Part I: The Stranger’s Letter
The rain drummed against the roof like impatient fingers as Clara stirred her tea, watching the storm through her kitchen window. The house—her grandmother’s old cottage—had always been a refuge, tucked away at the edge of the woods where the world felt slower, quieter.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps, deliberate, out of place. Clara frowned. No one came this far out unless they were lost. She set her cup down and padded to the door, hesitating only a moment before pulling it open.
The stranger stood silhouetted against the storm, his coat dripping onto the porch. He was tall, his face shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but his voice was smooth, almost familiar.
“Clara Voss?”
Her fingers tightened on the doorframe. “Yes?”
He reached into his coat, and for a wild second, she thought of guns, of danger—but what he withdrew was an envelope, sealed with dark red wax.
“This belongs to you.”
She didn’t take it. “Who are you?”
The man smiled, just slightly. “A messenger.” He placed the letter in her hand, his fingers brushing hers—cold as winter. “You should read it. Before *they* realize it’s missing.”
Then he turned, stepping back into the rain.
“Wait!” Clara called, but he was already vanishing into the downpour, swallowed by the trees.
Heart pounding, she shut the door and broke the wax seal. The paper inside was old, brittle, the ink faded but unmistakable.
Dear Clara,it began. If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. And you’re in danger now.
It was signed with her grandmother’s name.
But that was possible? Her grandmother had died ten years ago.
And yet… the handwriting was hers. Every loop, every slant—Clara would know it anywhere.
Outside, thunder growled. The wind howled through the eaves like a warning.
Somewhere beyond the storm, something was coming.
And Clara’s quiet life—the one she thought was the end of her story—was just the beginning.
---
Part II: The Hidden Key
Clara’s hands trembled as she unfolded the letter further. The words were cryptic, written in her grandmother’s looping script:
"The Hollow Man comes at dusk. He wears many faces, but his hunger is the same. He seeks what you guard—the key beneath the floorboard where the willow bends."
Beneath the floorboard? Clara’s breath hitched. She had played in this house as a child, knew every creaking plank. There was only one willow tree near the cottage, its branches brushing against the east window.
Dropping to her knees, she pried up the loose floorboard beneath the sill. Dust and cobwebs clung to the space below—but there, nestled in the shadows, was a small iron key, blackened with age.
A sudden crash of thunder made her jump. The storm had worsened, the wind rattling the windowpanes as if something outside was testing their strength.
Clara clutched the key. What does this open?
Then she remembered the old cellar door, the one her grandmother had always kept locked. "Not for you, little one," she’d say. "Not yet."
Not yet.
Now.
---
Part III: The Cellar’s Secret
The key turned with a groan, the cellar door swinging open to reveal a steep staircase descending into darkness. The air that rushed up was cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, like old blood.
Clara grabbed a lantern, its flickering light casting long shadows as she descended. The walls were lined with symbols carved into the stone, ones she didn’t recognize—but her grandmother must have.
At the bottom, a single object sat on a pedestal: a mirror, its glass black as obsidian.
And in its reflection, Clara didn’t see herself.
She saw the stranger from the porch—but his face was different now, shifting like smoke. Behind him stood others, figures with hollow eyes and grasping hands, their mouths open in silent screams.
"The Hollow Court," whispered a voice—her grandmother’s voice—echoing from nowhere and everywhere. "They’ve been waiting for you."
The lantern flickered.
In the mirror, the stranger smiled.
And then the glass shattered.
---
Part IV: What Comes Next
Clara stumbled back as the shards of the mirror exploded outward—but instead of falling, they hung in the air, spinning like a storm of knives.
The wind from upstairs howled louder, the house itself shuddering as the thing that had been knocking at her door finally forced its way in.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Slow.
Relentless.
Clara looked down at the key in her hand, now glowing faintly blue. Her grandmother’s voice echoed once more:
"The key is not just for locks, Clara. It’s for doors. And some doors should never be opened."
But it was too late for warnings.
The Hollow Man reached the cellar.
And Clara had a choice: run—or turn the key in the air and see what lay on the other side.
React
