The church bells tolled faintly in the distance, their echoes carrying through the mist that hung low over Hollow Creek. Robert's boots scraped the cobblestone as he hurried up the narrow path toward the old chapel — the only place in town that still felt untouched by the creeping darkness.
Inside, candles burned weakly along the altar. The scent of wax and old wood filled the air. Father Caleb stood there, a man who had seen too much and understood too little, his hands folded tightly as if he could still pray the evil away.
"Father," Robert began, breathless. "It's happening again. The Hollow… it took my son. And Tom. He's gone too."
The priest's eyes lifted slowly. For a moment, he said nothing — then he exhaled a weary sigh. "I feared this day would come."
Robert's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Father Caleb stepped closer, lowering his voice. "For generations, the Hollow has followed its laws — cruel, but consistent. It took only the young, those untouched by sin. It never crossed into the realm of adults."
He looked away, voice heavy. "But if Tom is gone… then it's changing. The rules no longer hold."
Robert's grip on the journal tightened. "Changing? You mean it's rewriting its own damn rules?"
The priest nodded grimly. "When a curse evolves, it means it's feeding — adapting. Something has strengthened it. Perhaps the balance was broken long ago… perhaps the sacrifices were never meant to stop."
Robert stepped closer to the altar, scanning the flickering candlelight across the journal pages. "Then tell me, Father. How do we stop it?"
Father Caleb hesitated, the candlelight trembling in his eyes. "You can't stop what was born from fear, Robert. You can only starve it. The Hollow feeds on despair, confusion… on broken faith." He paused, lowering his voice. "If it's changing, it means it's almost full."
A chill swept through Robert. He thought of William, of Tom, of the children trapped beneath the earth. "Full of what?" he whispered.
The priest's reply was barely audible. "Souls."
Robert's heart thudded hard in his chest. The Hollow wasn't simply taking — it was transforming. And if it could change its rules once, it could do so again.
He closed the journal, determination hardening in his eyes. "Then I'll change the rules too."
Father Caleb frowned. "Robert, don't—"
But Robert was already walking toward the chapel door. "If it wants to feed, I'll make sure it chokes."
The bells tolled again, echoing into the mist. And somewhere deep beneath the forest, the Hollow listened — its whispers curling like smoke.
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The heavy chapel door creaked open as Robert stepped out into the gray morning. The mist clung to him like breath from the dead, cold and damp, seeping through his coat. Every toll of the bell behind him sounded more like a warning than a call to prayer.
He moved quickly down the empty street toward the sheriff's office. The town was silent — too silent. Not a window opened, not a curtain stirred. Hollow Creek had begun to hold its breath.
When he pushed open the sheriff's door, the smell of burnt coffee and old paper met him. Sheriff Harlan looked up from his desk, the exhaustion in his eyes matching Robert's.
"Robert," he said slowly, "you shouldn't be out. Folks are saying the Hollow's stirring again. You've heard the screams too?"
Robert didn't waste time. "It took my son, Harlan. And Tom. Both gone."
The sheriff stiffened. "Tom?"
"His whole family's a wreck. He vanished last night. That means it's not just after children anymore."
Harlan rubbed his temples, muttering something under his breath. "Then Father Caleb was right."
Robert slammed the old journal on the desk. "I need to know everything this town ever wrote down about it. Every missing person, every deal, every rule. There's something I'm missing — something it's hiding from us."
The sheriff hesitated, then stood and went to a locked cabinet in the corner. From the dust-covered shelf, he pulled out a faded ledger — the town's oldest record, bound in cracked leather.
"This here," Harlan said, setting it down beside the journal, "was kept by the first sheriff of Hollow Creek. He wrote about the Hollow like it was a living thing… not a curse, not a spirit — something older. Something that learns."
Robert leaned closer. The pages were yellowed, ink faded, but the words were legible enough to chill the blood.
> "The Hollow shifts when hunger grows. The rules protect us only so long as it is fed. Once hunger turns to wrath, the laws it kept become our undoing."
Robert looked up sharply. "So if it's changing the rules…"
"…then it's starving," Harlan finished grimly.
Robert exhaled, realizing the truth — the Hollow wasn't simply taking; it was consuming faster, breaking boundaries because fear alone was no longer enough.
He turned toward the door. "Then it's time we stop feeding it."
The sheriff frowned. "You plan on going into that forest, don't you?"
Robert's voice was steady, eyes dark with resolve. "I'm done hiding behind prayers and journals. It has my boy."
Harlan hesitated only a moment before grabbing his coat and shotgun. "Then you're not going alone."
The two men stepped into the thickening mist, the trees in the distance bending like silent witnesses.
Somewhere deep in those woods, the Hollow stirred — aware, waiting, hungry.