By the time dawn broke over Hollow Creek, the mist hadn't lifted. It clung to the rooftops and the trees, making the whole town feel like it was holding its breath.
Robert knocked hard on Tom's door. No answer.
He was about to knock again when the latch clicked, and Tom opened it just enough to be seen. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, like he hadn't slept—or hadn't stopped seeing something.
"Tom," Robert said carefully, studying him. "We were worried. You vanished last night."
Tom forced a weak smile. "Yeah. I… needed air. Just too much in my head."
William peered from behind his father, uneasy. He could tell something was wrong; Tom's movements were off—stiff, measured, almost rehearsed.
"Air?" Robert frowned. "At midnight? The woods aren't safe anymore."
"I know," Tom interrupted quickly, voice cracking. "I didn't go far. Just… needed to be alone."
Robert stared for a long moment. Then his gaze dropped to the small smear of dried blood on Tom's collar. "You're hurt."
Tom's hand went instinctively to his chest. "It's nothing. Scrape from a branch."
But Robert saw the tremor in his fingers. The way he winced, almost like something beneath his skin moved when he touched it.
William shifted closer to his father. The air around Tom felt wrong—like the house itself was exhaling shadows.
"Tom," Robert said softly, "whatever you found out there, tell me. Please."
Tom's jaw tightened. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
For a moment, the mask cracked. A flicker of fear crossed Tom's face. Then he forced a laugh that didn't sound human at all. "I'm fine, Rob. Just tired."
He turned away, closing the door. But as it shut, Robert caught a glimpse—just a flash—of the mark beneath his shirt. Black, spiraled, faintly glowing.
The Hollow's mark.
Robert's heart froze.
He stepped back slowly, pulling William with him. The wind whistled through the trees, and from somewhere inside the house came a faint whisper—like a voice calling his name.
"Robert…"
William looked up, frightened. "Dad, did you hear that?"
Robert didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the door, on the house that now seemed more alive than it should be.
He knew then that the Hollow hadn't just taken the children.
It had found another way in.
_____________________________
Deep beneath the forest, the air hung thick and heavy. The children huddled together in what looked like the remains of a long-forgotten cellar — only the walls pulsed faintly, as if alive.
Ethan sat apart, staring at the faint shimmer that rippled through the dark stone. It wasn't just silence here. It was a kind of listening.
"Did you hear that?" whispered Clara, the youngest, clutching her knees.
No one answered. They all heard it — that low hum that moved through the walls like a heartbeat, steady and patient.
A soft light flickered in the corner, forming into a shape. A tall, thin shadow peeled itself from the darkness, the Hollow itself — faceless, but unmistakably aware.
"You've done well," it whispered, voice like wind sliding through cracks in a grave. "Only one remains."
Ethan's throat went dry. "You said that before."
The Hollow's shape tilted, as if amused. "The final bond isn't complete. But soon."
The children shrank back as the floor shifted beneath them, showing glimpses — flashes — of the town above: Mrs. Halloway's grave, Robert standing outside Tom's house, and William staring at something unseen.
Ethan's breath caught. "You're… watching them?"
"I am in them," the Hollow hissed. "The roots are spreading. The mark grows. The fathers will break… and when they do, the gate will open."
Clara started to cry. "We just want to go home."
The Hollow crouched beside her, its form flickering in and out of shape. "Home?" It laughed softly. "You are home. This is where you were always meant to be."
Ethan glared, fists clenched though his body trembled. "You're lying. You're afraid of them… of us."
The air went still. Then, slowly, the Hollow's head turned toward him.
"Afraid?" it murmured. "No, child. I am only waiting. The Hollow feeds on courage just as it does fear. You'll give me both before the end."
It vanished, leaving the echo of its words hanging in the dark.
The walls stopped pulsing, but the children didn't move. No one dared to speak.
Ethan closed his eyes, forcing the tears back.
He didn't know how much longer they could hold on.
But he knew one thing now — the Hollow wasn't done with their parents… or with him.