Alex tightened the straps of their backpack and stepped off the creaking bus, the gravel crunching under worn boots. Hollow Creek stretched before them like a forgotten painting, edges fading into the looming shadows of surrounding hills. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a dim amber glow over the narrow streets. At first glance, it looked quaint, almost charming, but there was something about the town that pressed against Alex's chest—a weight that didn't belong.
From the very first moment, the air seemed heavier. The houses were old, more than just aged; their wood groaned and sagged, paint peeling in long, curling strips. Windows were dark, some cracked, and even the doors seemed reluctant to open. Occasionally, someone watched from a porch, their gaze lingering just a fraction too long, before disappearing around a corner like a shadow dissolving into dusk.
"Excuse me," Alex called to a man tending a rusty mailbox. "I'm looking for the Miller residence?"
The man paused, head cocked to one side, lips pressing into a thin line. His eyes were pale, almost colorless, reflecting the dying sun. "You'll find it at the end of Hollow Street. Just… don't wander off," he said in a low, deliberate whisper. There was an edge to it, a warning that didn't quite reach words. Alex nodded politely, forcing a smile that felt unnatural. The townspeople clearly didn't take strangers lightly.
The journey down Hollow Street was unnervingly quiet. The only sounds were Alex's own footsteps on the uneven gravel and the faint rustle of leaves in the dying light. Yet something felt off. Shadows stretched too long, bending and curling in ways that made no sense. Alex's eyes flicked to a particularly dark corner between two old oak trees, catching a movement that vanished almost instantly. A trick of the light, they told themselves. But their stomach tightened anyway.
The Miller house appeared as the last sun dipped behind the hills. It was a tall, narrow structure, painted a dark brown so close to black that it seemed to swallow the light. Its windows reflected the sky like polished eyes, and the front porch sagged as if weighed down by decades of secrets. Alex hesitated at the gate, the metal cold beneath their fingers. The house seemed to exhale, a subtle shifting in the shadows at its edges. Something about it was alive, or at least pretending to be.
"Alex?" The voice was soft but carried through the still air. A woman stepped from the side door, her smile polite yet stiff, almost rehearsed. "I'm Mrs. Miller. Welcome to Hollow Creek."
"Thank you," Alex replied, feeling the chill in their chest deepen. "I'm here for the story… about the disappearances."
Mrs. Miller's eyes flickered, just for a second. Something unreadable passed through them. "Yes… stories," she said softly, turning to lead Alex inside. "But some stories are better left alone."
The interior smelled of dust and old wood, faintly mixed with something sharper, metallic, almost like blood. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, stretching unnaturally as the last light faded. The floorboards groaned under each step, and Alex felt the house's attention as palpably as if it were breathing. Family portraits lined the walls: faces frozen in time, smiles painted, eyes dark and hollow. They seemed to watch Alex with a familiarity that made their skin crawl.
Alex set down their bag, attempting to settle in. The room was silent except for the soft tick of a grandfather clock in the hall. The town outside looked calm from this vantage point, but the quiet felt deliberate, heavy.
As night fell, the darkness pressed closer, and Alex could hear it: a whisper, carried on the wind, curling around the eaves of the house.
"Alex…"
Their heart pounded, pulse hammering in their ears. Alex froze. The street outside was empty, the trees unmoving. And yet, the whisper came again, clearer this time, almost inside their own mind, a sibilant invitation.
Alex shook their head, forcing themselves to believe it was the wind, their imagination, nerves stretched thin by isolation. But even as they scribbled notes in their journal, fear settled in their chest like a stone. Hollow Creek was not just a town. It was a presence. Watching. Waiting. And perhaps, judging.
When the lights flickered once, then settled, Alex realized the house itself seemed to pulse with a rhythm all its own, a quiet heartbeat in the walls. Somewhere deep, almost beneath consciousness, a thought took hold: the stories they had come to investigate might not be stories at all.
And the Hollow was listening.