GRIMM AND HOLLOW

Grimm woke in his hotel room, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. The darkness pressed in around him, thick and suffocating, like the weight of a nightmare he couldn’t shake. He sat up, trying to shake the image from his mind—the twisted smile of Sister Amara, her words echoing in his skull.

They are sacrifices.

The dream had been the same every night since his arrival in Hollow. Faces twisted in agony, mouths open in silent screams, their eyes void of life. Each time, the dream ended the same way—with the church looming overhead, its doors wide open, and a figure waiting for him inside. The figure always stood in the dark, indistinct, but he knew. It was her.

Grimm ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to steady his breathing. His eyes drifted to the window. The rain had stopped, leaving the town shrouded in an oppressive silence. It was still dark outside, but he knew the sun would rise soon, casting a pale light over the decaying streets of Hollow.

He couldn’t stay here. Not like this.

The strange feeling from the church still clung to him, like a film he couldn’t wash away. His instincts screamed at him to leave, to abandon the investigation, but something kept him rooted in place. Perhaps it was guilt—the same guilt that had followed him ever since his partner’s death. Or maybe it was something more, something deeper.

The deaths aren't what they seem.* Amara’s words echoed in his head again. Sacrifices.

He thought about the bodies. Three so far. All with the same marks carved into their skin—intricate symbols that spiraled and looped across their torsos like a language he couldn’t decipher. The coroner had chalked it up to a serial killer, but Grimm knew better. This wasn’t just murder. It was something ritualistic, something ancient.

There was a knock at the door.

Grimm froze, his heart pounding in his chest. It was barely five in the morning. No one should be up this early in Hollow. He stood slowly, his hand hovering over his holster as he approached the door. The knocking came again, more insistent this time.

He pulled the door open, half-expecting to see nothing.

Instead, a man stood in the hallway. His face was gaunt, eyes wide with fear, and his clothes were soaked, though it hadn’t rained for hours. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His hands trembled as he clutched a piece of paper, holding it out to Grimm as if it were a lifeline.

“Detective Grimm?” the man asked, his voice shaky.

Grimm frowned, taking the paper cautiously. “Who are you?”

“I—I’m Jacob. Jacob Dunne,” the man stammered. “Please, you have to help me. It’s my wife. She’s next.”

Grimm’s brow furrowed. He glanced at the paper in his hand—it was a photograph. A blurry image of a woman, her back turned, standing in front of the church. The same symbols he’d seen on the victims were faintly visible on the stone steps behind her.

“She’s been marked,” Jacob said, his voice cracking. “I—I don’t know what to do. You have to stop it. You have to stop them.”

Grimm felt a chill crawl up his spine. “Who marked her?”

Jacob swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the hallway as if he expected someone—or something—to be listening. “It’s not people doing this, Detective. It’s not just some psycho running around carving up bodies. It’s the town. It’s the church. It’s… her.”

Grimm’s grip tightened on the photo. He didn’t need to ask who Jacob meant by *her*. He already knew.

“Sister Amara,” Grimm muttered, more to himself than to Jacob.

Jacob nodded frantically. “She knows everything. She controls it. She—she’s behind it all.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with dread. Grimm’s mind raced. He wanted to dismiss the man’s ramblings as paranoia, but the cold fear in Jacob’s eyes told him otherwise.

“How do you know this?” Grimm asked, his voice low, steady.

Jacob hesitated, his hands still shaking. “I’ve seen things. Things I can’t explain. She visits people, at night, when the church bells ring. She whispers to them, and they—” He choked on his words, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And then they die. Just like the others.”

Grimm looked down at the photograph again, his stomach knotting. *Another death. Another sacrifice.* He needed more information, and he needed it fast.

“Where’s your wife now?” Grimm asked.

Jacob swallowed, his face pale. “She’s still at home. But she’s been hearing things. Voices. I—I think they’re coming for her.”

Grimm nodded, slipping the photograph into his coat pocket. “Take me to her.”

---

The Dunne house was on the outskirts of town, nestled in the shadow of the forest that bordered Hollow. It was a modest home, the kind you’d expect in a place like this. The front yard was overgrown, and the windows were boarded up—another precaution against the creeping darkness that seemed to seep into everything here.

Jacob led the way, his movements jerky and nervous. Grimm followed closely, his hand never far from his gun. The sun had begun to rise, casting a dull, gray light over the town, but it did little to dispel the oppressive atmosphere.

As they approached the house, Grimm felt it again—that same sensation from the church. A weight pressing down on him, as though the very air was alive, watching. Waiting.

Jacob fumbled with the keys, his hands trembling as he unlocked the door. “She’s upstairs,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She hasn’t come out of the bedroom since last night.”

Grimm stepped inside, his eyes scanning the dimly lit hallway. The house was silent, too silent. He could feel it—the presence of something lurking just beyond sight, like a shadow that refused to reveal itself.

Jacob hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. “I—I can’t go up there.”

Grimm glanced at him, then nodded. “Stay here.”

He ascended the staircase slowly, each step creaking under his weight. The air grew colder the higher he went, a chill that seemed to seep into his bones. At the top of the stairs, he paused, listening.

There was a sound—a faint, rhythmic whisper, coming from behind the closed door at the end of the hall. It was barely audible, but unmistakable. Grimm’s pulse quickened. He moved closer, his hand resting on the doorknob.

He opened the door.

The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn tightly shut, but he could see her. Jacob’s wife, Sarah, sat in the middle of the room, her back to him. She was muttering under her breath, rocking back and forth, her hair hanging loose around her face.

“Sarah?” Grimm called softly, stepping into the room.

She didn’t respond. The whispers continued, growing louder as he approached. Grimm’s stomach twisted with dread. There was something wrong—something deeply wrong.

As he reached out to touch her shoulder, she stopped moving.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Her eyes were black. Completely, utterly black, as if the very light had been swallowed by the darkness inside her.

And then she smiled.

Not a human smile. A smile like Sister Amara’s—stretched, unnatural, wrong.

“They’re coming, Detective,” she whispered, her voice not her own. “They’re coming for you.”

And with that, the shadows in the room seemed to shift, closing in, as though the darkness itself was alive.