The morning came gray and heavy, the kind that didn't bring light — only a pale imitation of it.
A thick mist curled low across the ground, swallowing the trees in the distance. Even the birds had gone silent.
Robert stood at the edge of the forest, his coat clinging to his damp shoulders, his eyes hollow from sleepless nights. Behind him, the sheriff tightened his grip on the rifle slung over his shoulder, and the priest clutched his wooden cross like a lifeline.
None of them spoke at first.
Words felt small against what they were about to face.
Finally, the sheriff broke the silence. "We go in, we don't split up. Whatever happens — whatever we see — we stick together."
Robert nodded numbly. The priest murmured a quiet prayer under his breath, tracing a trembling hand across his chest.
They took their first steps into the Hollow's woods.
The air changed immediately. The deeper they went, the thicker it became — not mist anymore, but something heavier, something that seemed to pulse and breathe with them. The trees loomed closer, their bark slick and dark, as though bleeding sap that glistened like tar.
Each sound — the crunch of leaves, the echo of footsteps — seemed swallowed whole by the silence.
"Feels like it's watching," the sheriff muttered.
"It is," the priest replied softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "It's been watching since the first child vanished."
Robert glanced at him. "You believe it knows we're here?"
The priest didn't answer. He didn't need to. The forest itself did — a sudden gust of cold air whispered through the branches, carrying faint laughter that faded too quickly to be real.
They pressed on.
For hours, or maybe minutes — time didn't exist here — they followed the faint trails of blood-red roots that crawled across the ground. Each step seemed to pull them deeper into something that wasn't nature anymore.
At one point, the sheriff stumbled, his boot catching on something half-buried. He knelt, brushing away the leaves. It wasn't a branch. It was bone. Human.
Robert felt his stomach twist. "How many…?"
"Too many," the sheriff muttered, standing quickly, eyes darting around. "Let's keep moving."
They reached a clearing at last — a wide, circular hollow in the earth.
The soil was black and slick, the center marked by a pulsating glow that rose faintly from below, as though the ground itself were breathing.
Robert froze. "This is it."
The priest stepped forward, holding up his cross. "The heart of the Hollow."
The sheriff raised his rifle, scanning the shadows. "Then where the hell is it?"
A whisper slithered through the air — faint but everywhere at once.
"Right where you stand."
The light beneath the ground flared. The soil shifted, cracking, and a low rumble shook the trees. From the dark earth, something began to rise — slow, deliberate, and wrong.
A figure formed, not out of flesh but shadow — half-seen, half-imagined, yet heavy enough to bend the world around it. It towered over them, its shape flickering like smoke in the wind.
Robert stumbled back, heart pounding. "No— it can't— it's not—"
The priest raised his voice, shouting into the storm of whispers, "In the name of God Almighty, I cast you back into the dark from which you came!"
The Hollow laughed — a sound that shook the trees. "You think faith can bind me now, priest? The boy's heart has opened the gate. His love is my tether."
Robert's breath caught. "Will…"
The sheriff fired — once, twice, three times — but each bullet vanished before hitting the shadow, swallowed like raindrops in the sea.
The Hollow's form rippled, and suddenly the world around them changed — the trees bent backward, the sky cracked open, and they stood not in a forest but inside something vast and living.
The priest fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Robert reached for him, but the ground split beneath his feet, glowing veins of red light crawling toward the center of the clearing.
The Hollow spoke again — closer this time, almost gentle.
"You've come to save your son, Robert. But tell me— can you save yourself?"
Robert shouted, "You can't have him! You can't take Will!"
The air trembled. The Hollow leaned closer, its face forming for the first time — faint, fragile, and familiar. It was Will's face, but twisted with shadow.
Robert's heart shattered.
The priest whispered desperately, "It's testing you. Don't believe the image."
But Robert could barely hear him over the pounding of his own heart and the echoing voice of his son — or what wore his son's shape — whispering, "Why didn't you save me, Dad?"
The sheriff grabbed Robert's arm, yanking him back as the ground quaked again. "Move! It's pulling us in!"
They stumbled toward the trees as the Hollow's laughter rose, deep and terrible. The light in the clearing surged upward like a breath of fire, swallowing everything in a crimson glow.
And as they escaped the clearing's edge, Robert turned back once more — just long enough to see a figure standing at the center.
Will.
Smiling.
Then the forest went silent.
_____________________________
The clearing blazed red as the Hollow's form grew tall and monstrous, rising from the ground like a shadow given flesh. Its voice echoed through the trees, low and hungry, every word crawling into their minds.
"The forest is my body. The fear is my breath. And through the boy's heart… I live."
Robert fell to his knees, choking on the heaviness in the air. He could feel Will — faintly — somewhere inside the storm of whispers.
"Will! Listen to me!" he shouted into the blinding light. "Fight it! Please!"
A flicker answered him — a boy's voice, soft and trembling. "Dad… I can't."
The priest lifted his cross high, the silver gleaming faintly through the haze. "You can! Faith binds what fear unchains!" he cried, voice breaking from the strain.
The Hollow's laughter rolled like thunder. The ground split, roots writhing upward like serpents. One lashed out, wrapping around the priest's leg, dragging him down.
"Father!" the sheriff yelled, firing again. The bullet tore through the root, spraying black ichor that hissed where it landed. The priest stumbled free, gasping for breath.
The Hollow turned its burning gaze toward them. "You think your symbols mean anything here? This ground is older than your God."
The priest stood tall, wiping the blood from his mouth. "Then let Him make it new again."
He drove the cross into the soil. The earth trembled. For a moment — just a moment — the Hollow recoiled, its form flickering, the darkness tearing at its own edges.
Robert staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding hand where the glass of a shattered lantern had cut him earlier. His palm glistened red — and something in the priest's words ignited inside him.
Blood. Faith.
Mrs. Halloway's journal flashed in his memory — the faded line written beneath the first rule:
"When the Hollow calls, blood and faith shall bind what was broken."
"Father!" he shouted, stepping closer to the glowing pit. "It feeds on fear — but it can be sealed with what it can't consume."
The priest understood instantly. "Faith."
"And blood," Robert said.
He gripped his wounded hand tighter, letting his blood drip onto the glowing soil. The earth hissed where it touched, the light flaring white instead of red.
The Hollow screamed — a sound so sharp the trees bent backward.
The sheriff braced himself, shouting over the noise. "Whatever you're doing, finish it!"
The wind whipped through the clearing as Robert knelt, pressing his palm against the ground. "You can't have him!" he shouted into the light. "You can't have any of them! You've taken enough!"
The Hollow's form twisted violently, its edges breaking apart, smoke tearing from its limbs. "You think you can command what was born from man's own sin?" it roared.
The priest fell beside Robert, his hand trembling as he placed the cross into the blood-soaked earth. "Not command," he whispered, "but reclaim."
He began to pray — not softly, but with the force of a man who'd lost everything but his belief. Latin words thundered through the clearing, mixing with Robert's cries and the Hollow's howls.
The red glow deepened to gold.
For the first time, the forest didn't feel dead — it felt alive.
The ground beneath them split open one final time, and through the light they saw Will — suspended in the air, his body limp, eyes glowing faintly.
Robert reached for him, shouting, "Will! It's me!"
The Hollow's voice fractured, desperate now. "He is mine! The bridge is complete—"
"NO!" Robert's scream tore through the chaos. He pulled the boy's small, fading body into his arms. "You are my son. You hear me? You are mine — not his!"
Will stirred, tears streaking down his pale face. "Dad…"
Robert pressed his bloodied hand over his son's heart. "Come back to me."
The light from the cross pulsed — once, twice — and then exploded outward.
A shockwave tore through the clearing, blinding white. The Hollow shrieked, its form unraveling like mist torn by the wind.
The priest's prayer rose to a roar: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"
The Hollow's final scream echoed as the red glow turned pure white — then silence.
When the light faded, the clearing was empty.
The air was still. The trees stood straight again, their bark clean and dry. No blood, no mist — only the faint hum of wind through leaves.
Robert knelt on the cold earth, cradling Will in his arms. The boy's chest rose weakly, but it rose.
He was breathing.
The priest sank beside them, exhausted, whispering a final prayer of gratitude. The sheriff holstered his rifle, voice cracking as he said softly, "It's over… it's really over."
Robert looked up at the sky — gray, trembling, real. His hands still bled, his heart still raced, but for the first time, the world didn't feel hollow.
He looked down at his son, who opened his eyes slowly and whispered, "Dad?"
Robert smiled through tears. "Yeah, Will. I'm here."
In the distance, the sun began to break through the clouds — its first light in weeks spilling across the forest floor.
And for the first time in a long time, Hollow Creek was silent — not with fear, but peace.