The Hollow Calls

The scream tore through the walls like a blade through silk—shrill, guttural, wrong.

Alya’s breath caught in her throat as every instinct screamed at her to run. But her body wouldn’t move. Not yet. Not while the sound of that voice—inhuman, but laced with something horribly familiar—still echoed through the bones of the house.

Lucien was already moving, shadows clinging to his form like armor. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist—not gently.

“Do not wander from me,” he hissed.

“I wasn’t planning on taking a damn stroll!”

Another scream—closer. And with it, the sound of something wet dragging across the floorboards downstairs.

Alya’s eyes darted to the mirror. It no longer reflected either of them. Just the empty room.

“What the hell is that?” she whispered.

Lucien didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on the door, now pulsing faintly with silver light.

Then came the thud.

Heavy. Rhythmic.

Step.

Step.

Drag.

“Lucien,” she said, voice trembling, “what’s coming up those stairs?”

He turned to her. And this time, he looked nothing like a man—his fangs were bared, eyes glowing like dying stars.

“Something that was buried beneath this house before even your bloodline claimed it. A wraith bound by hunger and memory.”

Alya didn’t like the way his voice caught on that last word—memory—like there was more to it.

The thuds grew louder.

Step.

Step.

Drag.

She backed away as shadows began to stretch unnaturally beneath the doorway—long, clawed, reaching.

And then the singing returned. That same lullaby, only slower. Closer. Sung by a voice that sounded more corpse than child.

“Blood to stone, and bone to flame…

The Hollow calls you by your name…”

The door exploded inward.

Alya screamed as Lucien threw her to the ground, shielding her as a shape lunged through the threshold—twisted, skeletal, its mouth stretched in a mockery of a smile.

But before it could reach her, Lucien slammed it into the wall with a snarl, his hand burning with violet fire.

The creature shrieked—shrill and pitiful—but it didn’t retreat.

It laughed.

“You can’t protect her, guardian,” it hissed. “You couldn’t protect her, either.”

Lucien froze.

Alya saw it—that flicker. The crack in the mask.

The wraith grinned wider. “She begged for you. Died calling your name.”

Alya’s blood ran cold.

“Who is it talking about?” she whispered. “Lucien... what is it talking about?”

But Lucien didn’t answer.

Because his silence said it all.

Whoever this creature had been—whoever it remembered—

It had something to do with her grandmother.

And maybe… with the curse now sinking its teeth into Alya’s own soul.

~~~~~

The wraith’s laughter lingered in the air like the stench of rot, filling the space between Alya and Lucien with a suffocating tension. The creature’s eyes glowed, blood-red and unblinking, its skeletal fingers twitching in the air as if testing the weight of the room.

Alya’s pulse was a drumbeat in her ears, drowning out everything but the flickering shadows and the unholy presence that loomed before her.

Lucien's grip tightened on her shoulder, his eyes narrowed, body taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

"Get back," he growled, his voice barely more than a low rumble.

Alya tried to stand, but her legs felt like they were made of stone, the air in the room thick and oppressive, weighing her down. The wraith’s voice slithered through the air again, like a whisper in her mind.

"She begged for you," it crooned. "She called to you. Just like you’ll call to me."

Alya’s stomach lurched. "Who are you talking about?" she demanded, forcing her voice to sound strong, though every fiber of her being was trembling.

Lucien shot her a look, his face tight with something dark—something personal. For a split second, his eyes flickered with a haunted memory, but then the expression was gone, replaced by cold indifference.

“Don’t listen to it,” he warned, his tone sharp. “It lies.”

But the wraith wasn’t finished.

“You think I lie?” it hissed, its voice a rasping echo in the silent room. “I remember her. I remember all of you.”

Alya’s heart skipped a beat.

Her grandmother.

It knew her grandmother.

Before she could say anything, the wraith took a step forward, its form shifting—stretching, contorting—as if the very air around it couldn’t contain its power. In that moment, Alya caught a glimpse of something familiar in its gaze. The flicker of recognition.

Lucien cursed, stepping in front of her with lightning speed, his body crackling with dark energy.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lucien hissed at the creature, his voice laced with something raw, unfiltered. There was no bravado left. Only desperation.

The wraith tilted its head, its smile stretching wider.

“Ah,” it said softly. “The Guardian. Still trying to protect what’s already lost?”

Alya felt a chill run down her spine. Something wasn’t right. Lucien wasn’t just fighting for her. He was fighting for something—someone—he’d lost.

The wraith continued, its voice a chilling rasp. “You failed her. You failed them both.”

Lucien’s expression twisted, a flash of pain flashing across his face. But just as quickly, it disappeared, replaced by a cold fury. With a growl, he extended his hand, and dark, swirling tendrils of power erupted from his palm, crashing into the wraith. The creature howled, its form crackling like an old fire, burning but not dying. It reeled back, but its laughter grew louder.

“You can’t banish me so easily,” the wraith spat, its voice now shifting to a deeper, more guttural tone. “Not while she still belongs to the Hollow.”

Alya’s mind raced. "What does it mean, ‘belongs to the Hollow’?"

Lucien didn’t answer. Instead, his hand flared with more energy, his whole body crackling with power, but the wraith just absorbed it, its shadowy form regenerating as quickly as Lucien could strike.

“You think you can keep her from the truth?” the wraith jeered. “The girl who wears the ring will find out soon enough.”

Alya’s breath hitched.

The ring.

The one her grandmother had kept locked away. The one that had never been meant for her.

Before she could think, the wraith lunged again, faster this time. But Lucien was ready. He struck first—fury flashing in his eyes, his body moving with preternatural speed.

But just as his energy was about to collide with the creature, the room went silent.

The wraith froze mid-attack. For a brief moment, time seemed to stretch.

Alya’s heart pounded in her chest. “What’s happening?”

Then, without warning, the wraith’s face twisted, its form distorting like a mirror cracking under pressure. It let out a low, ragged hiss and staggered back, clawing at its face.

And then, its eyes locked with Alya’s.

A cold, guttural voice seeped from its lips, one word at a time.

“She never told you...”

And with that, the wraith collapsed in on itself, dissolving into nothingness, its form scattering like ash in the wind.

The room went eerily quiet.

Lucien was still, his hand hanging midair as if he were waiting for the wraith to reappear, but the air had shifted. It was as if it had never been there at all.

Alya’s hands were shaking as she steadied herself against the wall. The silence felt suffocating.

“What did it mean?” she whispered, but Lucien didn’t respond immediately.

He was staring at the spot where the wraith had stood, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Lucien?” Her voice broke through the heavy silence.

Lucien turned slowly to face her, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“It’s just the beginning,” he said, voice low, a warning. “That wraith was only the messenger.”

“Messenger?” Alya repeated, trying to process what had just happened.

“It wants you,” Lucien said, stepping toward her with slow, deliberate steps. His gaze softened, but there was an edge of urgency in his voice. “And when it comes for you again, it won’t be alone.”

Alya took a step back, her heart pounding. She couldn’t breathe. Everything she thought she knew about herself, her bloodline, her family—it was falling apart at the seams.

“What are you not telling me?” she demanded. “What’s really happening here?”

Lucien’s gaze flickered, and for the first time, Alya saw the true weight of regret in his eyes.

But just as he was about to speak, the ground beneath them shook.

The house groaned, as if waking up.

And somewhere, deep in the mansion’s bowels, a door creaked open.

“We don’t have time,” Lucien muttered, his voice grave. “It’s coming.”