Tom's house stood at the far end of the road, a weathered frame swallowed by fog. The door creaked open on its own, pushed by the rising wind.
Inside, the rooms were dim and still, as though the air itself refused to move. Ethan's toys lay scattered across the floor—the small wooden train, the marbles by the fireplace, the half-finished drawing of a tree with two stick figures beneath it.
Tom paused in the doorway, his breath catching. The silence pressed down, heavy and unnatural.
He stepped inside, boots thudding softly against the worn boards. "Ethan?" he called out, his voice trembling just slightly.
Only the echo answered.
He walked through each room—the kitchen, the sitting room, the hallway—each step heavier than the last. The house smelled faintly of smoke and damp earth, though the hearth hadn't been lit for days.
Then he heard it.
A soft shuffle upstairs.
Tom's heart leapt. "Ethan?"
He took the stairs two at a time, his hand brushing the banister. The sound came again, from Ethan's room.
When he pushed the door open, he froze.
The window was wide, the curtains fluttering. And on the bed sat a small figure with his back turned. The boy's hair was the same soft brown, his shoulders shaking like he was crying.
"Ethan…" Tom's voice broke. "Son… is that really you?"
The boy didn't move.
Tom took a step closer. "It's okay, I'm here now. You're safe."
Then the boy lifted his head.
The face that turned toward him wasn't Ethan's—not anymore. The eyes were hollow, black as the spaces between dreams, the mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Daddy," it said softly. "You found me."
Tom stumbled back, hitting the dresser. His heart pounded. "No… no—"
The boy stood, the shadows stretching behind him like tendrils. "Don't be scared," the voice whispered, though it wasn't a child's voice anymore. "You wanted me home… and now I am."
The window slammed shut.
The lights flickered once, then went out completely.
Outside, the fog thickened around the house until it disappeared from view.
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The air turned sharp, colder than it had any right to be. Tom's breath came in shaky clouds as he backed into the wall. The thing wearing Ethan's face took a slow step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath its bare feet.
"Ethan," Tom whispered again, though he already knew the truth—whatever stood before him wasn't his son.
The boy tilted his head, eyes glimmering like wet glass. "You left me, Daddy."
"No," Tom stammered. "I never stopped looking. I—"
The creature's expression twisted, half grief, half hunger. "But you gave up." The voice layered, two tones speaking at once—Ethan's and something older, darker. "You all did."
Tom fell to his knees, gripping the floorboards. "Please… please, just let me see him. Just once more."
The boy smiled. "Then look closer."
The walls began to tremble. Photos fell from their hooks, glass cracking in perfect rhythm with Tom's heartbeat. The air shimmered, the color draining from the room. For a moment—just a moment—Tom saw Ethan, truly Ethan, standing in the same spot, his small face streaked with tears.
"Dad…" Ethan whispered. "It hurts."
Tom crawled forward, tears burning his eyes. "I'm here, son. I'm here."
He reached out—his fingertips inches from the boy—
and the world shifted.
The thing lunged.
Cold shot through Tom's body as the shadows wrapped around him, swallowing the air from his lungs. He screamed, but no sound came. The creature's voice slid into his mind, soft and venomous.
"You want to help him? Then carry the Hollow's mark."
Pain erupted across his chest—searing, invisible fire burning into his skin. He fell onto his side, gasping, clutching at his shirt as a dark, spiraled imprint pulsed beneath it.
Then, silence.
The boy was gone. The window stood open again. The night had gone still.
Tom lay there shaking, drenched in sweat and cold fear. Every instinct screamed to run, but his body wouldn't move.
When he finally gathered enough strength to crawl toward the door, he felt it—something moving inside him. A whisper under his skin.
"Now," it breathed, "we are bound."
Tom stumbled out into the fog, clutching his chest. The Hollow had spared him—but not without purpose.