GRIMM AND HOLLOW

The air in Hollow smelled of rain and rot.

Detective Isaac Grimm rolled down his window, taking in the eerie quiet of the small town. The dampness clung to his skin, a reminder of the constant drizzle that had followed him for miles. He stared at the desolate streets, where not a single person walked, not even a stray animal darted across the road. It was a place that looked forgotten by time. Houses, worn and crumbling, sat like gravestones, their windows dark, empty, and hollow, as though they were watching him with suspicion.

A chill ran down his spine. Not the kind of cold that came from the weather—it was something else. Something wrong. It clung to the air like a thick fog, suffocating.

Hollow had always been that way. Growing up, he had heard the stories, whispers of the dark things that lived in the shadows. Old wives’ tales, his father would say, dismissing the fear with a wave of his hand. But the stories never really went away. They lingered like a bad memory. Shadows creeping at night, a strange church that never seemed to close its doors.

Grimm didn’t believe in ghost stories. Not anymore. Not after what happened to his partner two years ago. Back then, he thought the world operated on logic, on patterns that could be unravelled. That was until the night he watched something impossible tear apart the only person he trusted. Something his mind couldn’t explain—something worse than death.

The creak of the leather seat as he shifted reminded him of the here and now. This was just a job. A routine case, they had told him. A few unexplained deaths. A bit strange, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Still, something gnawed at him, a question he couldn’t shake.

Why send me?

The radio crackled, pulling him out of his thoughts. Static filled the car as a distorted voice broke through.

"Officer Grimm… Hollow Church... Report to Hollow Church."

The words were hollow, distant, as though spoken from a place far away. Grimm’s grip tightened on the wheel. He was already heading there. He didn’t need any reminders, but the voice had carried a weight to it, something unnatural that made his skin prickle.

The church sat at the heart of Hollow. A towering, crumbling structure, its stone walls dark with age, seemed to lean into the sky, as though seeking judgment. He had been here once before, years ago, for a case that still plagued his dreams. Back then, the church had been silent, a relic of the past. But tonight, it felt alive.

The car rolled to a stop, and for a moment, he hesitated. The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour, the rain tapping against the windshield like fingers trying to get in. He looked up at the church, its spires piercing the night sky, and the unsettling feeling in his gut grew stronger.

Just a job, he reminded himself.

He stepped out into the rain, pulling his coat tighter around him. The wind howled through the empty streets, carrying with it a whisper—so faint he couldn’t be sure if it was real or his imagination. The heavy doors of the church groaned as he pushed them open, the sound echoing through the vast, empty space inside.

The air was colder here, heavy with the scent of burning wax and damp stone. The pews were empty, their wooden frames worn from years of neglect. Candles flickered dimly along the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that danced across the floor like specters.

And there, at the altar, stood a figure.

A nun, veiled in black, her face hidden beneath a hooded habit.

Sister Amara.

Grimm had heard of her, of course. Everyone in Hollow had. She was a legend, a ghost herself. Silent, ever-present, her cold gaze enough to freeze even the bravest men. Some said she was as old as the town itself, a relic of something darker, something ancient. Others whispered that she had been touched by something far worse than time.

He approached slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The closer he got, the heavier the air became, as though the very atmosphere was trying to smother him.

“Sister?” His voice echoed in the cavernous hall, but she didn’t move. She stood still as a statue, her back to him, her hands clasped in front of her.

Grimm swallowed, stepping closer. “I’m here to ask some questions.”

Nothing.

The silence pressed down on him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He stepped closer still, his heart beginning to race despite himself. “Sister Amara?”

Still no answer.

And then, in the silence, he heard it—a whisper, so soft it barely touched the air, but unmistakable.

Leave.

It wasn’t her voice. It wasn’t anyone’s voice. It was as though the walls themselves had spoken, a command carried on the wind. His blood ran cold, a surge of primal fear coursing through him, urging him to turn and leave, to run from this place and never look back.

But he couldn’t.

“You know something,” he said, his voice firmer now. “You know why the people here are dying.”

Finally, she moved.

The hood fell back, revealing her face. Pale as death, hollow eyes sunken deep into her skull, as though the flesh had been eaten away. But it wasn’t her face that unnerved him—it was her smile. Thin, stretched across her face as though it didn’t belong. It was wrong. Utterly wrong.

"Do you believe in God, Detective Grimm?" Her voice was a rasp, dry, barely more than a breath.

Grimm swallowed, his throat tight. "I used to."

Her smile widened, the corners of her lips cracking, blood seeping from the edges. "God has forsaken this place."

The shadows around her shifted, twisting, growing unnaturally long. Grimm took a step back, his hand reaching instinctively for the gun at his side, but something told him it wouldn’t do any good.

"These deaths," she whispered, taking a step toward him, her voice cold as ice. "They are not what they seem."

His pulse quickened. "Then what are they?"

She leaned in close, her breath cold against his skin, her voice barely more than a whisper in his ear.

"They are sacrifices."

The deaths in Hollow were no accident.

Grimm knew that now. He had seen the signs—the strange symbols carved into the skin of the victims, the strange patterns that lined the town’s streets. This was no random string of murders. This was deliberate. A ritual.

And at the center of it all was Sister Amara.

But the more he dug, the more he realized that the evil haunting Hollow was far older than any of them could have imagined. It had been here for centuries, waiting, feeding on the fear and despair of the townspeople. And now, it wanted more.

As the days passed, Grimm found his grip on reality slipping. Nightmares plagued his sleep, visions of things that shouldn’t be real, of creatures lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting. The church, once a place of refuge, now felt like a tomb, trapping him in its decaying walls.

But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Not when the truth was so close.