The morning light was sickly — pale and thin, like it had lost its warmth somewhere above the Hollow.
Mist curled low over the fields, swallowing the outlines of houses and bleeding trees. The air was heavy, metallic, and carried the faint hum of something alive beneath the earth.
Robert hadn't slept.
He sat by the window, head bowed, hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly the wood creaked. His eyes were bloodshot from tears and exhaustion, staring blankly into the fog.
Every sound made him flinch — the creak of the old boards, the wind pressing against the shutters, the faint echo of a child's laugh that wasn't really there.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps. Slow. Deliberate.
Robert stood too quickly, heart hammering. He hesitated for a moment, then opened the door.
Father Elias stood there — soaked from the mist, robe torn at the hem, eyes wild and red-rimmed from sleeplessness. He looked as though he'd aged ten years overnight.
"Father?" Robert whispered. "What—what are you doing out here?"
The priest stepped inside without a word, closing the door behind him. He looked around as if afraid the walls might listen. Then, in a low, trembling voice, he said, "Robert… we were wrong about the Hollow."
Robert frowned. "Wrong? What do you mean?"
Elias sank into the nearest chair, wiping a shaking hand over his face. "It isn't just taking. It's becoming. It's drawing power from faith — from every prayer, every act of hope, every moment of belief in salvation."
Robert stared. "That makes no sense."
The priest looked up, eyes glinting with something between fear and understanding. "It does when you realize what it's building — a bridge. It's not trying to destroy this town. It's trying to merge with it."
Robert froze. "You think Will—"
"Will is the bridge," Elias said softly. "But he's not alone. The Hollow needs two vessels — one rooted in innocence, the other in faith. And I believe… I believe it's using Tom as the second."
Robert's breath hitched. He turned away, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Tom? No. That—he's not—he's just a man, Father."
"He's a man who's lost his faith," Elias said gravely. "That makes him open. Vulnerable. The Hollow doesn't just prey on fear — it thrives on despair. It's binding itself through those two — one pure, one broken."
Robert sank into a chair opposite him, his face pale. "Then how do we stop it?"
Elias hesitated, glancing at the window where the fog pressed against the glass. "I prayed for an answer," he whispered. "And I think I received one."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out his old Bible. The pages were warped and worn, but one verse was circled in fresh ink:
> 'And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.'
Robert looked up, confused. "That's not a plan. That's a—"
"It's a weapon," Elias interrupted. "The Hollow can't comprehend light, Robert. Not physical light — the kind of light that comes from within. It's feeding on our fear, our guilt, our grief. But if we turn that—if we burn bright enough—it can't survive."
Robert stared at him, jaw tightening. "You're talking about faith."
The priest nodded. "Yes. But not mine alone. Yours. The sheriff's. Everyone left who still believes there's something worth saving here."
Robert rose, pacing the small room, his hands trembling. "You don't understand, Father. My son is—"
"Your son is still fighting," Elias said quickly. "But if we don't act soon, he won't be fighting alone. The Hollow will finish the bridge — and when it does, it will use both your faith and Tom's despair to root itself in this world forever."
The silence stretched long between them. Only the sound of the ticking clock broke the weight of it.
Finally, Robert turned, his voice steady but hollow. "Then we stop it before the bridge is complete."
Elias nodded slowly. "And to do that… we go back to the Hollow."
Robert looked toward the fog-thick forest beyond his window, the shadowed line of trees swaying faintly in the wind.
It wasn't just a place anymore. It was breathing. Waiting.
He exhaled, jaw set. "Then let's end it."
_____________________________
Beneath the roots of the forest, in the place where the earth no longer remembers sunlight, something stirred.
It had no eyes, yet it saw.
It had no ears, yet it heard.
It was the memory of every fear the town had buried — the echo of every whisper never spoken aloud.
The Hollow felt them.
Robert's grief.
The priest's trembling faith.
The sheriff's flickering courage.
All of it pulsed like a heartbeat through the soil, feeding the vast, unseen thing that pulsed beneath the ground.
They move again, the Hollow whispered to itself — though its words were not words but vibrations, rippling through the roots, the stones, the marrow of the earth.
They pray again.
A hundred thousand faint whispers joined in harmony — the voices of those it had taken before.
Children, mothers, hunters, sinners — all of them part of its memory now, murmuring in the dark.
They believe they can stop the becoming, one voice hissed.
Faith burns only when it dies.
The Hollow's shape quivered in the dark. It was vast and formless, threads of shadow and sinew stretching through the soil like veins.
Above, in the real world, the mist thickened. The wind slowed to silence. Time itself seemed to hesitate, listening.
The Hollow reached out — not with hands, but with feeling.
It brushed against the edges of minds, tasting them.
Elias.
Robert.
The child still bound by light.
Ah, the Hollow sighed, a sound like stone grinding against bone.
The bridge still beats. The vessel still breathes. The fear still grows.
Its essence slithered through the forest roots, curling around Will's presence like a mother around her child. The boy's body was small and still, but inside him — the light flickered, fighting.
"Do you feel them?" the Hollow whispered through the soil, its voice slithering into the boy's dreams.
"They come for you. For me. For what's owed."
Will twitched in his sleep, his face twisting in silent defiance. A faint glow stirred in his chest — weak, human, but real.
The Hollow recoiled slightly, then laughed — a sound that made the entire forest tremble.
So small. So fragile. So bright.
It moved again, wrapping itself tighter around the boy's spirit, whispering its poison with a lover's care.
"Your father is coming, child. But he won't save you. He'll deliver you.
He always does."
Roots crawled through the soil, pulsing red with stolen blood.
The Hollow turned its attention toward the surface — to the priest praying in a shaking house, to the man staring into fog and guilt, to the faint glow of courage flickering in the town's dying light.
It could taste their resistance.
It savored it.
They think faith burns me, it murmured. But faith feeds me.
And as the mist deepened, the Hollow began to hum — a low, resonant tone that spread through the forest, down the valley, and into every dreaming mind.
A song of hunger.
A promise of return.
A voice that said, The bridge is almost ready.
The town shuddered as though it heard.