The forest was quiet — too quiet. Not even the owls dared to call. Robert's lantern flickered weakly against the mist, its dim light swallowed by the shadows that moved just beyond reach.
"Tom!" he shouted, his voice trembling through the fog. "Where are you?"
No answer. Only the slow rustle of branches, like something exhaling above him.
He pushed deeper into the trees, boots sinking into damp soil. Every step sounded wrong — like the earth was hollow beneath. He could feel the forest breathing, as if it were alive.
Then came the whisper.
Soft. Familiar.
> "Dad…"
Robert froze mid-step. His throat tightened. "Will?"
The voice came again, closer this time, slipping through the mist like smoke.
> "You came for me…"
His pulse quickened. "Will! Where are you, son?"
The light from his lantern flared, illuminating a small figure standing just ahead — motionless, pale, eyes lowered. Robert's breath caught in his chest.
"Will…" he whispered, moving forward.
The boy lifted his head slowly. His eyes — they were the same soft brown Robert had known since he was born, but there was something else behind them now. Something too still. Too knowing.
"You shouldn't be here," the boy said softly.
Robert's hand trembled. "I came to bring you home."
A faint smile curved across Will's lips, wrong and cold. "Home?" he repeated, tilting his head. "You mean the same home you were never in? The one you left every night while Mom cried?"
Robert's heart stopped. "What are you talking about?"
Will — or whatever wore his shape — took a step closer. "You said you'd protect us. But you didn't protect her. You didn't protect me."
Robert shook his head, tears forming. "That's not true. I— I tried—"
The Hollow's voice deepened through the boy's throat, echoing and layered, as if a thousand whispers spoke through him.
> "You tried."
"You failed."
"Just like you failed them all."
Robert stumbled back, clutching his head as the voices rose around him — echoes of pain, regret, loss. He saw flashes in the mist: the faces of the missing children, their hollowed eyes accusing.
> "You promised to find us."
"You let us die."
"You let him take us."
"Stop!" Robert shouted, dropping the lantern. It shattered against a rock, plunging everything into darkness.
From the blackness, Will's voice returned — soft again, innocent. "You could've saved me, Dad. You just had to be there."
Robert fell to his knees. "Please," he begged, voice breaking. "Please, not you. Don't do this to me."
The figure crouched before him, the Hollow smiling through his son's face. Its eyes glowed faintly red, veins blackening beneath the skin.
"Why do you fight it?" the Hollow whispered. "You've already lost. You've lost your wife. Your son. Your friend. Even your faith."
The ground beneath them pulsed, shadows crawling up the roots like veins.
"You are empty, Robert. Hollow. Just like me."
Robert lifted his head, trembling, tears streaking down his dirt-stained face. "No," he whispered. "You're wrong."
The Hollow leaned closer, its cold breath brushing his ear. "Then prove it."
A faint light appeared in the distance — a soft, trembling glow that could've been the sheriff's lantern, or something else entirely.
Robert's gaze flicked toward it, hope flickering for the first time — but when he turned back, the boy was gone.
Only the sound of laughter lingered.
Light, childlike, cruel.
> "You'll never find me again, Dad."
Robert was alone in the dark. The fog thickened, swallowing his cries as he called his son's name again and again — until his voice broke, and the forest took the rest.
_____________________________
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Voice in the Mist
The forest was quiet — too quiet. Not even the owls dared to call. Robert's lantern flickered weakly against the mist, its dim light swallowed by the shadows that moved just beyond reach.
"Tom!" he shouted, his voice trembling through the fog. "Where are you?"
No answer. Only the slow rustle of branches, like something exhaling above him.
He pushed deeper into the trees, boots sinking into damp soil. Every step sounded wrong — like the earth was hollow beneath. He could feel the forest breathing, as if it were alive.
Then came the whisper.
Soft. Familiar.
> "Dad…"
Robert froze mid-step. His throat tightened. "Will?"
The voice came again, closer this time, slipping through the mist like smoke.
> "You came for me…"
His pulse quickened. "Will! Where are you, son?"
The light from his lantern flared, illuminating a small figure standing just ahead — motionless, pale, eyes lowered. Robert's breath caught in his chest.
"Will…" he whispered, moving forward.
The boy lifted his head slowly. His eyes — they were the same soft brown Robert had known since he was born, but there was something else behind them now. Something too still. Too knowing.
"You shouldn't be here," the boy said softly.
Robert's hand trembled. "I came to bring you home."
A faint smile curved across Will's lips, wrong and cold. "Home?" he repeated, tilting his head. "You mean the same home you were never in? The one you left every night while Mom cried?"
Robert's heart stopped. "What are you talking about?"
Will — or whatever wore his shape — took a step closer. "You said you'd protect us. But you didn't protect her. You didn't protect me."
Robert shook his head, tears forming. "That's not true. I— I tried—"
The Hollow's voice deepened through the boy's throat, echoing and layered, as if a thousand whispers spoke through him.
> "You tried."
"You failed."
"Just like you failed them all."
Robert stumbled back, clutching his head as the voices rose around him — echoes of pain, regret, loss. He saw flashes in the mist: the faces of the missing children, their hollowed eyes accusing.
> "You promised to find us."
"You let us die."
"You let him take us."
"Stop!" Robert shouted, dropping the lantern. It shattered against a rock, plunging everything into darkness.
From the blackness, Will's voice returned — soft again, innocent. "You could've saved me, Dad. You just had to be there."
Robert fell to his knees. "Please," he begged, voice breaking. "Please, not you. Don't do this to me."
The figure crouched before him, the Hollow smiling through his son's face. Its eyes glowed faintly red, veins blackening beneath the skin.
"Why do you fight it?" the Hollow whispered. "You've already lost. You've lost your wife. Your son. Your friend. Even your faith."
The ground beneath them pulsed, shadows crawling up the roots like veins.
"You are empty, Robert. Hollow. Just like me."
Robert lifted his head, trembling, tears streaking down his dirt-stained face. "No," he whispered. "You're wrong."
The Hollow leaned closer, its cold breath brushing his ear. "Then prove it."
A faint light appeared in the distance — a soft, trembling glow that could've been the sheriff's lantern, or something else entirely.
Robert's gaze flicked toward it, hope flickering for the first time — but when he turned back, the boy was gone.
Only the sound of laughter lingered.
Light, childlike, cruel.
> "You'll never find me again, Dad."
Robert was alone in the dark. The fog thickened, swallowing his cries as he called his son's name again and again — until his voice broke, and the forest took the rest.