William woke in a cold sweat, the room around him warped and shadowed, even though he had fallen asleep safely in his own bed. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke, though the window was open and the night air clean.
A soft, familiar voice drifted from the darkness.
"William… come play with me…"
His heart skipped. It sounded like his mother. Gentle, warm, laughing. The memory of her smile, of the afternoons in the yard before everything went wrong, pulled at him like a magnet.
He sat up, eyes straining in the half-light. "Mom?" he whispered.
The voice answered again, closer this time. "William… don't leave me…"
Panic rose in his chest. He remembered his father, Robert, telling him stories about the Hollow — about voices, illusions, the danger of following them. But this… this sounded so real. His mother's voice, calling him, begging him, tugging at his longing.
He slipped out of bed, barefoot. Each step seemed to stretch the hallway before him, elongating, twisting. Shadows crawled along the walls like living creatures.
"William…" the voice coaxed, "I'm waiting for you…"
His chest tightened. The familiar warmth of his mother's memory battled the fear he had been trained to recognize. He wanted to run… and yet, part of him longed to follow.
The shadows thickened, and the floor beneath him pulsed, like it was alive. The hallway twisted into an endless tunnel. Through the fog, he saw her — his mother, standing in a golden glow. She smiled, arms outstretched.
"Mom!" he cried, racing forward.
The moment he reached her, her smile warped, flickering into something hollow and wrong. Her eyes became deep black pits, her hands stretching impossibly long, fingers like shadows.
"You belong to me," a voice whispered, but it wasn't her. It was everywhere, layered and chilling. "The Hollow remembers. And you dream."
William stumbled back, heart hammering. He remembered the third rule: When the marked begin to dream, the gate is near.
He fell to the floor, covering his head, but the illusions pressed on. Faces of children lost, their eyes wide with fear, appeared around him, whispering, calling, accusing.
"Wake up, William! Focus!" he heard a voice — Robert's, somewhere distant but real.
He clung to that memory, pushing through the thrashing nightmare. The shadows hesitated at the edges. The image of his mother flickered and faded, leaving only the dark, pulsing air of the room.
When William finally opened his eyes, the room was normal. Moonlight spilled across his floorboards. His chest heaved. He felt drained, hollowed.
But deep in the back of his mind, he knew: the Hollow had found him. The third rule had begun.
Somewhere beyond the walls, in the dark, patient Hollow stirred — waiting for the next step.
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The shadows didn't stop when William opened his eyes. They clung to the corners of his room, stretching long and thin, whispering in voices both familiar and alien. The golden glow of his mother's illusion still lingered in his mind, tugging at his heart.
He tried to call out, but his throat was tight. Every time he reached for the door, it seemed to stretch further away, the hallway twisting into a labyrinth.
"William…" the voice came again — softer now, coaxing. "It's just us… come back."
Tears burned his eyes. His mind split between the love for his mother and the fear Robert had drilled into him: Never follow the voice after dark.
He stumbled backward, landing on the floor. The illusions grew sharper, more insistent. Shadows formed into the shapes of the missing children, faces twisted in fear, calling his name. "Join us… join us…"
"Stop!" William screamed, pounding the floor. The shadows flinched, but they didn't vanish.
Then, through the chaos, he heard another voice — steady, real, and grounding:
"William! Snap out of it!"
Robert's voice came from somewhere beyond the walls of his nightmare, but clear enough to anchor him. He clung to it, fighting against the lure of the Hollow's illusions.
Suddenly, he saw his mother again — but this time her expression was sorrowful, almost pleading. "You can be with us forever," she said, voice breaking. "You don't have to be afraid."
William froze. The longing in her eyes made his resolve falter. For a heartbeat, he considered following, stepping into the golden glow. But Robert's voice pierced the haze again:
"William! Don't listen! It's not real!"
He shook his head violently, forcing the hallucination to crumble. The image of his mother flickered, warped, then vanished, leaving only shadows.
The room seemed still again, but the pulse in his chest didn't fade. The mark throbbed faintly, a cruel reminder that the Hollow was awake — and that the third rule was no longer just words on a page.
William sat on the floor, trembling. He dared not speak, afraid that saying anything aloud might summon the Hollow's attention again. His hands shook as he pressed them against the mark, wishing he could stop the fire beneath his skin.
In the distance, the town slept, oblivious. But the Hollow was patient, feeding off every heartbeat, every fear, every misstep. And now, with both father and son caught in its web, its plans were moving faster than ever.
William closed his eyes, breathing hard, silently promising himself: I won't give in. Not yet.
But deep inside, he felt the pull of the Hollow, patient, hungry, waiting for the dream to finish what the night had begun.