The forest loomed before them like a wall of breathless darkness. The mist clung to the trees, thick and heavy, curling through the branches like smoke from an unseen fire. Each step Robert and Sheriff Harlan took sank into the damp earth, the ground soft and unwelcoming beneath their boots.
Robert held a lantern in one hand, its faint orange glow barely piercing the fog. In the other, he gripped the old journal. Its pages rustled softly, as if alive, whispering with every motion.
"Been in these woods my whole life," Harlan muttered, scanning the trees with his shotgun raised. "Never felt it this quiet."
Robert's jaw tightened. "It's watching us."
Harlan gave him a sharp look, but he didn't disagree. The air carried that feeling — the sensation of eyes in every shadow, the whisper of breath that wasn't theirs.
The deeper they went, the thicker the fog grew. Even the sounds of their footsteps seemed to fade, swallowed by the stillness.
They reached the edge of an old clearing, overgrown and tangled with weeds. A half-collapsed well stood in the center — one of the town's oldest landmarks, now almost hidden beneath creeping ivy.
Robert stopped. The journal's pages fluttered open on their own, caught by a sudden draft that shouldn't have existed. A line stood out, written in darker ink than the rest:
> "When the Hollow breathes through the trees, follow not the silence, but the sound that should not be."
Harlan frowned. "The sound that shouldn't be?"
Before Robert could answer, a faint whisper drifted through the fog. It wasn't the wind. It was too steady. Too… human.
"Dad…"
Robert froze. The voice was small, trembling — William's voice.
"Dad, please… help me."
Harlan swore under his breath. "Don't. Don't move. You remember the rule — never follow the voice after dark."
Robert's grip on the lantern tightened. Every instinct in him screamed to run toward that sound, but he forced himself to stay rooted. The Hollow wanted him to move. It wanted to draw him in.
The whisper came again, this time closer. "Dad, it's so cold…"
The sheriff stepped closer to Robert, shotgun ready. "That ain't him. It's the Hollow. Stay with me."
Then — another sound. Not a whisper this time, but a faint dragging noise behind them. Leaves crunching softly.
They spun around, lantern light cutting through the fog — but nothing. Only empty trees, standing too still, their branches arching overhead like watching silhouettes.
Robert's heartbeat thundered in his ears. "It's toying with us."
"Yeah," Harlan murmured, voice low. "And the game just started."
The forest groaned around them, wind twisting through the branches like a sigh from something ancient. The air grew colder, the fog thicker, and the path behind them… was gone.
Robert looked down at the journal again — new words, faint and trembling, bleeding into the page as if freshly written:
> "The Hollow shifts. It feeds on hesitation."
Harlan cursed quietly, eyes scanning the mist. "So what now?"
Robert closed the book, lifting his lantern higher. "We keep moving. Toward the sound that shouldn't be."
The forest seemed to close in behind them as they walked, every step heavier than the last. And somewhere deep ahead — faint but certain — something was breathing.
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The deeper they went, the thicker the forest seemed to grow — branches crowding closer together, twisting above like a cage. Every direction looked the same. Every sound echoed wrong.
Robert's lantern flickered again. The flame shrank to a trembling pin of light.
"Damn it," Harlan muttered, shaking his head. "It's playing with the fire too."
Robert stopped suddenly. The mist in front of them was thicker — darker somehow. It pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat. And from within that shifting gray came a shape — the outline of a man stumbling forward.
"Wait," Harlan whispered, raising his gun. "Do you see that?"
Robert took a step closer, eyes narrowing. "Tom?"
The figure moved again, sluggish, unsteady, arms dangling as if they didn't quite belong to him. The closer he came, the more Robert's heart began to pound.
"Tom!" Robert called, rushing forward. "Tom, it's me—"
Harlan's arm shot out, stopping him. "Hold it. Look at him."
Robert froze.
Tom stepped into the weak circle of lantern light — but what emerged wasn't the man Robert had known. His skin was pale, almost gray, his eyes blackened around the edges. His clothes were torn, his chest rising and falling in uneven, rattling gasps.
And when he spoke, his voice wasn't his own.
"Robert…" It was a chorus, layered — Tom's voice buried beneath something older, colder, hollow. "You shouldn't have come."
Harlan raised the shotgun, but the air thickened instantly. The sound that followed was wrong — like a sigh that came from every direction at once.
The Hollow had found a vessel.
Robert's voice shook. "Tom, fight it! You can—"
Tom's body twitched violently, head jerking to the side as if two wills were tearing at each other inside. "He's gone…" the Hollow whispered through his lips. "He let me in… he wanted to see his boy again."
Robert's chest tightened. "You tricked him."
The Hollow smiled — Tom's lips splitting slightly, too wide, too strained. "I invited him."
Before they could react, the wind surged. The trees bent inward, groaning like wood in pain. From the mist behind Tom, faint voices rose — the cries of the missing children, echoing like dreams.
Robert's heart twisted. "William!"
He took a step forward, but the Hollow's borrowed hand shot out, unnaturally fast, slamming into the ground. The earth split open, a thin crack running between them like a scar.
"You cannot take them," the Hollow's many voices hissed. "The gate is open. The feast begun."
Harlan fired — the blast echoing through the forest. The shot tore through Tom's shoulder, knocking him back, but there was no blood. Only a swirl of black mist seeping from the wound, writhing like smoke.
Tom screamed, a human sound breaking through the Hollow's layers — pained, desperate, fleeting. "Robert! Run!"
Then the Hollow's voice drowned him again, guttural and furious. "He is mine!"
The mist surged, wrapping around the trees, snuffing out the lantern's light. Robert was thrown backward, hitting the cold earth hard. He scrambled to his knees, the journal slipping from his grasp. Its pages fluttered open to the last written rule — glowing faintly in the dark:
> "When the marked begin to dream, the gate is near."
The realization hit him like a knife — the dreams weren't just a warning. They were the door.
He looked up just in time to see Harlan reloading, shouting something he couldn't hear over the roar of the wind. The Hollow — still wearing Tom's form — lunged, inhumanly fast. The two men collided, the gun firing again, flash blinding through the fog.
When the light faded, Tom was on his knees, trembling. For a moment, Robert saw him — really saw him — the man he knew, eyes filled with tears.
"Save them…" Tom choked out. "Don't let it win."
Then his eyes went black again, the voice returning. "Too late."
A force rippled through the clearing, knocking both Robert and Harlan backward. The ground seemed to pulse beneath them — alive, breathing.
The Hollow's borrowed body straightened, head tilting as though listening to something far away. Then, with a sound like a sigh and a shatter, the body began to crumble — not falling apart, but dispersing, as if turning to smoke.
Within seconds, Tom was gone. Only the echo of his scream lingered.
Robert knelt where he had stood, trembling, grief and fury twisting inside him. Harlan's voice came faintly through the haze. "Robert… we have to get out of here."
Robert's hand closed around the journal. His voice was low, steady, burning. "No. Not until I bring them back."
The forest went silent again, the mist slowly thinning — as if the Hollow had withdrawn, satisfied with its demonstration.
Robert looked toward the depths of the woods, where the trees bent and shadows pooled like water. He knew now that the Hollow wasn't hiding anymore. It wanted them to come.
And he would.
Even if it meant walking straight into its mouth.