's scared too. And that's why we have to be careful. The Hollow feeds on fear… and so do the people protecting it."
Outside, the first hints of sunlight touched the street. But in the shadows of the town, the Hollow waited. Patient. Hungry.
Robert closed the notebook with a snap. "We gather knowledge first. Then… we fight."
_____________________________
Robert grabbed a small stack of old books from the dusty shelf in Tom's study. Most were brittle with age, their spines cracked and pages yellowed. Legends of the town, journals of past residents, and a few church records that had been tucked away, forgotten.
William leaned over his shoulder. "Do you think any of this will actually help?"
Robert shrugged, scanning a faded journal. "It has to. Every piece of the puzzle counts. If the Hollow has been taking children for decades… someone must have seen it, written about it."
The first journal was simple—an account from a farmer's wife in the early 1900s. She wrote of children disappearing near the old sycamore in the forest, their screams rising from the ground. No bodies were ever found, only the memory of their cries lingering in the air.
William frowned. "It's… the same pattern. Just like Jacob. Like Ethan."
"Exactly," Robert said, his voice low. "And notice this…" He flipped to another page. It described townsfolk making offerings to the forest, leaving toys, food, even small trinkets near certain spots in the woods. "They were trying to… appease it."
William's eyes widened. "So it's not just taking them. It wants something. Something from us."
Robert nodded grimly. "And if we're going to stop it, we need to understand exactly what that is."
Hours passed. Each page turned revealed fragments: whispered warnings, strange symbols carved into trees, tales of children vanishing and returning… changed. The Hollow had been part of the town's dark history for generations, feeding quietly while fear kept the town silent.
By the time the sun was high, Robert leaned back, exhausted but determined. William sat beside him, silent, absorbing the weight of the knowledge.
Robert closed the journal and met his son's gaze. "We're not ready to face it yet. But now we know enough to plan. That's the first step."
Outside, the town moved cautiously in the daylight. Behind closed doors, behind shuttered windows, everyone still feared speaking, still feared acting. But for Robert and William, the first pieces of the Hollow's truth were finally falling into place.
_____________________________
As the sun climbed higher, Robert and William stepped cautiously toward the edge of town, where the oldest houses still leaned against time. One in particular caught Robert's eye—a narrow, weathered home with ivy crawling up the walls.
A faint figure appeared in the doorway: Mrs. Halloway, the town's oldest resident, nearly ninety, her back bent but her eyes sharp and piercing. She had lived through every disappearance she now refused to speak about openly.
"Morning, Mrs. Halloway," Robert said politely, trying to hide his urgency. "We… we need to ask you about the Hollow."
The old woman's eyes narrowed. She leaned on her cane, studying him like he was a stranger—or a fool. "So you've heard it too," she whispered, her voice trembling but determined. "You've seen what the town won't say."
William stepped closer to his father, but the old woman's gaze shifted to him for a long moment. "Boy… don't speak of it lightly. The Hollow listens. Always listens."
Robert swallowed, forcing his voice steady. "We just want to understand it. We need to know what it is."
Mrs. Halloway's lips tightened into a thin line. Then she nodded slowly, almost reluctantly. "I can tell you… some things. But not everything. The Hollow has rules, and the town learned them long ago. Break them, and it won't just take a child. It will take more… maybe everything."
She shuffled to the edge of her porch, gesturing toward the forest. "There are signs. Places it favors, ways it moves… tricks to slow it. If you intend to face it, you'll need every scrap of knowledge you can find. And even then… you might not survive."
William's eyes widened. "How do we even start?"
The old woman's gaze softened for a moment, lingering on the boy. "You watch, you listen, you remember. The Hollow isn't just under the ground. It's in the shadows, in the silence, in the fear. And it feeds on every mistake."
Robert nodded, understanding the weight of her words. "We'll be careful."
Mrs. Halloway shook her head, almost smiling despite the fear in her eyes. "Careful isn't enough anymore. You'll need courage, and more than that… you'll need to outthink it."
The wind rustled the trees behind her, as though the forest itself had heard her words.
Robert exchanged a look with William. The Hollow was real, patient, and hungry. And now, thanks to Mrs. Halloway, they had their first thread to follow.