Sam's pov:
The rules were simple: never go out late at night.
Everyone in town knew them, though no one dared to say them out loud. If you asked why, you'd just get the same look-tight lips, darting eyes, the kind of silence that said more than words ever could. But I knew the reason. We all did.
There was something out there. A creature. It watched from the shadows, waiting, listening. If it saw you, it would take you. If you spoke of it, even whispered its name, it only made things worse. The old folks said it fed on fear, and this town had given it plenty.
My name is Sam, and I grew up with those rules carved into me like commandments. Some kids got bedtime stories; I got warnings about what happens if you linger after dark. "Be home before the streetlights flicker out." "Don't look toward the woods." "Don't talk about what you think you saw."
I used to think the rules kept us safe. Now, I know they were just cages dressed up as guidance.
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Our town, Hollow's End, wasn't the kind of place you found on a map unless you were looking for it. Tucked between a wall of woods and miles of forgotten highways, it felt more like a secret someone was trying to bury than a home. Buildings leaned with age, paint peeled from fences, and every nightfall came with an unspoken agreement: shut the doors, lock the windows, and pretend nothing was wrong.
The grocery store closed by seven sharp. The diner's neon sign flickered its last light by eight. By nine, Main Street was dead quiet, except for the rustle of leaves and the creak of the old water tower swaying in the wind. At ten, it was like the whole place held its breath.
I always wondered what kind of town lives in fear of its own streets. To outsiders, it would've looked abandoned. To us, it was survival.
But here's the thing: when you spend your whole life being told not to do something, a part of you starts to wonder what would really happen if you broke the rules.
The mornings in our town always looked the same. Gray skies hanging low over the rooftops, the air damp even in the middle of summer, and people moving about with that hurried quietness like they were trying not to draw attention to themselves.
My mom always said it was because of the rules. Keep quiet. Keep inside at night. Don't talk about what waits out there. Even when the sun was shining, folks carried that fear in their shoulders.
I cut across Main Street, backpack slung over one shoulder, and watched the town wake up. Mr. Calloway was unlocking the doors to his supermarket, jangling keys like he always did. Mrs. Tate, our school librarian, pushed her cart of old books across the street even though she didn't have to — just her habit.
The town wasn't big. You could walk from one end to the other in ten minutes, if you didn't stop at every porch for a chat. Everyone knew everyone. That's what made it feel safe. And unsafe. Because secrets had a way of spreading faster than anything else here.
I pushed open the door to the diner. The bell overhead gave a tired jingle. Inside, the usual crowd sat in their usual places: Old Man Riley at the counter sipping black coffee, the group of teenagers crammed into the corner booth daring each other to sneak out at night (they never did), and Sheriff Griggs flipping through yesterday's newspaper like the world beyond our town barely mattered.
"Morning, Sam," Riley rasped without looking at me.
I nodded, slid into a booth, and tried not to think about the itch in the back of my head — the one whispering questions I wasn't supposed to ask.
The beast. The rules. The shadows.
Everyone pretended to live normally, but the silence in the room was always too heavy. The kind of silence that made you feel like someone, or something, was listening.
The final bell rang, echoing through the empty hallways. Kids poured out, backpacks swinging, voices loud as if to shake off the weight of the day. I was heading home when Matthew caught up with me, jogging to match my pace.
"Hey, Sam," he said, grinning. "Bet you won't do it."
"Do what?" I asked, trying not to let my chest tighten.
Matthew leaned closer, eyes glinting. "Go out tonight. Stay past curfew. See if it's real."
I stopped. "You mean… the monster?"
Matthew's grin faltered slightly. He glanced around, lowering his voice. "Don't speak about it too loud," he said. "People are listening. Yes, him."
My stomach sank. Even saying the name felt wrong, like calling it out would invite it closer. Everyone in town knew the same rules: never speak its name, never draw attention, never let it know you were thinking about it. I nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"I dare you," Matthew continued, eyes gleaming. "If you're too scared, you'll never know. But if you go… you might finally see why everyone freaks out after dark."
By the time the sun sank beneath the rooftops, I had made up my mind.
I slipped out of the house later than usual, backpack slung over one shoulder. The streets were empty, quiet except for the creak of the water tower and the rustle of leaves. My pulse hammered in my ears.
I told myself I wasn't afraid. I had to know.
The low, dragging sound from the The low, dragging sound from the woods froze me in place. My pulse was a drum in my ears. I wanted to run, but my legs refused.
Then a voice cut through the night:
"Shh… he'll hear you."
woods froze me in place. My pulse was a drum in my ears. I wanted to run, but my legs refused.
Then a voice cut through the night:
"Shh… he'll hear you."
Then a voice cut through the night:
"Shh… he'll hear you." He said.
I spun around. A man stepped from the shadows — tall, broad, with eyes that seemed to pierce the darkness. His movements were careful, precise, like he'd done this a hundred times. Somehow, I recognized him immediately, though I didn't know from where.
"Follow me," he whispered, gesturing toward the safety of the nearby streets.
I hesitated, but something in his presence — calm, confident — made me obey.
Once we were out of the trees, the man finally spoke. "What are you doing out so late? Has anyone ever told you the rules? Not to be out this late?"
I let out a half-laugh, sarcasm creeping into my voice despite my nerves. "No offense, but I was gonna ask the same question. Why are you out this late?"
He glanced at me but didn't answer immediately. Instead, he guided me carefully, silently, toward my house. "I'll tell you when I get you inside… tomorrow," he finally said.
We reached my front door, and before I could protest, the front porch light flicked on. My parents were there, panic written across their faces.
"Sam! Where have you been?!" my mother exclaimed, rushing to grab me.
The man — Danny — didn't introduce himself. He just stood back, watching.
"I saw him wandering around at night," he said simply, his voice calm but firm. "I'm just glad I got him here before… you know what."
My parents turned toward him, still shaking, offering him food, a place to stay. He shook his head, almost dismissively. "No, thank you. I don't like anyone. I have to get back home."
Before I could ask him more, he was gone, disappearing into the shadows from which he had appeared, leaving only a trail of quiet tension behind.
I collapsed onto the couch, still trying to process everything that had just happened. My parents hovered over me, worry etched into every line of their faces.
"Sam… where have you been?" my mother asked again, softer this time, almost in disbelief.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The memory of Danny's calm, intense gaze, and his warning echoed in my mind.
And outside, the night still waited.