The air tasted like iron by the time Mara reached the edge of the woods. She paused, her boots crunching over frost-bitten leaves, and glanced back at the town behind her—its crooked rooftops glowing faintly in the predawn dark. The forest had always been a place of whispers, but tonight it felt different, heavier, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath. She tightened her grip on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom like a knife. Somewhere in here, her father’s journal had to be. She didn’t know why she’d come back. The town had told her to let it go. Her mother’s voice still echoed in her head: *Some things aren’t meant to be found.* But Mara had never been good at letting go.
The journal was hidden beneath a tangle of roots, its leather cover cracked and stained with dirt. She pried it free, her fingers trembling as she flipped to the last entry. *The Hollowing isn’t a place,* it read. *It’s a thing. A hunger. It takes what it wants, and it never stops.* Her breath hitched. She’d read this before, years ago, when her father still smiled at dinner tables. Back then, he’d called it a myth, a story the old folks told to keep kids from wandering too far. Now the words felt like a warning.
A twig snapped behind her. Mara spun, flashlight shaking in her hand. Nothing but shadows. She told herself it was the wind. But the forest had never been silent. Not really. The rustle of leaves, the creak of branches—it all added up to something alive, something watching. She forced herself to move, her boots sinking into the mud as she pressed deeper. The journal’s pages fluttered in her grip, as if urging her forward.
The clearing appeared suddenly, its center marked by a circle of stones. Mara’s pulse thrummed. She’d been here before, years ago, when her father had dragged her out for a ‘nature lesson.’ He’d pointed at the stones, their surfaces etched with symbols she couldn’t read. *This is what they call the Hollowing,* he’d said. *A wound in the world. Don’t touch anything.* But now the symbols glowed faintly, their edges flickering like candle flames. Mara stepped closer, her breath fogging in the cold air. The journal slipped from her hands, landing with a soft thud. She bent to pick it up, and that’s when she saw it—a hole in the ground, just beyond the stones. It wasn’t natural. The edges were too smooth, too precise. Like something had been dug there recently.
A voice cut through the silence. “You shouldn’t be here.” Mara froze. The speaker was tall, their face obscured by a hood, but their voice was sharp, edged with something like amusement. “This place isn’t for tourists.” Mara’s hand went to her pocket, where she’d tucked a switchblade her mother hadn’t noticed. “Who are you?” she demanded. The figure stepped into the light, revealing a woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that seemed too bright. “Name’s Veyra,” she said. “And you’re in over your head, kid.”
The journal’s words echoed in Mara’s mind: *It takes what it wants.* She didn’t know if Veyra was the thing or the cure, but she knew one thing—this wasn’t a game anymore.
—
The town of Blackvale had always been a place of half-truths. Its streets were lined with houses that creaked like old bones, and its people spoke in whispers about the Hollowing. Mara had grown up hearing the stories—the ones about children who wandered too far and never came back, about the strange lights that flickered in the woods at night. But her father had been different. He’d laughed at the myths, called them superstitions. Until he vanished.
The day he disappeared, Mara had been at school, her head buried in a textbook. She didn’t remember the exact time, only that her mother had called her later, her voice trembling. “They found his car,” she’d said. “But no sign of him.” The police had searched the woods, but all they’d found was a trail of disturbed earth and a single boot left behind. No body. No clues. Just the lingering sense that something had taken him.
Mara hadn’t believed it at first. She’d waited for him to come home, for the phone to ring, for the door to open. But weeks passed, then months, and the town moved on. Her mother stopped answering calls. The neighbors avoided her. Even Jax, her best friend since childhood, had stopped coming over. “I don’t know what you want me to do,” he’d said the last time they’d spoken. “This isn’t your fight.” But Mara had known it was. Her father had left behind more than just a missing person report—he’d left a puzzle, and she was determined to solve it.
Now, standing in the clearing with Veyra, she felt the weight of that determination. The woman’s gaze lingered on the journal in Mara’s hands. “You really don’t know what you’re dealing with, do you?” she said. Mara shook her head. “Then listen,” Veyra said. “The Hollowing isn’t just a place. It’s a hunger. It feeds on memories, on emotions. My people have fought it for generations. And now it’s back.”
Mara’s mind raced. “Why?” Veyra’s expression darkened. “Because someone woke it. And if you don’t stop them, it’ll take everything you love.”
—
The next few days were a blur of secrets and danger. Mara learned that Veyra was part of a hidden group—keepers of the Hollowing, tasked with containing its power. They’d been watching her father for years, warning him to stay away. But he’d ignored their messages, convinced he could outsmart the thing. “He thought he could fix it,” Veyra said, her voice bitter. “But the Hollowing doesn’t bend. It consumes.”
Mara’s world shifted. The journal wasn’t just a record of her father’s research—it was a map, a guide to the Hollowing’s weaknesses. There were rituals, symbols, places where the thing could be bound. But it required a sacrifice. “A memory,” Veyra explained. “Something you can’t replace.” Mara didn’t understand it then, but she knew one thing: she couldn’t let the Hollowing win.
The town began to change. Lights flickered in the night, shadows moved when there was no wind. People started disappearing—first the quiet ones, then the loud ones. Mara’s mother vanished one evening, leaving only a note: *I’m sorry.* The police didn’t care. They said it was a coincidence. But Mara knew better. The Hollowing was here, and it was hungry.
She found the next clue in the library, hidden in a book about local folklore. The symbols matched those on the stones, but there was more—a passage about a ritual involving a mirror. “It shows the truth,” Veyra said when Mara showed her. “But it’s dangerous. You’ll see things you can’t unsee.” Mara didn’t care. She needed answers.
The mirror was in the old cemetery, tucked behind a crumbling mausoleum. When she touched it, the surface rippled, and suddenly she was somewhere else—standing in her father’s workshop, watching him write in the journal. The memory was vivid, almost real. She saw the fear in his eyes, the way he’d tried to hide it. “I can’t stop it,” he whispered. “It’s inside me now.”
The vision ended, and Mara stumbled back, her heart racing. The mirror had shown her the truth: her father hadn’t been taken. He’d been consumed. And now the Hollowing was inside him, waiting for its next victim.
—
The final confrontation came at midnight. Mara stood at the edge of the woods, the journal in one hand, a knife in the other. Veyra had warned her it wouldn’t be easy. “It’ll try to trick you,” she’d said. “It’ll show you what you want to see.” But Mara was ready. She’d spent weeks preparing, learning the symbols, the rituals, the cost of victory.
The Hollowing appeared as a shadow, shifting and writhing like smoke. It spoke in her father’s voice, offering her a way out. “You don’t have to do this,” it said. “Just let go. Let it take you.” Mara’s hands shook, but she held her ground. “No,” she said. “I won’t let it win.”
The battle was silent, fought in the space between thoughts. The Hollowing lashed out, trying to pull her into its depths, but Mara countered with the symbols from the journal, each one a shield against its hunger. The air crackled with energy, and for a moment, she thought it might work. Then the mirror’s reflection flared, and she saw it—her father’s face, twisted in pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But I have to go.”
Mara’s heart broke, but she didn’t stop. She pressed the knife into the ground, carving a final symbol. The Hollowing screamed, a sound that echoed through the trees, and then it was gone. The woods fell silent.
In the aftermath, Mara stood alone, the journal closed in her hands. Veyra found her later, sitting on the edge of the clearing. “It’s over,” she said. Mara nodded, but she knew the truth: the Hollowing would return. It always did. But for now, it was gone. And that was enough.
—
The town of Blackvale never spoke of what happened. The police called it a series of unexplained disappearances. The neighbors avoided the woods, their eyes wary. Mara went back to school, but she wasn’t the same. She carried the journal with her, a reminder of what she’d lost and what she’d saved.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, she’d hear a whisper in the wind, like her father’s voice. But she didn’t answer. The Hollowing was gone, and so was the hunger.
And that was enough.
