The rain had slowed to a mist by morning, but the town still felt suffocated, as though the storm had seeped into its bones. Robert walked beside William in silence, both of them carrying the weight of what the sheriff had revealed—and what the Hollow had shown.
They made their way to the church, the only place left where whispers of the old rules might still linger. The building loomed at the center of town, its steeple dark against the gray sky, its bells long silent.
Inside, the pews smelled of dust and damp wood. Candles flickered faintly near the altar, lit by unseen hands. Robert felt William tense at his side.
Father Clemens, the weary priest, stepped from the shadows. His eyes were sunken, his face pale, as if sleep had long abandoned him. "You shouldn't be here," he said softly. "The Hollow listens even in this house."
Robert ignored the warning. "You know more than you've said, Father. Mrs. Halloway is gone. The sheriff barely speaks above a whisper. But you—you've buried half the children this town has lost. You know what we're facing."
The priest's hands shook as he clasped them together. "I know enough to fear it. And I know the town once made a pact to survive."
William's head snapped toward him. "A pact?"
Father Clemens hesitated, his lips tightening, then finally whispered, "Three rules… but only fragments remain. I remember one carved into the old hymn book. The others were burned, erased—perhaps on purpose."
Robert's pulse quickened. "Then tell me. Tell me what you remember."
The priest's gaze flicked toward William, then back to Robert. His voice dropped to a trembling murmur. "The Hollow doesn't just take. It bargains. And the last time someone broke that bargain…" He trailed off, his face ashen.
Before Robert could press further, a chill wind swept through the church, snuffing out the candles. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut with a thunderous crack.
The Hollow had followed them.
_____________________________
The air in the church grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth. Robert pulled William close as the priest stumbled back, clutching the altar.
"Don't speak further," Father Clemens whispered hoarsely, his eyes wide with terror. "It hears us. It always hears."
A low hum reverberated through the walls, almost like a choir of voices singing from underground. Dust drifted from the rafters, and the stained-glass windows shivered as though struck by invisible hands.
Robert steadied himself, his voice firm but quiet. "Father—one rule, one truth. That's all I need. Before it takes someone else."
The priest's lips trembled. At last he forced the words out. "The Hollow bargains… but never keep its promises. Never believe what it shows you."
The hum deepened into a growl, vibrating through the floorboards. William winced, covering his ears.
"Enough!" the priest cried, dropping to his knees. "I've said too much."
The church door creaked open on its own, spilling in the pale light of morning. The oppressive weight lifted, though the silence that followed was worse than the noise.
Robert helped the priest to his feet, but Father Clemens refused to meet his eyes. "Go," he rasped. "Before it marks you both. If you linger here, you won't walk out whole."
Robert guided William outside into the mist. Behind them, the bells above the church gave a sudden hollow toll—once, twice—before falling silent again.
Neither of them spoke until they were well away from the steeple. Finally, William whispered, "It didn't want him to finish."
Robert's jaw tightened. "Which means he was close to the truth."
But as they walked on, Robert couldn't shake the feeling that the Hollow hadn't just silenced the priest. It had listened to them.
And now, it knew their questions.