The morning light crept slow and pale through the curtains.
For a long time, Robert didn't move. His eyes stayed half-open, fixed on the faint pattern the sun drew across the ceiling. He didn't remember falling asleep — only the forest, the voice, the sight of Will standing there, smiling with something cold behind his eyes.
He blinked, trying to separate memory from dream. But the weight in his chest told him it had been neither.
A soft breeze passed through the open window, carrying the scent of damp earth. The sound of birds should have been comforting, but even they sang differently — their notes thin and distant, like echoes from another place.
Robert pushed himself up slowly, his muscles stiff and sore. His head throbbed with a dull ache. Someone had cleaned the dirt from his face; a bandage covered a scrape near his temple. He was in his bed — but his boots were gone, and the floor near the doorway still bore a trail of muddy footprints leading inward.
His own.
He frowned, trying to piece the night together. He remembered chasing a voice through the fog, calling Will's name until his throat burned… then the figure that looked like his son stepping from the mist.
The words came back in fragments:
> "You failed them all…"
"I am what you left behind."
"Will isn't yours anymore."
Robert's breathing quickened. He pressed his palms to his eyes, shaking his head. "No," he whispered. "No, that wasn't real."
But part of him knew better.
A creak from the hallway made him tense. His gaze shot to the door — half-open, light spilling through. He heard faint footsteps, slow and uneven.
"Will?" he called, his voice rough.
No answer.
He swung his legs off the bed, his feet hitting the cold wooden floor. Each step felt heavier than the last as he moved toward the hall.
The air changed there — cooler, thicker. The photographs on the wall seemed slightly crooked, their glass catching the light at strange angles. He paused beside one: a picture of him, his wife, and Will, taken years ago.
Someone had drawn a faint line across the wife's face. Not deep enough to cut the photo — just enough to blur her smile.
Robert's stomach turned. "Who did this?"
The floor creaked again, this time from the kitchen.
He moved carefully, hand brushing against the wall as if it could steady him. When he reached the doorway, he stopped.
The kitchen was empty — almost too empty. The chairs were neatly tucked in, the dishes washed, the morning light spilling across the table like nothing had ever been wrong.
Except for one thing.
A single glass of milk sat in the center of the table, untouched, faint condensation sliding down its side. Beside it was a small handprint — still wet, still fresh.
Robert's knees nearly gave out. He grabbed the back of a chair, knuckles white. "Will…" he whispered.
The glass trembled slightly — just once — then stilled.
The front door burst open.
"Robert!"
He spun around. Sheriff Dyer stood in the doorway, breathless, hat in hand, rain still dripping from his coat. Behind him, Father Grayson entered, pale and grim.
Robert's relief was instant and fierce. "You found him?" he asked, desperate. "Please tell me you found my boy."
The two men exchanged a glance.
"Sit down, Robert," the priest said quietly.
Robert shook his head. "No. No more waiting, no more riddles. Just tell me where he is!"
The sheriff took a step forward, lowering his voice. "Robert… we didn't find Will."
The words hit harder than any blow.
"But we saw him," Father Grayson added. "Or rather, what's left of him."
Robert's chest tightened. He looked from one to the other, not understanding. "What are you saying?"
The priest stepped closer, his rosary swinging faintly in his hand. "The Hollow is no longer bound by its rules. It's found a vessel — your son. What you saw in the forest wasn't a dream."
Robert backed away, shaking his head. "No… no, that's not possible. You said it couldn't cross, you said—"
"I said it couldn't," Grayson interrupted gently. "Until now. The sacrifices changed that. The Hollow used them to bridge the divide. It's inside Will now — not fully, but enough to wear his face, use his voice."
Robert's voice cracked. "You're telling me my son is gone?"
The priest hesitated. "No. I'm telling you he's fighting. But every hour he loses more of himself."
Robert slumped into a chair, his hands trembling violently. "I heard him last night," he said hoarsely. "He said I failed him. He said… he wasn't mine anymore."
The sheriff put a hand on his shoulder. "That wasn't Will talking, Robert. It was the Hollow. It knows how to break people."
Robert's eyes filled with tears he couldn't stop. "Then what do I do? How do I bring him back?"
The priest looked toward the window. The morning light had dimmed again, the sky outside turning the color of ash. "We go where it all began," he said quietly. "To the Hollow itself. Before it finishes the transformation."
Robert looked up at him, his grief hardening into something sharp. "Then we go tonight."
Grayson met his gaze — and for the first time, didn't argue.
The sheriff nodded. "Then we finish this."
As they turned to leave, Robert glanced once more at the table. The glass of milk was gone. Only a faint ring of moisture remained — and a whisper, low and almost tender, brushed the edge of his hearing.
> "You always wake up too late, Father…"
He froze, every muscle tensing. But when he looked again, the kitchen was empty.
_____________________________
By midday, the sky had turned a strange, bruised gray. No birds sang now. The air hung heavy, carrying a faint metallic scent — the smell of rust and rain and something fouler beneath.
Robert, the sheriff, and Father Grayson walked in silence down the dirt road that led toward the old infirmary where the rescued children lay. The town looked different somehow — dimmer, warped around the edges, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Every step Robert took felt slower than the last. His mind throbbed with exhaustion and memory, but one thought pushed him forward: Will was still out there.
The sheriff stopped first. "Do you hear that?"
A faint dripping sound filled the air — not rain, but something thicker. It came from the hedges, the trees, the gardens that lined the street.
Father Grayson knelt beside a patch of flowers growing near the walkway. Their petals were wilted, trembling as if in pain. From the stems seeped a dark, viscous red liquid that pooled into the soil.
"Dear God…" the priest whispered. "It's begun."
The sheriff took a step back, wiping a splatter off his sleeve. "What the hell— Is that blood?"
"It's life," Grayson murmured, standing slowly. "The Hollow feeds on life. It's twisting the roots of the world to sustain itself. The closer it comes to manifesting, the more it drains everything else."
Robert stared at the ground, where the red seeped into the earth, turning it darker, slicker. "So this is what it looks like… when it wins."
The priest's face hardened. "Not yet."
They moved faster now, their boots squelching through the crimson-muddied road until the infirmary came into view — the old town clinic, its roof sagging and walls leaning like tired bones.
Inside, the air was thick and cold. Nurses moved silently between the rows of beds where the rescued children lay, all pale and still. The sound of the dripping outside continued here too, faint but constant, like a heartbeat in the walls.
One nurse turned as they entered, her face drawn and pale. "They're all the same," she whispered. "Breathing… but not waking. We've tried everything."
Robert approached one of the beds — Ethan's. The boy's small chest rose and fell slowly, his lips colorless. Robert brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, whispering, "Hang on, son. We're going to fix this."
The priest's attention shifted to the window. Outside, the trees seemed to move in rhythm, their branches bending and twitching without wind. From the soil beneath them, the bleeding continued — thicker now, pulsing.
He turned to the sheriff, his voice grim. "It's feeding off their silence."
"What?"
"The children," Grayson said. "It's using their dreams — their stillness — to draw power. Every moment they sleep, the Hollow grows stronger."
Robert clenched his fists. "Then we wake them."
Grayson shook his head. "If you wake them too soon, it could take their minds completely. We need to sever the tether first."
"How?"
The priest hesitated. "By facing it directly."
The sheriff frowned. "You mean going into the forest again."
Grayson nodded. "To the Hollow itself. It's no longer just beneath the ground — it's everywhere. But its heart still lies where it was born. We have to find it before it finishes binding itself to Will."
Robert's jaw tightened. "Then we go now."
Before the priest could answer, a loud crash came from outside — a shout, then screams. The three men rushed to the doorway.
Across the street, townsfolk had gathered, some pointing, others crying out. The ground near the square had split open, a long jagged wound stretching through the cobblestones. From it, dark red liquid bubbled up, seeping between the cracks like blood from a fresh cut.
One man fell to his knees, shouting, "It's the end! God save us!"
The sheriff pushed through the crowd, shouting for calm, but panic had already taken hold. The air was thick with the smell of iron. The sky above the town darkened to near-night, though the clock tower read barely noon.
Robert stood still, staring at the bleeding ground. His throat was dry, his heart heavy. "It's spreading faster than we thought."
Father Grayson whispered a prayer under his breath, voice trembling. "It's not just the earth anymore… it's the town's soul."
Thunder rumbled low, deep in the distance — not from clouds, but from beneath. The ground shuddered once, faintly, as if something vast shifted just below the surface.
The priest turned to Robert. "We have to go. Tonight."
Robert nodded once, his eyes still fixed on the horizon where the forest loomed, darker than ever. "Then tonight," he said quietly. "We end this."