The night had gone quiet again, but it wasn't the quiet of peace.
It was the hush before something terrible moves.
Robert and the sheriff walked side by side down the long, cracked road leading to Tom's house. The wind blew dry leaves across the path, carrying faint murmurs that sounded like whispers just beneath hearing. The air felt heavy, thick with that same faint copper scent that had begun to follow them everywhere.
Tom's house sat at the end of the lane, two stories of fading paint and dark windows. The curtains were drawn, but a dull, flickering light glowed inside — candlelight, unsteady, swaying with the draft.
Robert paused at the gate. "It feels wrong," he murmured.
The sheriff nodded, hand resting on his holster. "The whole town feels wrong. But we need answers, and she's the only one who might have them."
They pushed open the gate, the rusty hinges squealing in protest. The sound echoed unnaturally long into the distance.
When Robert knocked, it wasn't a door that opened but a crack — just wide enough for Mrs. Harlow, Tom's wife, to peer out. Her eyes were rimmed red, her face pale as parchment.
"Robert?" she whispered. "Sheriff? What… what's happened?"
Robert forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We were hoping you could tell us, Anna. We need to know if you've heard from Tom."
She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. "He's… he's not here."
"Has he come home at all since the night in the woods?" the sheriff asked.
Her lips trembled. "Sometimes… I think I hear him."
Robert exchanged a look with the sheriff. "Hear him?"
She opened the door wider now, enough for them to see the dim interior. The house smelled faintly of burnt wax and damp wood. Candles lined the mantle, all half-melted. On the kitchen table sat a small collection of things — Tom's hat, a photo of their family, a Bible opened to a random page.
Anna wrung her hands, her eyes darting around the room as though afraid of being overheard. "At night… I hear footsteps. Not outside — inside. They walk down the hall, stop outside the children's room, then vanish."
The sheriff's expression darkened. "You sure it isn't just the wind, ma'am?"
She looked up sharply. "Do you think I don't know the sound of my husband's steps, Sheriff?"
Robert stepped closer. "What else have you noticed?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The girls… they've started talking to someone. In their sleep. They call him Daddy."
Robert felt the chill crawl down his spine. "Where are they now?"
Anna turned her head toward the staircase. "Upstairs. I keep them close. They say he visits them every night… standing in the corner of their room."
The sheriff moved toward the steps, hand already on his gun. "Stay here."
But Anna grabbed his arm suddenly, her grip cold and desperate. "Please… if you go up there, don't talk to him. Don't answer, no matter what he says."
The warning was so sharp it froze both men mid-step.
Robert frowned. "Anna… why would you say that?"
Tears filled her eyes. "Because last night, he spoke with my voice. And when I answered, I couldn't move for hours. It's like he was inside me — looking through my eyes."
The sheriff muttered a curse under his breath. "He's reaching through her."
Robert's jaw tightened. "He's trying to use the family to stay anchored."
As they climbed the stairs, each step creaked like a groan. The air grew thicker — warmer, almost suffocating. At the end of the hall, the door to the children's room was half open, light flickering from within.
The sheriff pushed the door slowly.
Inside, the two girls were asleep, tucked under their blankets. The window was wide open, though the night outside was still. A faint red glow spilled in through the curtains, pulsing like breath.
Robert's gaze moved to the far corner — and froze.
A shadow stood there, faint and human-shaped, as if drawn out of the darkness itself. It didn't move, but when the candlelight flickered, it almost looked like it smiled.
"Tom…" Robert whispered before he could stop himself.
The figure twitched.
The sheriff hissed, "Don't—"
But it was too late. The shadow straightened, its head turning slowly toward them. When it spoke, the voice was unmistakable — Tom's voice, soft, trembling, full of sorrow.
"Robert… why did you leave me there?"
Robert's heart clenched. "That's not you," he said, backing away. "That's not—"
"Don't you remember?" the voice whispered again, breaking into sobs. "You promised me… you'd never let me face it alone."
The sheriff raised his weapon, aiming low. "Robert, move."
But the figure didn't attack. It only took one slow step forward, the air rippling around it like heat. The girls stirred in their beds, whimpering softly.
"Tell Anna I'm sorry," it whispered. "I tried to keep it out… but it's in me now."
The room trembled, a deep vibration humming through the walls. Every candle went out at once, plunging them into near darkness — save for that faint red pulse from the window.
When the light flared again, the shadow was gone.
Only a faint whisper lingered, curling through the air:
"He's coming home soon."
Anna screamed downstairs.
Robert and the sheriff bolted down the stairs, only to find the candles on the table melted completely — and the open Bible now covered in dark red handprints.
The sheriff looked around, tense. "He's close. The Hollow's not just using him — it's pulling him back."
Robert's voice trembled. "Then we're running out of time."
Outside, the wind picked up again, carrying a deep, rumbling sound that wasn't thunder. It came from the direction of the forest — like the earth itself was calling them back.
And far away, beneath that sound, Robert could swear he heard his son's voice whisper:
"Hurry, Dad… before he finishes."
____________________________
The church had never felt so cold.
Not from wind or weather — but from something deeper, something that seemed to seep from the stone itself.
Father Elias knelt at the altar, the wooden pews around him swallowed in darkness. The candles had long burned low, their wicks whispering faintly, sending trails of smoke that curled like hands reaching upward.
He had been there for hours, his knees aching, lips dry from prayer.
Words no longer came easily.
"Lord," he whispered, voice cracking, "you sent me here to serve, not to witness this. Not to see Your light swallowed whole."
The silence that followed was vast — not empty, but listening.
He looked up at the crucifix. Christ's eyes seemed to follow him in the flickering light, that same expression of suffering he'd stared at a thousand times before. But tonight, it felt heavier… almost accusing.
Elias bowed his head again. "I don't know how to fight something that doesn't die. That doesn't bleed. That mocks faith by twisting it."
He opened the old Bible before him. Pages were damp from sweat and tears. He turned through the familiar verses, fingers trembling — Psalms, Ephesians, Revelations — but every word seemed distant, hollow echoes of a faith struggling to breathe.
The church groaned in the wind. Somewhere in the rafters, a sound like whispering moved — soft, sinuous, as though something was crawling through the dark spaces above.
Elias froze, staring upward.
"Not here," he whispered. "You don't belong here."
The whisper came again, a voice without breath.
"Neither do you."
He clenched the crucifix around his neck and stood. "In the name of Christ, leave this house!"
The candles flared suddenly, all at once — burning twice as bright, their flames tall and red at the edges. The air shimmered, and the smell of iron filled his nostrils.
For a moment, he thought he saw it — a shadow forming in the shape of a man near the altar. But it wasn't human. It wavered like smoke, its eyes hollow pits of fire.
Elias held the crucifix high, forcing the tremor from his voice. "You will not have them! You will not take this town!"
The shadow tilted its head, the faint outline of a grin spreading across the darkness.
"We already have," it whispered. "We only wait for the bridge to open."
And then it was gone — like breath snuffed out.
The priest dropped to his knees, gasping. The candles flickered low again, returning to their weak, golden glow.
He pressed a trembling hand over his heart. "Bridge…" he muttered. "A bridge between worlds…"
He turned quickly, searching through his scattered notes, the old church records. Buried among them was the ledger of the town's early settlers — the first priests, the first sacrifices, the origin of the Hollow.
And then he saw it — an entry so faded he almost missed it:
> "When the gateway opened, the offering was not enough. It needed an anchor — blood of faith bound to the land. One who walks in light, and one who walks in shadow."
His breath caught. "Faith and blood… Robert and Tom."
He understood now. The Hollow wasn't just feeding on fear. It was feeding on faith. It was corrupting belief, using every desperate prayer to grow stronger.
He sank to the floor, clutching the Bible tight. "Lord, show me… show me how to fight it. Please."
The wind rattled the windows again — and for just a heartbeat, one candle flared blue. The flame bent toward the open Bible, illuminating a verse he hadn't turned to:
> "And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not."
He stared at it, tears brimming. "Then I'll bring them light," he whispered. "Even if it burns me."
As he rose, the church seemed to breathe around him — still haunted, but quieter. Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the hills, echoing from the forest.
Father Elias took a deep breath, gathered his robes, and blew out the last candle.
Tomorrow, he would find Robert.
And together, they would face the Hollow again — this time not with fear, but with the last weapon left to them: faith that refuses to die.