The scream shattered the quiet of the night. Robert sat bolt upright, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he thought it was just another nightmare, another echo of the Hollow in his head. But then he heard it again—raw, piercing, and real.
William stirred beside him on the cot, eyes wide. "Dad… did you hear that?"
Robert was already moving, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. The streets of the town were waking in patches—lamps flickering to life, curtains drawn back, neighbors stepping out into the cold. The scream had come from the edge of town.
From Ethan's house.
By the time Robert and William reached it, a small crowd had gathered. Ethan's mother was on the ground, clutching her chest, her face pale as tears streaked her cheeks. She was shaking, whispering her son's name over and over, like she could pull him back with the sound alone.
"She just woke like this," one neighbor muttered nervously. "Screaming like she'd been cut open."
Robert knelt beside her, his heart pounding. "Ethan's alive," he said firmly, though he couldn't know for sure. "Tell me what you felt."
Her eyes darted to his, filled with terror. "It wasn't a dream," she whispered. "It was him. He was reaching for me. He was in pain, Robert… I felt it. Like he was being torn apart inside."
William swallowed hard, glancing toward the forest where the Hollow loomed unseen in the dark.
The crowd murmured, fear creeping into their voices. The Hollow had always been a shadow, a whispered curse—but now it was closer, bleeding into their homes, into their beds, into their very lives.
Robert stood, his fists clenched. Mrs. Halloway's warning came back to him: The Hollow listens. Always listens.
And now it was speaking back.
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Robert couldn't shake the look in Ethan's mother's eyes—the raw terror of a mother who had felt her son's pain. As the murmurs of the gathered crowd grew louder, Robert pulled William aside.
"We can't wait," he said, his voice low but urgent. "Mrs. Halloway knows more. If the Hollow is reaching into homes now, we need to understand its rules before it's too late."
William nodded, though unease clouded his face. Together, they slipped away from the crowd and hurried through the sleeping town, the streets hushed except for the distant barking of a restless dog.
The old woman's house loomed ahead, the ivy on its walls twisting like veins. The windows were dark. Too dark.
Robert knocked once. Twice. No answer.
"Mrs. Halloway?" he called, his voice firm but respectful. Silence.
He pushed the door open, the hinges groaning. The air inside was colder than the night outside, thick with a stillness that felt wrong.
They found her in the parlor, slumped in her chair, her cane lying across the floor. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, almost as though she had fallen asleep—but Robert knew better. Her chest did not rise.
William's voice cracked. "Dad… is she—?"
Robert pressed trembling fingers to her wrist. Nothing.
But it wasn't natural. Not with the faint shadow-like marks curling across her throat, like something unseen had touched her as she slept.
"She's gone," Robert whispered. His stomach twisted. The Hollow silenced her.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of it pressed heavy on their shoulders. She had warned them. She had dared to speak, and now she was dead.
William shivered, glancing at the curtained windows. "Dad… it knows we came here."
Robert's jaw tightened. He pulled the curtains back, staring into the night beyond, where the forest loomed like a waiting beast.
The Hollow wasn't just taking children anymore. It was hunting anyone who tried to reveal its secrets.
And Robert realized, with a cold certainty, that every step forward would cost them dearly.