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Stakewins777

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Everything posted by Stakewins777

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  11. 🎃 The Hollow Beneath Brookridge 🎃 Every Halloween in Brookridge, children vanished. Not many — just one. Always one. And always on Halloween night. The adults called it coincidence. The kids called it The Hollow. Eleven-year-old Rowan didn’t believe either of them… not until his best friend Milo disappeared while trick-or-treating. What Rowan remembered most was the balloon — a dull, muddy orange, like it had been dug out from underground — floating above Milo’s head right before he was taken. No one else saw it. This year, Halloween returned. And The Hollow wanted another child. The night smelled like damp earth and rotting leaves. Rowan walked the streets with a flashlight and a shaking hand, scanning every puddle, every sewer grate. The Hollow lived underneath the town, in the old drainage tunnels that predated Brookridge itself. And it always watched from below. A whisper slid up through the gutter grill: “Rowan… aren’t you lonely?” He froze. The voice sounded like Milo’s — hopeful, scared, hungry. Another balloon rose, scraping against rusted metal bars. This one was pitch-black, absorbing every bit of light around it. Rowan backed away, but a hand — thin, gray, fingers far too long — reached up and pressed against the grate, nails scraping. SCRAAAAATCH. “Milo? Is that you?” Rowan whispered. The shadow beneath the grate giggled — a wet, choking sound. “Not anymore.” The grate burst open like a trapdoor. Rowan fell as the creature surged upward: a grin carved too wide, eyes glowing the color of old pumpkins, costume stitched from stolen children’s clothes. Its mouth split into rows of thorn-like teeth. It smelled like the grave. The Hollow had taken many shapes over the years, each stolen from a child’s fear. Tonight, it wore Halloween itself. Rowan scrambled back, but the creature whispered: “Halloween is when we feed. And you are already chosen.” Children up and down the street turned toward him — but their smiles were wrong. Their mouths were too wide. Their eyes, pumpkin-orange. Balloons rose from their hands like puppets on strings. They started walking. Rowan ran — but the night ran with him. The fog swallowed every scream. The creature slipped into the shadows, its voice echoing from every direction: “One child each year… unless we take them all.” And for the first time in Brookridge history… There were no adults outside to stop it. Id:Stakewins777
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