The rain hadn't stopped since Mrs. Halloway's funeral. It soaked the streets, dripped from the roofs, and turned the dirt roads into veins of mud. Robert walked quickly, his coat pulled tight, the old journal hidden inside. William kept close at his side, his eyes scanning every shadow that seemed to lean toward them.
"We can't be the only ones who know," Robert muttered. "If Halloway wrote down one rule, then someone else must have recorded the others. The town didn't survive this long on silence alone."
William hesitated. "Who, then? The others are too scared to talk."
Robert's jaw tightened. There was one man who might know, though he had buried the truth beneath years of duty and denial—the sheriff. He had seen things, lived through things, and if Robert pushed hard enough, maybe he could force him to remember.
They found him in his office, staring at the rain-streaked window with a bottle half-drained on the desk beside him. The room smelled of old tobacco and dust.
"You shouldn't be here," the sheriff said without turning. His voice was low, frayed. "Not after the funeral."
Robert stepped inside anyway. "You know what killed her."
The sheriff's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't move.
"She warned me," Robert pressed. "She gave me something—proof. The Hollow has rules, and the town knew them once. You were there. You remember."
The sheriff's hand twitched toward the bottle. His reflection in the glass looked older than his years, eyes hollowed by memories he refused to speak aloud.
For a long moment, he was silent. Then his voice cracked, brittle as old paper. "Rules… yes. But you don't want them, Robert. You think knowing will save you—but it only makes you a target."
William stepped forward despite his father's warning glance. "We already are targets."
The sheriff finally turned. His eyes met Robert's, bloodshot and weary. "I remember one. Not all. Just one."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was barely more than a whisper.
"Never follow the voices after dark. They're not who you think they are."
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The sheriff's words hung in the air, heavy as the rain beating against the glass.
"Never follow the voices after dark. They're not who you think they are."
William frowned. "What voices?"
The sheriff's eyes flicked toward the window, his expression tightening. "The Hollow doesn't just take—it calls. You'll hear your loved ones, your friends, even those already gone. If you follow, you belong to it. That's how it keeps its gates open. That's how it feeds."
Robert's chest tightened. Ethan's mother's scream echoed in his memory. Was that why she had felt her son's pain? Had the Hollow used him to reach her?
The sheriff's hand trembled as he lifted the bottle, but before he could drink, the room changed.
The lamplight dimmed, flickering as though smothered by invisible hands. A sound drifted in—soft at first, almost like the patter of rain. But then it grew sharper, distinct.
A voice.
"Robert…"
He froze. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. His wife's voice. Gentle. Beckoning.
"Come home, Robert… I'm waiting…"
William's grip tightened on his father's sleeve, his face pale. "Dad… that's not her."
The sheriff slammed his bottle onto the desk, glass shattering. His voice was hoarse, urgent. "Don't listen! Do you hear me? Don't answer it!"
The voice lingered at the window now, sweet as honey, carrying warmth Robert hadn't felt in years. His heart ached, his ears strained to believe. But the sheriff's eyes burned into him, filled with terror.
And in that moment, Robert understood—
The Hollow had heard them. And it wanted to test the rule.
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The voice at the window faded, swallowed by the storm outside. The lamplight steadied again, but the air remained thick with dread.
Robert forced himself to look away, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. He didn't speak, didn't dare acknowledge what he had heard.
The sheriff slumped back into his chair, breathing hard, as if the effort of resisting had aged him years in seconds. "That's the second rule," he rasped. "Break it… and you'll never come back."
Robert nodded stiffly, tucking the words away like a weapon. "We understand."
But William didn't move. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring at the empty glass of the window. Because what he had seen there wasn't just a voice—it was a face.
His mother's face.
She had looked at him the way she used to, her lips curved in a gentle smile, her hand reaching toward him. For a heartbeat, he had wanted to run to her, to believe.
But he didn't tell his father. He couldn't. Not now.
He swallowed the terror and the ache in his chest, forcing his face to stillness. Because if the Hollow could wear his mother's face, then nothing in this town was safe anymore.
And some truths were too heavy to share.