The village of Ashenford never truly slept. Even at midnight, a low hum of wind whispered through the crooked streets and thatched roofs, carrying with it rumors that some part of the forest beyond the village was awake.
Rowan Vale tightened the straps of his satchel as he stepped outside. The fog was rolling in, thick and unnatural, curling around lampposts like a living thing. He could feel it brush against his skin, cold and damp, carrying a faint metallic scent he didn't recognize.
"Not again," he muttered under his breath.
The villagers had started whispering in the square about disappearances. People vanishing overnight. Returning with black eyes. Minds hollowed out like dried husks. Rowan had seen it before — his own sister among them — and he couldn't shake the feeling that the Hollow was calling, waiting for him.
He stepped carefully along the cobblestones. The fog seemed to pulse, almost breathing. A faint whisper tickled his ear, a syllable half-formed, almost familiar. He froze.
"Rowan…"
He spun, expecting to see someone behind him, but the square was empty. Only the fog moved, twisting around the lanterns, stretching into unnatural shapes. The whisper came again, sharper, echoing in the hollow of his chest.
"Rowan…"
He shook his head. It's the Hollow. Not real. Just the wind.
But the hair on his neck stood up as a shadow detached itself from the fog. It had no legs, no definite form — only a pair of glowing red eyes and a voice that carried everyone's fears at once.
Rowan swallowed. His hand went to the charm his sister had given him years ago, now tarnished and cold. It hummed faintly against his palm, resisting the pull of the fog.
From behind the mist came another sound: the soft thud of footsteps, careful and deliberate. He wasn't alone.
"Rowan Vale," a voice called out. Strong, steady, unnervingly calm. "Come quickly. They're back."
Rowan's heart slammed against his ribs. The returned. The villagers who had vanished and come back — hollow, with eyes like coal. They were wandering the edges of the fog now, murmuring incoherent names, as if the forest itself had rewritten their memories.
Rowan didn't wait. He ran toward the sound, toward the edges of the fog, toward the unknown. The mist twisted around him, voices weaving together — his sister's laughter, the cries of children he didn't know, and something else… something deep and hungry that seemed to watch him from every shadow.
Somewhere in the distance, a tree groaned as though straining under an impossible weight. Rowan pressed on. Survival wasn't just a matter of running tonight; it was about seeing the Hollow for what it truly was — and facing whatever waited at its heart.
And he had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, it had been waiting for him.