The first thing Michael noticed about Hollow Creek was how quiet it was.
Not the kind of quiet that lets you hear your own thoughts — the kind that makes you notice everything else. Every creaking sign, every rustle of leaves, even the faintest drip of water from a gutter seemed louder than it should be
He had only been in the town for half a day, but already it felt strange. Too still. Too clean. Cars passed occasionally, but the drivers waved politely, smiling in a way that seemed rehearsed. The houses were all too similar — neat lawns, identical curtains, front porches that looked like they had stepped straight out of a postcard. Michael pressed his backpack straps tighter against his shoulders as the taxi pulled into his grandmother's driveway. Grandma Nina's house was slightly older than the others, with creeping ivy on the brick and a porch swing that squeaked in the wind. She was waiting at the door, hands clasped, face bright and warm. "Michael! My boy! Come here!" He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should run or hug her. He hadn't seen her much since he was a little kid, and now she seemed impossibly small but impossibly strong at the same time. Her hair was a silver halo around her face, and her eyes — those deep brown eyes — held something he couldn't name. "Hi," he muttered. "Hi? Hi? That's all you've got after traveling all day? Come in, come in! " she said, ushering him into the house. The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread hit him immediately. "I've got dinner ready and your favorite — mashed potatoes, of course. You'll need something warm after a long trip." Michael forced a small smile. "Thanks." Inside, the house was warm, cluttered with trinkets and family photos. Every surface seemed to have a memory attached: an old clock ticking on the wall, porcelain figurines of birds, faded letters in jars. The walls hummed faintly with life, though it wasn't electricity; he couldn't explain it. After dinner, he wandered the house quietly. Grandma Nina had retired early, humming as she washed the dishes. Michael found himself in the backyard, alone, staring at the shed. His fingers brushed the old wooden boards, and he noticed a small patch of earth that looked disturbed. On impulse, he knelt and started digging with his hands. That's when he hit something hard. Michael pulled at the dirt until he uncovered an old brass key, tarnished and cold. Symbols swirled along its handle, intricate and unfamiliar. He stared at it, heart hammering. "Grandma?" he called, holding it out. Grandma Nina appeared at the edge of the yard, her hands clasped in front of her, but she didn't smile. She froze, her eyes wide for just a second, then softened. "Some things," she said gently, taking the key from him, "aren't meant to be touched." Michael frowned. "What is it?", "An old trinket," she said lightly, hiding the tremor in her voice. "Nothing more." That night, Michael lay in the small guest room, staring at the ceiling. The town outside seemed to hold its breath. Every so often, a crow cawed, or a streetlamp flickered, and he would jump. Then came the sound. A low, steady hum, faint but impossible to ignore. It seemed to come from beneath the house, under the ground, under everything. He pressed his ear to the floor. And then he heard it clearly. A whisper — soft, almost loving, yet impossibly strange. "Michael…"
He bolted upright. The voice stopped, leaving only the hum. Sweat prickled his skin. The next morning, Grandma Nina was in the kitchen before sunrise, humming as she made coffee and flipped pancakes. Michael watched her move around, effortless and comforting, and he wanted to ask her about last night. About the whisper. About the hum. But he didn't.
Instead, he helped her in the garden. She handed him a small trowel and smiled. "Every boy needs fresh air." As he dug near the shed, the trowel hit something solid. He knelt, brushing away the dirt to reveal… another key. Smaller, simpler, but definitely old. When he showed it to her, Grandma Nina froze again, her eyes darkening for just a heartbeat. Then she smiled, a little too quickly. "Careful, Michael. Some doors you find aren't meant to be opened." The rest of the day passed strangely. Michael tried to meet the neighbors, but no one seemed to notice him. He walked past the diner; the bell jingled as he entered, but the few people inside barely looked up. He felt like a ghost wandering a town that didn't quite belong to him. By evening, he returned to the backyard. The wind had picked up. The crow was back, perched silently on the fence, watching him with its jet-black eyes. Michael felt a shiver crawl down his spine. He wanted to run, but something kept him there, staring at the darkened woods beyond the yard. That night, the humming returned, louder, closer. And then, under the sheets, a whisper again, soft, repeating: "Return… Michael… return…" Michael shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Hollow Creek didn't feel like home. Not yet. And he had the sinking feeling that something in this quiet little town had been waiting for him all along.