Chapter 1: When the Hollow Came Home

When I was eight years old, I saw something haul off our piglet.

I swear, even now, the memory just—bam—hits me. Cold. Sharp. Right in my chest. I remember my bare feet slapping the porch, breath catching in my throat as I took a step forward, ready to chase after it. But before I could move, Grandpa Frank’s big, calloused hand caught my shoulder. Yanked me back inside the house—hard enough that I stumbled.

His face went as pale as flour.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost—eyes wide, mouth a thin, hard line. For a second, I wondered if he was about to pass out. The kitchen smelled of old coffee and fried bacon. Normally, that smell made me hungry. Not tonight. All I could focus on was how his hands trembled against the counter.

But before I could even ask what was going on, something—something awful—entered our yard.

It moved with this weird, heavy grace—like it belonged in some other world, not ours. The porch light flickered, casting long, warped shadows across the grass. I froze, my question dying in my throat.

When its blood-red eyes locked on us, cold and hungry, I knew we were done for.

No, not just glowed—burned. Like coals in a fire pit. I swear, those eyes saw right through us, and for a heartbeat, I felt like I was staring straight into a nightmare that had crawled out of the woods just for us. My knees went weak.

That was it. The Hollow. The one from all the stories.

The stories always sounded like nonsense around the campfire, but in that moment, every word felt real. My skin prickled. I remembered every whispered warning—every time someone threatened, "Behave, or the Hollow’ll come for you." Turns out, it was real all along.

Grandma Ruth poked her head in, startled by all the ruckus Grandpa was making.

She poked her head around the corner, apron still tied, her hair in curlers. "What are you jumping around for? Did you finish feeding the piglets?" Her voice had that sharp, no-nonsense edge she used whenever Grandpa got worked up.

Grandpa was still shaken. When he saw Grandma about to go outside, he grabbed her and whispered, "Don’t make a sound. There’s a Hollow outside."

His voice was barely a breath. But the fear in it—unmistakable. Grandma stopped in her tracks, the old screen door creaking beneath her hand. She looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

She paused, rolled her eyes. For a second, I thought she’d just walk out there anyway. "Isn’t that just a story old Pete Simmons made up to scare kids? What’s gotten into you?"

She huffed, but her voice faltered a little. Pete Simmons and his wild tales—everyone in the family laughed about them. Still, seeing Grandpa so rattled made her hesitate, one foot still inside the house.

She barely got the words out before the sow in the yard let out a scream—terrified, deafening—so loud it was almost enough to burst our eardrums.

Raw. Panicked. Like nothing I’d ever heard from an animal. It rattled the windows, sent a shiver up my spine. Even Grandma’s bravado faltered.

Grandpa rushed to find his shotgun. Grandma, not really worried, opened the door to go out.

She muttered about stubborn men and silly stories, but still pulled on her boots. Grandpa was already rummaging in the hall closet, hands shaking as he loaded the gun.

As soon as she saw what was outside, she just collapsed. Dropped like her legs gave out.

Didn’t even scream. Just crumpled. Like her bones turned to water. The porch light swung, casting wild shadows over her as she stared, mouth open, at the thing in the yard.

Her hand shook so bad, I thought she’d drop the flashlight.

I ran over to drag her back in, but the moment I saw it, I swear my soul almost left me.

I’ll never forget it—the cold, the smell, the feeling the world had just cracked open. I grabbed Grandma by the arm, but my own legs felt like jelly.

A monster. Not just any monster.

Not the kind from movies or cartoons. This thing was ancient. Wrong. Its fur looked matted and oily, blacker than the night. It loomed over everything, a living shadow.

A black, hairy beast more than ten feet tall, muscles bulging everywhere. Incredibly strong. An enraged sow protecting her piglets is nothing to mess with, but in the Hollow’s hands, she was like a toy.

The pig’s squeals—muffled in its grip. It lifted her like she weighed nothing. The ground shook with every step it took.

It had four arms, two in front and two behind, and it opened those massive jaws and just tore chunks of flesh from her belly.

It was so grotesque, so unreal, my mind just tried to shut down. Blood splattered the grass. The Hollow’s teeth gleamed wetly in the porch light.

Its neck was long, tongue longer. Made my scalp prickle, and the stench of blood was so strong it made every hair on my body stand on end.

Thick. Metallic. Almost sweet. My eyes watered. I could taste it on the back of my tongue, and I nearly gagged.

But its face—that was the worst part. Like an inside-out skull.

No nose. Just raw, slick tissue. Its mouth stretched impossibly wide, the skin peeled back from bone. It grinned at us, and I felt cold all over.

It looked annoyed—like we’d interrupted dinner. Its scarlet eyes turned on us.

The way it stared—almost human. Like it was sizing us up, deciding if we’d be dessert. Its nostrils flared. I swear I saw it smirk.

Grandpa didn’t hesitate—fired right at its eyes, but the Hollow was even faster, dodging with a quick tilt of its head.

The gunshot was deafening. Echoed off the barn. Grandpa’s aim was true, but the monster moved with an unnatural speed—like it knew exactly what was coming.

Right then, I heard this wheezing, bellows sound. The Hollow was gasping for air, bits of meat falling from its mouth to the ground.

Thick. Wet. Like a rusty engine trying to start. Chunks of flesh hit the dirt with a sickening splat. My stomach twisted.

Sparks flew as the bullet glanced off—this gun was useless.

The bullet just pinged off its hide. Sparks everywhere. I realized then that we were in way over our heads. Grandpa looked at the gun like it had betrayed him.

"Get inside! Now!" Grandpa shouted.

His voice cracked. Desperate. Grandma scooped me up, holding me tight against her chest, and rushed for the door. Grandpa slammed it shut behind us and threw the bolt, his hands slick with sweat.

That shot pissed the Hollow off. It started moving toward the door.

Each step made the porch boards groan. The house seemed to shrink around us. My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear anything else.

Grandma’s arms shook so bad she could barely hold me. Grandpa’s hand, gripping the gun, was slick with cold sweat.

I could feel her heartbeat, wild against my back. Grandpa’s knuckles were white, the shotgun trembling in his grip. The air in the kitchen felt thick and electric.

Me? My mind was blank. I couldn’t believe Pete Simmons’s story was real.

Kept thinking—had to be a nightmare. My brain just refused to process it. The world had stopped making sense.

Old Pete used to be the county’s most famous hunter, but one day he came running down from the ridge, covered in blood. Lost his mind after that.

It was legendary. Folks still talked about it at the diner. Pete had always been tough as nails, but he’d come back wild-eyed, ranting, clothes torn and bloodied.

He kept saying it—ran into a Hollow.

Over and over, like a broken record. No one believed him.

When people asked what a Hollow was, he described it like he’d really seen one, with all the details, even leading people up the ridge to hunt it. But all that happened was, he led folks right into a bear. It killed several men.

A tragedy. Haunted the town for years. Folks blamed Pete, said his wild goose chase got good men killed. The Hollow became a joke, a cautionary tale.

No one ever saw a thing. Not a trace.

Just another ghost story. Something folks whispered about when the wind howled.

Everyone said Pete just got spooked by the bear.

That was the official story. Heard it a hundred times. But now, with the Hollow at our door, I wondered if Pete had been telling the truth all along.

Looking back, maybe he was scared out of his mind. But it was the Hollow, not the bear.

Suddenly, all the pieces fit. My hands started to shake.

Bang, bang, bang. The sound was rhythmic, almost playful. The Hollow knocked like it was inviting itself in for dinner.

Bang, bang, bang. Each knock—dust drifted from the rafters. The scarlet eyes peered through the cracks in the door, unblinking.

It was taunting us. Wanted us to know we couldn’t hide. My breath caught in my throat.

Grandpa pointed to the back room and whispered to Grandma, "That thing’s huge. Take Jamie and get into the cellar."

His voice was steady. But his eyes darted, nervous. He handed Grandma the big iron key to the cellar trapdoor.

Grandma nodded—frantic.

She grabbed my hand. Squeezed so tight it hurt. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

Just then, I heard a sizzling sound—like electricity.

The air felt charged. Hair on my arms stood up. I glanced around, trying to find the source.

I was about to say something when the phone line exploded.

The phone sparked. Smoke puffed into the air. The bulb above us fizzled, then burst, showering glass onto the linoleum. The house plunged into darkness.

Pitch-black. Dead silent.

The silence pressed in. Thick. Suffocating. I couldn’t even hear Grandma breathing. My own heart sounded like a drum in my ears.

The knocking stopped. Scarlet eyes vanished from the crack.

For a second, I almost hoped it was over. But the quiet felt wrong—like the calm before a tornado.

None of us dared move.

We stood frozen. Barely breathed. I squeezed Grandma’s hand, feeling the sweat slick between our palms.

After a while, Grandma whispered, "Did the Hollow leave?"

Her voice was barely a breath. Shaky, small. I wanted to answer, but my mouth was dry as dust.

Click. The door creaked open.

Soft. Almost gentle. But it sent a bolt of terror through me. The hinges squealed just a little.

Grandpa fired. Several shots.

Muzzle flashes lit up the room. Quick, staccato bursts. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of blood.

Scarlet eyes floated in midair. That wheezing, right at our ears.

The Hollow didn’t flinch. Eyes hovered in the dark, closer.

Grandma didn’t wait. She grabbed me and headed for the back room. She tripped and fell. My head felt hot—blood streaming down.

We crashed to the floor. My forehead hit something hard.

Grandma took a hard fall, but still managed to shove the hundred-pound stone slab aside.

Never seen her move so fast, pain be damned. She shoved the heavy slab with a grunt, her face twisted in agony.

She tossed me down inside the cellar.

I landed hard, rolled over crates of potatoes and jars. My shoulder ached, but I was grateful I could still move.

Cellar was about six feet deep, but with all the potatoes and squash, I didn’t get hurt too bad. My mind, though, was clearer than ever.

I blinked, trying to focus. The darkness was thick, but the smell of dirt and potatoes grounded me. I realized, suddenly, that we might have a chance.

Because the Hollow was in the back room.

Heard the door slam open. Wood splintering. Heavy footsteps shook the floor above me. My heart hammered in my chest.

Heard Grandpa grunt, then open fire—two more shots. Then he crashed down into the cellar.

He landed with a thud. The gun clattered beside him. He groaned, clutching his side, but he was alive.

Pain or not, Grandma dragged us deeper.

She grabbed my arm and Grandpa’s, dragged us along. The cellar was cramped, filled with old canning jars and burlap sacks, but she moved like a woman possessed.

It stank. Air thick from being closed up so long. It was hard to breathe.

Air was heavy. Musty. Tinged with rot. I coughed, the smell making my eyes water. But at least we were hidden, for the moment.

But our cellar led outside. Grandpa had dug the tunnel years ago.

It got narrower the farther you went. If we could just keep going, we’d get out.

I remembered crawling through it as a kid, playing pirates. Now, it felt like the only hope we had.

“Jamie, get up. Walk on your own.” Grandma’s voice was urgent, but gentle. She squeezed my shoulder, urging me forward.

I got up, legs numb. Hurried forward. I couldn’t even feel the pain anymore; I was running on pure adrenaline.

The Hollow was following. I could hear it above.

Its breathing—louder and louder.

No idea how close it was.

Every shadow felt like it might grab us. My heart raced, my mouth dry.

All we could do was hope the potatoes and jars would slow it down.

Jars shattered behind us. The sharp scent of vinegar filled the air. Maybe, just maybe, the mess would buy us a few precious seconds.

Soon, the tunnel got so tight we had to crawl on our stomachs.

Walls pressed in, rough and cold. Dirt crumbled into my hair. I pushed forward, refusing to look back.

Grandma shoved me forward. “Go! Hurry! Crawl!”

Her voice was hoarse, desperate. She nudged me with her knee, pushing me onward.

I pushed with my legs. Head throbbing.

Hands cramped. Every time I pressed them to the ground, pain shot through me.

My eyes were hot. Couldn’t even cry.

Bit my lip, trying not to sob. There was no time for tears.

Ahead—no way out.

Tunnel ended. Wall of packed earth. My heart dropped. Panic clawed at my chest.

“Grandma, I think the exit’s blocked…”

My voice was small. Shaky. I tried to sound brave, but it came out as a whimper.

Suddenly, a dragging sound behind us.

Wet, slow. Like something huge scraping through mud. I froze, terror locking up my muscles.

Grandma shrieked. “Frank!”

Her scream echoed down the tunnel. Raw. Desperate. She grabbed at the dirt, nails digging in.

Grandpa was fighting the Hollow. “Dig! Hurry! If we don’t dig, we’re all dead!”

His words snapped me out of it. I clawed at the earth.

Grandma dragged me behind her. Started digging at the exit.

Her hands were a blur. Dirt flying everywhere. I joined in, ignoring the pain.

I dug too. No idea how long we worked. My fingernails split, and my hands went numb from pain.

Time lost all meaning. Just digging. Faster and faster.

Grandpa’s voice grew fainter as the Hollow dragged him up.

Jars breaking, the smell of pickles everywhere. The sharp tang of vinegar stung my nose. The sound of shattering glass mixed with Grandpa’s fading cries.

Bang! A gunshot echoed, deafening in the tunnel.

Crash. Something slammed into the dirt above us.

I think something fell. Then the Hollow’s breathing stopped.

For a moment—silence. Thick and heavy. I dared to hope it was over.

I turned, called out. “Grandpa!”

My voice trembled. Barely a whisper. I listened, desperate for a reply.

He was gasping. “The Hollow ran off.”

His words didn’t sound right. But I wanted to believe.

I broke down, started to cry. Grandma slapped her hand over my mouth and shoved me up.

Her grip was fierce. Almost painful. She pushed me upward, urgency in every movement. I bit back a sob, scrambling through the dirt.

“Frank, did the Hollow really run off?”

Her voice was desperate. Pleading. She wanted to believe it, too.

“Yeah, it’s gone.” Grandpa’s voice sounded strange. But we clung to the hope. Grandma let out a shaky breath.

Grandma burst into sobs, eyes wide with terror.

Tears streaked her face, mixed with dirt. She kept digging, her body shaking with each sob.

I didn’t say a word. Just kept digging.

Hands raw. Kept clawing at the earth, desperate to get us out.

“Ruth, help me up.” Grandpa’s voice was muffled. Strange. I hesitated, glancing at Grandma.

Grandma said, “Wait, my leg’s stuck. I can’t turn around.”

Her voice was strained. Pain in every word. She twisted, trying to free herself.

“Where are you?” The voice sounded off. Almost like Grandpa, but not quite. My skin crawled. I shivered, fear tightening in my chest.

That voice—less and less like Grandpa. I thought I heard a laugh.

A chill ran down my spine. Didn’t want to look back. The laugh echoed in my ears, hollow and wrong.

Exit was almost open. Grandma squeezed herself out.

She pushed with everything she had. Ignored the pain. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

The hole wasn’t big enough. She didn’t care. She grimaced through the pain, her hands twisting as she clawed her way out.

Her fingernails left bloody streaks.

Honestly? Terrifying.

For a second, I wondered if she was still my grandma.

For a moment, I thought it was a monster coming out.

Fear twisted my insides. I squeezed my eyes shut.

My head and hands weren’t in sync. But I grabbed her clothes and pulled.

Her flannel shirt bunched in my fists. I yanked until she popped free.

Just as she came out, I saw a pitch-black arm.

It reached for the opening. Fingers like thick branches.

And a pair of blood-red eyes.

They glared up. Burning with hunger and hate. I froze, unable to breathe.

Grandma limped away with me. Didn’t look back.

Her voice was raw. Desperate. She half-dragged me along, not caring about the rocks or thorns. Her fear was contagious—I found myself yelling, too.

I couldn’t help but look back. The Hollow’s skull was huge.

It looked stuck. Wedged tight. Its jaws snapped at the air, eyes blazing.

Didn’t dare look any longer. Just shouted for help.

My throat burned. Kept screaming. The night air was cold, the world spinning around us.

The cellar exit was less than a mile behind the house. As we hurried toward town, we ran into Charlie Finch.

He jogged toward us. Flashlight bobbing in his hand. His boots crunched on the gravel road, and I’d never been so glad to see a neighbor.

He shone his flashlight at us. A couple times.

Beam flickered over our faces, then down at the blood and dirt on our clothes. Charlie’s eyes went wide.

My heart skipped a beat. Vision went black. Almost fainted.

My legs buckled, but Grandma held me up. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by a cold, creeping fear.

Charlie frowned, hurried over. “Aunt Ruth, what happened?”

His voice was steady, but I heard a tremor. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the darkness behind us.

Grandma clung to him. Like a lifeline. "Charlie, wake up the whole town! The Hollow is here, and it’s got Frank!"

She grabbed his shirt, shaking him. Words tumbling out, wild with panic.

Charlie picked up on her panic. "Don’t worry, just tell me what happened."

He put an arm around her. Steadied her. Brow furrowed.

Grandma was crying, desperate. “Frank’s about to die—get help, quick!”

Her voice broke. She pushed away, stumbling toward the lights.

She didn’t wait. Kept running, calling for people.

Her shouts echoed. Dogs barked. Porch lights flicked on.

Charlie patted her back, helped her catch her breath. “Aunt Ruth, I’ll go get people right now. Don’t be scared—Uncle Frank will be fine.”

He squeezed her shoulder, tried to sound confident. But I saw the doubt in his eyes.

He looked us over before leaving. His expression was odd.

His gaze lingered too long. Made my stomach twist.

Grandma took a few steps, then collapsed. Dragged me down.

Her knees buckled. We both hit the ground. I tried to shake her awake, panic rising.

Afraid the Hollow would follow, I tried to wake her. Then I realized something.

My hands trembled as I shook her. Woods too quiet. Night pressing in.

Wasn’t Charlie supposed to get help?

The thought hit me. Why hadn’t he called out? Why was it so quiet?

Why hadn’t I heard him call out?

I strained to listen. Only silence. No footsteps, no voices, just the distant hum of insects.

We were already in town. If he shouted, someone would come out.

Didn’t make sense. My skin prickled. Something was wrong.

Didn’t dare think about it. I opened my mouth and wailed.

My cry was loud. Raw. Tore through the night. I didn’t care who heard—I just wanted help.

Voices and shouts echoed through town. Flashlights bobbed.

Porch lights flicked on. Doors banged open. People called out, their voices confused and worried. A dozen flashlights bobbed through the darkness, converging on us.

But my tears dried up when I saw what happened next.

The world tilted. Mouth dry. Could barely breathe.

“Didn’t I say I’d get help? What are you yelling for, kid?”

Charlie’s voice was right behind me, softer now, almost mocking. I spun around, heart hammering.

A faint flashlight glowed behind him. Its beam flickered.

Beam flickered, barely lighting the ground. Shadows danced around him, too thick, too dark.

Shadows flickered behind him. Just like the Hollow at home.

They moved on their own. Swirling, twisting. I blinked, sure I was seeing things.

Didn’t dare look up. Charlie crouched down in front of me.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Charlie, what’s the emergency? Why’d you call us over?”

Someone called from the edge of the crowd. I heard footsteps crunching on gravel.

Charlie picked me up from under Grandma. Turned to the villagers.

He lifted me, set me on my feet. Grip too tight. Smile too wide. “I was about to go to bed when I saw Aunt Ruth and Jamie looking like they’d just come out of a tornado, saying there was a monster. They said the Hollow was here, and Frank got caught by it and was about to die. Let’s go take a look—maybe something really happened.”

His voice was calm. Almost amused. The villagers murmured.

When they saw us covered in blood and dirt, the villagers were shocked.

A hush fell over the crowd. Mrs. Miller gasped.

I pointed toward the cellar. “The Hollow was trying to follow us out. It’s stuck at the cellar entrance, and my grandpa—he’s still in there!”

My voice cracked. Could barely get the words out.

As I spoke, I broke down. Started sobbing.

Fear and exhaustion caught up. Legs gave out. Dropped to my knees.

I tried to go to Grandma, but the chief told his wife to get us out of the way.

He waved for Mrs. Miller to take us aside. She wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, murmuring soft reassurances.

I couldn’t hold on. Head throbbed with pain.

Everything blurred. World spun. Clung to the blanket.

Just before I passed out, I heard the screams: “Holy crap, a monster!”

The shout jolted me. But I was too far gone.

It was the Hollow.

The word echoed. Spread like wildfire. People scrambled back, flashlights shaking.

Flashlights lit it up.

A dozen beams converged. Fur gleamed with oil and blood.

Covered in leaves and pickle brine—but the worst part? It stood right at the edge of town.

Bits of squash clung to its fur. Smell of brine and rot.

Not even half a mile away.

It was so close. No one moved.

Heard a harsh, crackling sound. Flashes of red.

The creature snarled. Electricity sparked around its jaws.

My body tensed. Couldn’t stay conscious.

Limbs numb. Last thing I saw—the Hollow, looming.

But there were a lot of villagers. Maybe it couldn’t do much.

The thought was faint. Distant. I hoped numbers would keep us safe.