The first time Maya heard the whisper, she was scrubbing the kitchen floor, her fingers raw from the abrasive cleaner. The sound slithered through the house like a snake in the grass—soft, deliberate, and wrong. She froze, the sponge dangling from her hand, as the voice curled around her thoughts. It wasn’t a voice, really, but a pressure, a weight in her skull that made her knees weak. She dropped the sponge and ran.
The town of Blackmoor clung to the edge of the forest like a wound that never healed. Pines scraped against the windows at night, their branches clawing at the glass. Maya’s new house sat at the end of a dead-end road, its foundation sagging, its paint peeling in sheets. Her father had called it a fixer-upper, but Maya saw it for what it was: a tomb. The real estate agent hadn’t mentioned the history. No one ever did.
That night, she found the journal in the attic. It was buried under a stack of yellowed newspapers, its leather cover cracked and brittle. The pages smelled of mildew and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe, or old perfume. The entries were dated 1987, written in a looping script that felt too careful, too precise. *Today, the hollowing began,* one entry read. *They’re coming for the children. I’ve seen them in the mirror, their eyes like black glass.*
Maya’s breath hitched. She flipped to the last entry. *I’m sorry, Maya. I tried to protect you. But the forest doesn’t forgive.*
She slammed the journal shut. The house creaked above her, as if it had been waiting.
—
The next morning, Maya met Eli at the diner. He was slouched in a booth, his dark hair falling over his eyes, a half-eaten pie in front of him. “You’re the new girl,” he said, not looking up. His voice was low, rough, like gravel in a jar.
“Yeah,” Maya said, sliding into the booth. “You’re the local historian, right?”
Eli smirked. “I’m the town’s only historian. That’s not a compliment.” He leaned forward, his eyes sharp. “What do you want to know?”
Maya hesitated. The journal’s words buzzed in her mind. “What happened to the kids who disappeared?”
Eli’s smile vanished. He glanced at the door, then back at her. “You shouldn’t ask that question.” His voice was a whisper now, almost too quiet to hear. “Some things don’t stay buried, Maya. And once you dig, you can’t stop.”
—
That afternoon, Maya wandered the woods behind the school. The trees were taller here, their trunks twisted and gnarled, their roots snaking across the ground like ancient serpents. She stopped at a clearing where a circle of stones stood, moss-covered and weathered. At the center was a hollow, a depression in the earth that smelled of damp soil and something metallic—blood, maybe.
She knelt, her fingers brushing the dirt. A shiver crawled up her spine. The air felt heavier here, thick with the weight of secrets. A twig snapped behind her. She spun, heart pounding.
No one was there. Just the trees, swaying in a wind she couldn’t feel.
—
That night, the whisper returned. It wasn’t in her head this time. It was in the house, sliding through the cracks in the walls, whispering her name. Maya bolted upright, her sheets soaked with sweat. The room was cold, but her skin burned as if she’d been dipped in fire.
She grabbed the journal and ran outside. The forest loomed ahead, its shadows deeper than usual. She didn’t know why she was going there, only that she had to. The trees closed in around her, their branches interlocking like skeletal fingers. The air smelled of decay and something sweet, like rotting flowers.
Then she saw it—a figure standing at the edge of the clearing. Tall, thin, its face obscured by a hood. It didn’t move. It just stood there, waiting.
Maya’s breath came in short, ragged gasps. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
The figure tilted its head. When it spoke, its voice was her mother’s.
“I’m sorry,” it said. “But you’re part of the hollowing now.”
—
The next morning, Maya stood at the edge of the clearing, the journal clutched to her chest. The figure was gone, but the air still hummed with its presence. She didn’t know what to do, only that she couldn’t run anymore.
Eli found her there later, his face pale. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice tight with something like fear.
“I know,” Maya whispered. “But I can’t stop.”
The forest seemed to listen. The wind died. The trees stood still. And in the silence, Maya heard it again—the whisper, louder this time, and not just in her head. It was everywhere. It was her.
The hollowing had begun.
