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.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Here’s a short story titled It didn’t matter how many locks she put on the door. Elara knew—the night always found a way in. Fear the Night
She could hold her breath. She’d done it before—minutes at a time, until her lungs burned and stars burst behind her eyes. But the mist was patient. It always waited. Elara’s father had become Hollow three winters ago