Hollow Hollow Novels & Stories

Because what the hell is giving him the impression that we would see them and come back alive? He holds my shoulders comfortingly, and I let him. Maybe because I needed that more than anything else but my pride is getting the best of me. "If they're the creatures my father told me about, then they are a rare kind of beast that feeds on any creature their victims are. Nobody knows what they really are. Survivors just started calling them the Hollowed after seeing their empty eyes. The good news is that their senses are dead unless they come face to face with their victims, and according to Father, if you are bold and fast enough to say what softens their heart, they are most likely to listen.

"That the Hollow is going to keep testing every relationship I have, every gap it can find between me and the people I love, until one of those gaps finally gives." "Testing how," Vaelith pressed. "What does it actually do." "It looks for grief and distance and fear," I said. "Anything unresolved. Then it presses on it until something breaks. That's how it fed before. That's how it will keep feeding if I let it."

The graveyard was so neat. Row upon row of white marble tombstones all rising from the thick blanket of snow. Each one was perfect, polished and exactly the same as all of the others, except the name it bore. They were lined up perfectly with those in front and behind, a city block for the dead. Life is but a roaming shadow, a pitiable thespian. Who struts and frets his few moments upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale imparted by a foolish wit, full of noise and fury... yet meaningless nonetheless.

A mist-walker born of whispers and midnight mist, belonging nowhere, belonging to no one. The Hollow was the only world I had ever known. A sprawling fortress of black stone and mist-clung corridors deep within a forest older than the oldest gods. To its warriors and noble-born candidates, the Hollow was holy ground. To its servants — those of low birth, half-breeds, mist-born or cursed — it was a prison. To me, it was both.

“But they were never meant to contain it.” Kye reached for me as we passed the threshold. “Stay close.” The Hollows were as I remembered—wet air, shadows that moved too slow, trees that leaned just a little too far inward. It was a place the world tried to forget. It remembered us. Every footstep echoed like memory dragging itself behind us. Mira drew her blade. “Don’t speak unless you have to. It feeds on sound.” Finnick tapped his temple. “And thoughts.” Kye muttered, “Perfect.”

It barely cut through the thick air, but it was enough to reveal symbols—etched into every surface, moving like snakes beneath glass. Damien wiped the blood from his temple and looked around. “Where the hell are we?” “I think…” I swallowed. “We’re inside the Hollow.” Theo turned sharply. “Impossible. The Hollow is metaphysical. It’s not a place you fall into—” “Tell that to my ribs,” Damien grunted. “No,” I interrupted. “It’s not just a place. It’s a living thing. And Mira’s been feeding it.” That silenced them. I took a shaky step forward, drawn by the faint thrum in the sword. It pulsed in my hand like a heartbeat, syncing with the glow beneath our feet.

“We called him Xeroth because we needed a name to shape our fear. But he was never whole. He was only a piece… a scout, you could say. Sent ahead to test the locks on the prison. To whisper into dreams. To see how far we’d fallen.” Dorian took a step forward, eyes narrowing. “Then what’s the real enemy?” Silas’s voice dropped. “We called it the Hollowing. A force that doesn't devour flesh, but meaning. Identity. It turns memory to dust and leaves behind shells wolves who don’t remember why they ever loved. Covens who forget their names. Bloodlines hollowed out from the inside until nothing remains but hunger.” Seraphina felt the cold thread its way up her spine. “And now?” she asked.

The pressure it carried weakened. The cold thinned. The emptiness cracked. It stepped forward again— And collapsed. Not violently. Not explosively. It simply… fell apart. Like a shadow losing its source of light. The others followed. One by one. Breaking. Dissolving. Fading into nothing. Silence fell over the Hollow. Real silence this time. No pressure. No presence. No watching. Gone. --- No one moved. No one spoke. Because we all felt it. Not relief.

Thunder cracked above, but it wasn’t natural thunder it was rhythmic, steady… like a chant. The Hollow had returned. But twisted.

Cyril’s body lay motionless near the altar, but his last spell lingered like poison in the air and then the Hollow rose. It wasn’t a beast, not really, but it was ancient and vast, with eyes that looked like they remembered every sin ever committed under a moon. Its form rippled, half-wolf, half-human, and sometimes something worse. When it spoke, the sound came from everywhere at once: the air, the ground and my pulse.