The forest was wrong.
The moment Robert and the sheriff stepped past the treeline, the air thickened — colder, heavier, charged with something that hummed beneath the earth. Every sound was muffled: no insects, no wind, no night birds. Only the crunch of their boots and the faint throb of something deeper, like a heartbeat beneath the soil.
Robert's flashlight cut through the mist in weak, trembling arcs. "We should've come sooner," he whispered.
The sheriff raised his revolver, his jaw set tight. "We're here now. Stay sharp."
As they moved deeper, the fog began to swirl — not drifting, but moving, as if something unseen was breathing it in and out. The trees bent ever so slightly toward the center of the forest. Toward The Hollow.
Then came the sound. A hum at first. Then a low, rhythmic chanting — dozens of voices, whispering in perfect unison. The words made no sense, yet their meaning seeped into the mind like oil into water.
Robert froze. He recognized one of those voices.
Will.
"God… no." He broke into a run, ignoring the sheriff's shout behind him. Branches tore at his sleeves, mud sucking at his boots, but he didn't stop until he reached the clearing.
And there it was.
The Hollow.
It wasn't just a pit now. The ground had split wide open, a circular wound in the forest, its edges glowing faintly with veins of black light. Around it, the children stood in a perfect ring — eyes glazed, faces pale, whispering the same phrase over and over.
And at the center stood Will.
He wasn't bound. He wasn't struggling. He was still. His eyes were open, glowing faintly, and something dark pulsed just beneath his skin. The air around him warped, bending light as though the world itself rejected what was happening.
Robert's scream tore through the clearing. "WILL!"
Will turned his head slowly, his expression calm — almost serene. "Father," he said, voice layered, deeper than his own. "You came."
Robert staggered forward, his chest heaving. "What did it do to you?"
The sheriff appeared beside him, gun raised, his voice shaking. "Robert… look."
The pit was no longer empty. A form was rising from it — smoke and flesh twisting together, limbs forming from the dark, eyes opening like cracks of fire in the mist.
The sheriff's hand trembled. "It's starting… the sacrifice."
Robert lunged toward his son, but the ground buckled, forcing him back. The Hollow's voice rippled through the clearing, ancient and soft.
> "One more to bridge the two worlds… one who bears both fear and blood."
Robert's breath caught.
It had never wanted Tom.
It had wanted Will — the boy born under the Hollow's shadow, the son of the man who'd broken the rules, the one who'd heard its name and survived.
Will blinked slowly, his lips curling into a faint, eerie smile. "It's beautiful here," he murmured. "I can see everything."
The sheriff grabbed Robert's arm. "We have to move! Now!"
But Robert couldn't. His body refused to leave. The truth burned too deep. The Hollow wasn't just feeding anymore. It was becoming, and it had chosen his son as the body to wear.
The chanting grew louder. The pit blazed brighter. The forest seemed to lean inward.
And in the heart of it all, Will raised his head, his voice now carrying the weight of two beings.
> "The vessel is ready."