Night | Fear The

The door rattled. Not a slam. Just a soft, patient testing of the lock. Then the voice again, clearer now, almost gentle.

“See what?” The words escaped before she could stop them. Fear the Night

Elara’s father had become Hollow three winters ago. She remembered him coming inside at dusk, shaking mist from his coat. “It’s nothing,” he’d said, coughing. “Just a little fog.” That night, she heard him get up. Walk to the door. Open it. She’d screamed, grabbed his arm, but he didn’t turn around. His eyes were already the color of old milk. The door rattled

She hadn’t. She couldn’t have. She checked every night. Twice. Then the voice again, clearer now, almost gentle

Not through the windows, not through the cracks in the foundation, but through the soft, unguarded places behind her eyes. The places where sleep lived. Or was supposed to.

Slow. Measured. Not frantic. Hollow never hurried.

Tonight, the footsteps came.