WHISPERS OF THE HOLLOW

The mist was thicker than she remembered. It wrapped around the wrought-iron gate like smoke from an unseen fire, disappearing into the Morwyn estate's thick hedgerows. Her boots crunched gravel as she took a step forward, holding a suitcase in one hand and an ancient brass key tightly in the other. Ravenmoor had not changed. It still smelt of wet earth, rusted leaves, and secrets no one dared to reveal. Lena shuddered, tightening her cardigan around her tiny frame. The fog chilled her skin, but the true cold was inside her, coiled low in her chest like a storm about to break. The taxi driver refused to drive her past the old chapel. He mumbled, "Not that house," and his eyes never met hers. "Morwyn blood brings Hollow eyes." She didn't ask him what he meant. Now, standing before the arched entrance to the mansion she hadn't seen in fourteen years, Lena understood what he meant. The air was different here—heavier and electrified. As if the home was holding its breath, waiting for her return. The brass key turned with a faint sigh. The gate opened by itself. She should've turned back. She should have—but where would she go? The house rose at the top of a hill, three floors high with ivy-strangled stone and shuttered windows. It appeared to be from a bygone era. The Morwyn manor. Her mother claimed the home was alive. Lena never believed her. Until now. She crossed the threshold, and the temperature fell. The entryway was enveloped in darkness. Dust swirled in the slanted light from a damaged stained-glass window above, colouring her pale face in reds and greens. Furniture stood beneath dust covers, like mournful ghosts. A grandfather clock ticked slowly in the corner, with its hands spinning backwards. Lena froze. That was not feasible. She backed up, her gaze drawn to the door—which had closed behind her. Locked, despite the fact that she had not touched it. Her breathing increased. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. She was not alone. She moved slowly through the manor, one hand trailing down the old wooden bannisters. The hush was stifling. Every floorboard creaked beneath her weight, as if it were protesting her presence. Upstairs, she discovered her grandmother's bedroom untouched—bedsheets still folded, curtains closed. A porcelain doll with one lost eye peered out from the dresser. Lena dodged it. A room at the end of the hall drew her attention. The doorknob appeared charred, as if it had been torched. Something in the room spoke to her in a voice she could not hear but felt. She put her palm against the wood. It clicked open. Inside was a study with wall-to-wall bookcases, a big desk, and an ancient writing chair that was slightly tilted, as if someone had just risen from it. But what drew her attention was the object on the desk. A book. Thick. Bound in damaged, reddish-brown leather. The cover has no title, just a crescent moon with three thorns burned into it. She reached for it. When her fingers contacted the surface, the lamps in the room turned on by themselves. The book shivered beneath her grip. Lena jerked back. Then…a whisper. Faint. Not in her ears, but rather in her mind. "You've returned." She stumbled out of the study and down the stairs, her breathing shallow and her limbs icy. She did not sleep that night. Even with matches, the fireplace in her grandmother's room wouldn't light. Her phone received no signal. Her laptop would not start. At midnight, she perched on the side of the bed, clutching the key to the gate as if it could keep her safe. And then she heard it. Scraping. From the floor below her. Lena stood, barefoot, and tiptoed into the hallway. The sound was muted, yet rhythmic, as if something was scraping its way through the walls. She followed the sounds downstairs, past the kitchen, and into the cellar door beneath the stairs. It was ajar. She should not have gone down. But she did. Every step she took caused the wooden steps to creak. The scratching stopped. She reached the bottom and turned to face the source of the sounds. There, under a collapsed shelf, was a tall, oval mirror with a dark wood frame etched with weird inscriptions. The glass was dirty, but it pulsed slightly, as if it housed something beneath its surface. Lena moved closer. Her reflection moved. But she didn't. Her blood became chilly. The mirror became foggy. Then, on the other side of the glass, a hand appeared: thin, long-fingered, with clawed tips and faintly blue flesh. The air in the cellar was humid and heavy. Condensation trickled from the stone walls and touched the inside of the mirror, as if reaching for her. Lena gasped and lurched back, but the mirror did not break. Instead, a voice—this time audible—slithered out of its depths. "The Hollow is watching, child." Then, "He knows you're here." Damien Voss awoke from a nightmare far beyond the manor, on the edge of the forest where the mist thickens and time folds. He sat up immediately, sweat slicking his chest and his breathing ragged. The runes scorched across his collarbone, as if warning him. Something had passed through the veil. Someone had roused the Hollow. His gaze shifted to the woods below, towards the ancient Morwyn home. "She's here," he said softly. Then he went into the mist.