The morning air in Hollow Creek was unusually still. Alex stepped outside, notebook in hand, determined to track anything unusual that might hint at the Hollow's nature. The fog clung low to the streets, curling around lampposts and abandoned sidewalks, making the town feel smaller, tighter, like it was pressing in on them. Every shadow seemed to move when Alex blinked, stretching and twisting unnaturally.
As they walked toward the edge of town, where the forest began to rise and the Hollow truly started, Alex noticed something strange on the ground: footprints in the dirt. But they weren't human. The prints were elongated, with claw-like impressions at the tips. They weren't old—the mud around them was damp, as if made only hours ago. Alex crouched to inspect them, tracing the unusual patterns with their fingers. The direction of the tracks led into the forest.
A cold wind whispered through the trees, and Alex shivered. It was almost as if the Hollow itself had left a warning. Pulling their jacket tighter, they turned back toward the street—but then froze. On a nearby tree, etched into the bark, were symbols they had never seen before: jagged lines curling in impossible loops, almost like a language, or a map. They traced the symbols with a trembling finger. The air around them seemed heavier, thicker, pressing against their chest.
The townspeople were silent. A few faces peeked from windows, watching Alex's movements with a strange mixture of curiosity and fear, but no one approached. Their warnings from earlier—"Do not wander after dark", "Curiosity can be deadly"—echoed in Alex's mind. Every step toward the forest felt like a challenge, and every shadow along the road seemed to mock their determination.
Returning to the Miller house, Alex tried to shake off the unease. But the house itself seemed different today. Shadows clung to corners more aggressively, stretching across the floorboards. The photographs on the walls—the smiling families—felt almost alive, their eyes following Alex with a subtle, sinister movement. Even the grandfather clock ticked louder than usual, each beat reverberating through the old wood like a warning drum.
By late afternoon, Alex had made a small discovery: some residents left small, carved talismans on doorsteps. At first glance, they looked like mere trinkets, but the closer Alex examined them, the more they realized they matched the strange symbols etched in the trees. It was as if the town itself was marked, warded, or trapped by the Hollow, a network of subtle warnings for anyone who knew how to read them.
That evening, Alex returned to the window, staring toward the forest's edge. The fog was thicker now, curling into unnatural shapes. And there, in the mist, movement. Just a flicker—something slinking between the trees, too dark to be a person, too purposeful to be an animal. Alex pressed their hands to the glass, heart hammering. The shadows seemed to recoil when caught in the weak glow of the streetlamp, as if aware of being observed.
Later, inside the house, another subtle omen appeared. A framed photograph on the mantle, previously of the Miller family in happier times, was now slightly askew. Alex swore the faces in the picture had shifted, their smiles more strained, their eyes darker, almost knowing. It was as if the Hollow itself had entered the room, leaving traces of its presence behind.
Sleep was impossible that night. Every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the house, every distant whisper from the trees kept Alex awake. The soft, melodic calls of the Hollow had returned, circling their mind: indistinct words, impossible to understand, yet undeniably targeting them. And then came a new sound—a soft scratching on the windowsill, deliberate, slow, as though something wanted entry.
Alex's pulse raced. The Hollow was no longer content with whispers. It was signaling, marking, observing. Every sign, every omen, every unnatural shadow screamed the same warning: it knew they were here, and it was testing them.
By dawn, Alex finally succumbed to exhaustion, curling into the corner of their bed. But the shadows lingered even in sleep, whispering their name in endless repetition. Even with eyes closed, the shapes moved—slithering, twisting, patient. And as the first pale light crept through the curtains, Alex knew one terrifying truth: the Hollow did not simply wait. It anticipated, it planned, and it would not forget the curiosity that had drawn them here.
Tomorrow, they would go to Henry Carr. And Alex realized with chilling clarity: the signs and omens were not merely warnings—they were the Hollow's invitation.