The next morning, Alex awoke to a pale light filtering through the Miller house curtains. Sleep had been shallow, haunted by fragments of shadowy figures and the whispers that still clung to their mind. Every creak of the old house felt magnified, as if the walls themselves remembered the terror of the previous night. Determined to find some answers, Alex decided to explore the town further, focusing on the library—a place where facts, rather than whispers, might provide some clarity.
The Hollow Creek library was a small, brick building tucked between two aging shops. Its wooden sign swayed in the weak morning breeze, creaking faintly. As Alex pushed open the heavy doors, a musty smell of old paper and dust filled their nose. Rows of shelves lined the room, packed tightly with books, newspapers, and yellowed documents. The librarian, an elderly woman with hair the color of smoke, looked up and smiled faintly. Her eyes, though kind, carried the same guarded wariness that Alex had seen in other townspeople.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I'm Alex," they said, lowering their voice slightly. "I'm researching Hollow Creek. Specifically… the disappearances."
The librarian's face tightened, and she gave a soft, almost inaudible sigh. "Many who come here are curious about the Hollow," she said. "Curiosity is dangerous. Some stories are best left untouched."
Alex nodded, heart pounding, but pressed on. "I need to know. People are vanishing. There has to be a reason."
The librarian hesitated, then motioned toward a back section of the library. "Old town records and newspapers. They're fragile. Handle them carefully. And… be careful what you read."
Alex wandered to the corner and began flipping through brittle pages. The first few years of archived newspapers were dull: local elections, small-town events, weather reports. But then, there were the stories that made Alex's stomach tighten. Reports of missing townspeople, dating back decades. A child vanished while playing near the woods, a couple disappeared during a festival, an entire family never returned from a picnic near the Hollow. Each article was accompanied by notes from the townsfolk, warnings scrawled in margins: "Do not go near the Hollow after dark."
Alex's fingers trembled as they turned to a yellowed journal bound in cracked leather. The entries were from a resident in the early 1900s, detailing strange occurrences in Hollow Creek: shadows that moved on their own, whispers in the wind, and rituals meant to appease… something. The words were frantic, scrawled with desperation, but one line chilled Alex to the bone:
"The Hollow listens. It takes what it wants, and it is never satisfied. Do not tempt it, or you will vanish too."
A sudden chill swept through the library, raising goosebumps along Alex's arms. The whispers from the night before seemed to echo faintly in their mind, a memory of fear that felt too real. They glanced around the dusty room. The librarian had returned to her desk, eyes on Alex, and for a moment, the silence felt suffocating.
"Is there… anyone alive who knows more?" Alex asked softly.
The librarian hesitated, then leaned closer. "There's one man. Old Henry Carr. He lives on the outskirts of town. Most avoid him. They say he remembers… things that no one else dares speak of. But be careful, Alex. If you go to him, the Hollow will know."
Alex noted the name, scribbling it quickly in their notebook. "Thank you," they said, standing. The librarian gave a small nod but said nothing further.
Outside, the fog had thickened, curling around the streets like living fingers. The town seemed quiet, but the eerie weight in the air persisted. Alex felt the pull of curiosity stronger than ever. The Hollow was more than legend—it was real. And it was dangerous.
As the sun began to dip, Alex returned to the Miller house, their mind racing. They sat by the window, staring at the tree line where the Hollow began. The fog clung to the forest like a shroud, shadows stretching unnaturally. In the corner of the window, faint shapes shifted, almost human—but impossibly distorted. The whispers returned, low and insistent, circling the room like smoke.
Alex jotted down notes, trying to piece together the town's history. Every record, every diary entry pointed to the same conclusion: Hollow Creek was cursed. It fed on the town's fear, and anyone who came too close risked being claimed. But why? And what exactly was the Hollow?
That night, Alex lay awake again, listening to the house groan and settle. Shadows moved along the walls, whispering their name. They could almost hear the Hollow breathing, waiting, patient. Somewhere deep within the trees, the first hints of movement began—a shift in the fog, a ripple through the darkness.
Alex's thoughts raced. Henry Carr might have answers—or he might be a warning himself. Either way, tomorrow they would go to him, seeking truths that Hollow Creek had hidden for decades.
And as sleep finally took them, uneasy and shallow, one thought lingered in Alex's mind: the Hollow knew they were curious. And curiosity, in this town, could be deadly.