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The morning light did nothing to chase away the unease clawing at Vanessa’s chest. Shadows still clung to the corners of her room as if reluctant to let go. The deep scratch on the door was real—she had run her fingers over it more than once, feeling the raw edges where the wood had been torn.
Something had been outside her door last night. Something that wasn’t human.
She needed answers.
Vanessa stepped into the hallway, every step careful, her ears tuned for any sound. The Hollow Inn was quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It was the kind of quiet that hummed with something unseen, something waiting.
Downstairs, the innkeeper was behind the front desk, her thin fingers slowly polishing a tarnished key. She didn’t look up when Vanessa approached.
"I need to ask you something," Vanessa said, keeping her voice steady.
The old woman exhaled through her nose, still not looking up. "You should leave."
Vanessa tightened her grip on her notebook. "I got a note last night. Someone—something—was outside my door." She hesitated. "And I saw the newspaper. Black Hollow disappeared in 1962. But it’s here. And so are you."
The innkeeper’s hands stilled.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, she lifted her head. Her eyes were pale, almost colorless, like fog rolling over dead water.
"You ask too many questions."
Vanessa swallowed. "I’m a journalist. It’s my job."
The woman’s gaze darkened. "Your job won’t matter if you’re dead."
A chill crawled up Vanessa’s spine. She wanted to push, demand more, but something in the woman’s tone—something final—made her pause.
Before she could say anything else, the bell above the inn’s door jingled.
A man stepped inside. He was older, his face lined with deep wrinkles, his clothes faded and worn. His eyes locked onto Vanessa, and she swore she saw recognition flicker there—though she had never seen him before in her life.
"New girl should go," he muttered. "Before it finds her."
Vanessa frowned. "Before what finds me?"
The man hesitated, glancing at the innkeeper. Her expression didn’t change, but something unsaid passed between them.
Then he turned back to Vanessa and said, "The thing that took this town."
The air left her lungs.
The innkeeper let out a slow breath. "Don’t say its name."
The man’s mouth tightened. "Names give power. And it’s already watching her."
Vanessa’s heart pounded. "What is watching me?"
The man licked his lips, hesitating. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:
"The Hollow Man."
The room seemed to shrink around her, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.
The innkeeper’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood. "You fool," she hissed. "Do you want to call it here?"
The man’s hands trembled. He took a step back. "It already knows."
A gust of wind howled through the inn, rattling the windows. The front door—though it had been firmly shut—creaked open an inch.
Vanessa’s breath hitched.
Outside, through the tiny gap in the door, something stood in the fog.
Tall. Motionless.
Waiting.
And though it had no face, she could feel its gaze locked onto her.
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The morning light did nothing to chase away the unease clawing at Vanessa’s chest. Shadows still clung to the corners of her room as if reluctant to let go. The deep scratch on the door was real—she had run her fingers over it more than once, feeling the raw edges where the wood had been torn.
Something had been outside her door last night. Something that wasn’t human.
She needed answers.
Vanessa stepped into the hallway, every step careful, her ears tuned for any sound. The Hollow Inn was quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It was the kind of quiet that hummed with something unseen, something waiting.
Downstairs, the innkeeper was behind the front desk, her thin fingers slowly polishing a tarnished key. She didn’t look up when Vanessa approached.
"I need to ask you something," Vanessa said, keeping her voice steady.
The old woman exhaled through her nose, still not looking up. "You should leave."
Vanessa tightened her grip on her notebook. "I got a note last night. Someone—something—was outside my door." She hesitated. "And I saw the newspaper. Black Hollow disappeared in 1962. But it’s here. And so are you."
The innkeeper’s hands stilled.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, she lifted her head. Her eyes were pale, almost colorless, like fog rolling over dead water.
"You ask too many questions."
Vanessa swallowed. "I’m a journalist. It’s my job."
The woman’s gaze darkened. "Your job won’t matter if you’re dead."
A chill crawled up Vanessa’s spine. She wanted to push, demand more, but something in the woman’s tone—something final—made her pause.
Before she could say anything else, the bell above the inn’s door jingled.
A man stepped inside. He was older, his face lined with deep wrinkles, his clothes faded and worn. His eyes locked onto Vanessa, and she swore she saw recognition flicker there—though she had never seen him before in her life.
"New girl should go," he muttered. "Before it finds her."
Vanessa frowned. "Before what finds me?"
The man hesitated, glancing at the innkeeper. Her expression didn’t change, but something unsaid passed between them.
Then he turned back to Vanessa and said, "The thing that took this town."
The air left her lungs.
The innkeeper let out a slow breath. "Don’t say its name."
The man’s mouth tightened. "Names give power. And it’s already watching her."
Vanessa’s heart pounded. "What is watching me?"
The man licked his lips, hesitating. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:
"The Hollow Man."
The room seemed to shrink around her, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.
The innkeeper’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood. "You fool," she hissed. "Do you want to call it here?"
The man’s hands trembled. He took a step back. "It already knows."
A gust of wind howled through the inn, rattling the windows. The front door—though it had been firmly shut—creaked open an inch.
Vanessa’s breath hitched.
Outside, through the tiny gap in the door, something stood in the fog.
Tall. Motionless.
Waiting.
And though it had no face, she could feel its gaze locked onto her.
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