The forest was silent again.
Not peaceful — never peaceful — but hollow. Like something had taken the sound itself and swallowed it whole. The trees no longer bled, but their bark pulsed faintly, as though each trunk carried a slow, dragging heartbeat.
Robert stood in the clearing where Will had vanished. The red mist that once filled the air now clung to his clothes, seeping into the soil beneath his boots. Every breath burned, tasting of rust and something old — something ancient.
The sheriff was the first to speak, his voice trembling.
"We need to leave this place, Robert. Now."
Robert didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the center of the clearing — the spot where Will had hung suspended — now nothing but darkened earth and a faint shimmer of light, like embers dying out.
"He was right there," Robert whispered. "I touched him. I heard him."
The priest crossed himself, his hand shaking. "It wasn't your boy anymore. The Hollow has anchored itself. This is just the beginning."
"The beginning?" Robert turned sharply. "You call this the beginning?"
A sound rose behind them — distant at first, then swelling. Bells. Church bells, tolling from the town far below. But they weren't ringing in harmony. Each strike came seconds apart, clashing, uneven, as though rung by unseen hands.
The sheriff shouldered his rifle and nodded toward the trees. "We move. Now. Before it decides we're next."
They stumbled through the forest in silence. The trail back seemed longer, twisted. Trees leaned in closer than before. The moon had vanished behind thick clouds, but a dull crimson glow lit the ground — a faint illumination that seemed to come from beneath the soil.
When they finally reached the edge of town, everything had changed.
The air smelled of iron.
The sky bled a muted red hue, the color of dying embers.
And the houses — the houses were wrong.
Every window glowed faintly, not with fire, but with something alive. Thin veins of red light crawled along the glass panes, spreading like roots. Curtains twitched as though moved by invisible hands.
People wandered the streets — slow, dazed, eyes unfocused. A woman stood in her doorway, whispering softly to no one. A child sat on the curb, humming the same broken tune over and over, her palms stained red.
"Dear God…" the sheriff muttered. "It's spreading."
Robert felt his knees weaken. He recognized some of them — townsfolk he'd known for years. Mr. Hanley, the grocer, stood barefoot in the middle of the road, staring up at the sky, his lips moving in silent prayer. Only, when Robert drew closer, he saw the man wasn't praying. He was repeating a name — Will.
Robert froze.
"What did you say?"
The man turned his head slowly, eyes blackened around the edges. "He's calling, Robert. Don't you hear him?"
A whisper slithered through the air — faint, almost tender.
"Dad."
Robert stumbled back. The voice was soft, familiar. It came from everywhere — from the ground, from the air, from the space between his own thoughts.
"Dad… come see what I've done."
The sheriff grabbed his arm. "Robert, don't listen—"
But Robert was already moving. He broke into a run, down the street, past the houses and the wandering townsfolk. He didn't know where he was going — only that he had to find the voice.
The whisper grew clearer with each step. "You wanted to protect me. You can now."
He stopped in front of his own home. The door was open, swinging gently. Inside, the air was thick and hot. The walls glistened faintly, as though sweating blood.
"Will?" he called out.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, from the far end of the hall, he saw him.
Will stood in the doorway of his old room — or rather, what looked like him. His hair was darker now, his skin faintly luminous under the red glow. His eyes, once bright blue, were a deep, endless crimson.
"Dad," he said softly. "You came back."
Robert's throat closed. "Will… it's really you?"
The boy smiled — a gentle, heartbreaking smile. "You never stopped looking for me."
Robert took a slow step forward. "We can fix this. Whatever he's done, we can fix it. You just have to fight him."
Will tilted his head. "Why would I fight him? He showed me the truth."
He raised a hand, and the house trembled. The walls rippled like liquid, and faint voices filled the air — laughter, cries, whispers — all overlapping. "He showed me that pain can be shared. That the town can finally feel what we felt."
Robert backed up. "Will, stop this—"
But his son's voice deepened, echoing with something ancient beneath it.
"You tried to save me from the Hollow, but I am the Hollow now."
Robert's chest tightened. "No… no, you're not. You're my boy."
Will blinked, and for a second, something human flickered in his expression.
Then it was gone.
The priest's voice shouted from outside — "Robert, get out!" — followed by a burst of light as he held his crucifix high. The glow momentarily broke the red haze, and Will staggered back, clutching his head.
Robert hesitated, torn between fear and love. "Will, please! You're stronger than him!"
The boy screamed — a sound that cracked the air — and the crucifix shattered in the priest's hand. The red light surged outward, throwing them all to the ground.
When Robert looked up, Will was gone.
The walls were bare again, the air thick and still.
The sheriff stumbled in through the door, blood streaking his cheek. "You alright?"
Robert stared blankly at the empty hallway. "He was here. He talked to me."
The priest, panting heavily, muttered, "It's begun. The Hollow isn't possessing him anymore — it's becoming him. And through him… it's becoming us."
Outside, the church bells rang again — this time perfectly in sync. Every window in town glowed red. And from the forest's edge, a low hum rose, spreading across the night like a second heartbeat.
The Hollow had truly crossed over.