The church was nearly empty when the sheriff arrived.
The storm that had rolled in overnight still lingered, pressing the air thick with damp and silence. The old bell above the chapel hadn't rung in months, but its shadow still hung long across the wooden steps, like a wound that refused to fade.
The sheriff pushed open the door. The hinges groaned, echoing through the nave. Candles flickered along the altar, throwing long, swaying shapes across the walls.
Father Grayson was kneeling before the cross, whispering prayers under his breath. When the sheriff's boots clicked on the stone floor, the priest turned, his face pale beneath the candlelight.
"Sheriff," he said softly, standing. "You shouldn't be here at this hour."
The sheriff took off his hat, his eyes tired and sunken. "Father, I found Robert in the forest tonight. Nearly dead."
Grayson's expression darkened. "The Hollow."
The sheriff hesitated, then nodded. "He said he saw his son. Said the boy spoke to him. But when I got there… there was no one. Just the fog, and…" He swallowed. "A voice. I heard it too, Father. It sounded like a child."
The priest's grip on his rosary tightened. "It's begun, then. The Hollow's last phase."
"What the hell does that mean?" the sheriff demanded, frustration cracking his voice. "You've known things all along, haven't you? The rules, the journal — Robert told me about it. You've been hiding something."
Father Grayson turned toward the altar, lighting another candle with trembling fingers. "Not hiding. Protecting."
"Protecting who?"
"Everyone," the priest said simply.
He faced the sheriff, eyes haunted but calm. "There were once only three rules binding the Hollow — three ways it could not cross into our world. But Robert's encounter tonight proves what I feared: the Hollow is adapting. Changing. It's using Will as a vessel to bridge the last divide."
The sheriff frowned. "A vessel? You're saying that thing's inside the boy?"
"Not fully," Grayson said, shaking his head. "Not yet. But it's close. The sacrifices — the disappearances — all led to this. The Hollow doesn't just take children for hunger. It takes them for form. It needs a host strong enough to anchor it here."
The sheriff took a shaky breath. "And Will fits that description."
The priest nodded grimly. "A boy tied by blood, grief, and love — all things the Hollow feeds upon."
Silence hung between them for a long moment. Rain began to fall outside, light but steady, pattering against the stained glass.
The sheriff finally spoke, voice low. "How do we stop it?"
Father Grayson looked up at the crucifix, his eyes reflecting the candle's flame. "The same way we always have — faith, sacrifice, and knowledge. But this time…" He exhaled slowly. "It may not be enough."
The sheriff's jaw tightened. "Then we find another way. I'm not letting that boy die. And I'm sure as hell not letting that thing walk free."
The priest studied him quietly, then gave a slow, weary nod. "Then we start tonight. Bring Robert. The Hollow's tether is weakening — but if we wait too long, it won't need to follow rules at all."
As the sheriff turned to leave, the church's candles flickered violently. For a heartbeat, both men heard it — faint, echoing through the rafters.
> A child's laughter.
The priest whispered a prayer under his breath. The sheriff didn't look back
_____________________________
The storm deepened as the sheriff and Father Grayson stood near the altar, their shadows stretching long and thin against the candlelit walls.
"I'll go bring Robert," the sheriff said finally, adjusting his hat. "You stay here. If that thing shows itself, don't try to face it alone."
The priest gave a weary nod. "Go quickly, Sheriff. The Hollow doesn't linger far from its tether."
The sheriff started toward the door, the wooden boards creaking under his boots. But as his hand touched the handle, a low hum filled the air — faint, like wind passing through a hollow reed. The candles flickered, and the air grew cold.
Father Grayson turned sharply. "Wait—"
The sheriff swayed. His body stiffened for a moment, eyes going wide.
"Sheriff?" Grayson's voice cracked.
The sheriff blinked, confused. The world around him tilted, sound fading into a slow, distant echo. He tried to speak, but his lips barely moved.
Then — silence.
His body went limp. The hat slipped from his grasp as he fell to the floor, landing softly, his chest still rising and falling in a deep, unnatural sleep.
Father Grayson rushed to him, kneeling beside the man. His pulse was steady but slow, as though he'd sunk into a dream he couldn't wake from.
A whisper threaded through the air.
> "He won't wake until I'm done."
The priest froze. The voice came from the shadows near the altar — soft, melodic, and heartbreakingly familiar.
He turned slowly.
There, standing in the glow of the candles, was Will.
His clothes were damp, his hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes — they gleamed faintly, wrong somehow. The boy smiled faintly, tilting his head.
"Father," he said softly. "I came back."
Grayson's breath caught in his throat. "Will…" He rose slowly, clutching the rosary in his hand. "My child, where is your father? How did you—"
The boy stepped closer, the candlelight shifting across his face. His voice trembled — or pretended to. "He couldn't find me. I tried calling for him… but he wouldn't listen."
The priest's heart twisted with pity, but unease gnawed at him. "That's not true. Your father has searched for you every night."
Will smiled wider now — too wide. The flicker of light caught his teeth, the curve of his grin twisting just slightly wrong.
"Has he?" the boy asked. "Then why did he stop calling my name?"
Grayson stepped back, clutching the rosary tighter. "You're not him."
The boy's laughter came softly, echoing through the church like wind through hollow wood. "Oh, Father… you always see too soon."
The air rippled. The smile vanished.
Will's eyes turned black — not dark, but empty, swallowing the candlelight. Shadows bled outward from his bare feet, spreading like ink across the stone floor.
The priest raised his hand, voice trembling but firm. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy—"
The candles blew out.
The voice that answered was layered — one whispering beneath another, hundreds of faint murmurs beneath a single tone.
> "You built your walls of faith, priest… but your God doesn't walk here anymore."
Father Grayson's cross burned hot in his palm. He gritted his teeth. "You cannot take him."
The shadow that wore Will's face smiled again. "Take him? Oh no. He's already mine. I only came to thank you for keeping him ready."
"Ready?" Grayson whispered.
The Hollow — through Will — tilted his head. "You prayed for his safety. You whispered his name into your empty heaven. Every prayer you gave was a thread that bound him tighter to me."
The priest's resolve faltered for the briefest moment. Guilt clawed up his chest — doubt, the Hollow's favorite poison.
"Stop it," he hissed.
The boy stepped closer, shadows crawling up the cross like ink on paper. "Tell me, Father… how long did you beg before your God stopped answering?"
Grayson's voice broke. "You will not win."
The Hollow leaned forward, its borrowed face inches away. "I already have."
The church groaned. The stained glass above the altar spiderwebbed and cracked, shards raining down like falling stars. Grayson fell to his knees, clutching his chest as the air pressed around him, heavy and suffocating.
Then — just as suddenly — the pressure lifted. The darkness receded.
When the candles reignited, Will was gone. The church was empty again, save for Father Grayson on the floor and the sheriff, still slumped in deep sleep near the door.
The priest's hands trembled as he rose. "Lord…" he whispered. "Forgive me. It's inside the boy. It's almost free."
He turned to the sheriff, who was beginning to stir, blinking groggily.
"What… what happened?" the sheriff muttered, rubbing his head.
Grayson looked toward the shattered glass, the cold wind rushing through the hole. "We're running out of time."