From the Shelves of The Hollow: The Scourge, Part I
“Oh… I didn’t hear you come in. You must forgive me; I lose track of time among the shelves. These volumes are restless things, you can almost feel them breathing, waiting for someone to open them.
“Here, sit.” She gestures toward a nearby chair placed in what appears to be a reading lounge. “The Hollow doesn’t take kindly to strangers wandering too long in the dark, but in the library, you’re safe enough… for now.” She lifts a book, its cover unmarked, and places her hand on the top before looking at you over her wire rimmed glasses.
“I suppose I should begin with the town itself, shouldn’t I? The Hollow. A place easily overlooked on any map, tucked between ridges of forest and the long shadow of forgotten hills. Travelers pass through it on their way to brighter destinations, never stopping long enough to notice how the air feels heavier here, how twilight lingers just a little too long, how the wind carries whispers it has no business knowing.
“It is not so different from other towns, at least on the surface. There are shops on the main street, whitewashed houses with porches that creak, a church whose bell no longer rings. But if you stay beyond sundown, you will discover that The Hollow belongs not to its people, but to its stories. And stories, you see, have teeth.
“I should know. I’ve been keeping them for longer than I care to admit. Every sorrow, every last breath, every terrible secret—bound in these shelves, inked into these waiting pages. Some call them cautionary tales, others call them hauntings. I simply call them history.”
She turns the book slightly, as though reading a title only she can see.
“This one comes from a place far enough from The Hollow to believe itself untouched by it,” she says. “A mining town called Granton, pressed into the earth between two mountains the locals named The Twins. They rise like sentinels over the valley—far enough to watch, too close to turn your back on.”
Her fingers trace the spine of the book, slow and deliberate.
“Granton was built on iron and faith. On the promise that what was taken from the dark would bring light to those who lived above it. But towns like that rarely ask what else might come up from the depths when you dig too far, or what might grow accustomed to the sound of men breathing underground.”
She glances up at you, eyes sharp behind the lenses.
“Yes… let me read to you from this one.” She smiles easily enough and you see a flash of teeth before she says, “this tale belongs to you as much as it does to the one who lived it. Shall we begin?”
The book opens with a soft, expectant sigh.
The town of Granton sat in the shadow of two nondescript mountains. It was a tired town filled with houses that sagged, their paint long peeled away to reveal their grey skeletons beneath. Many shutters hung at crooked angles which rattled in the wind that swept through the empty streets. Weary remnants of better days where laughter and the clink of silver had rung out. Now, there were only the hollow echoes of boots on cracked boards.
Above the town, the mountains, nicknamed The Twins, loomed black and unyielding. Veins of coal sliced through them like jagged teeth of some long-forgotten beast. Mining had once been the town’s pride, the pulse in its veins.
Now, it was its shackle.
The Twins, once charitable in their yields, now towered over Granton as a miser hoarding its wealth. The miners who remained bore the weight of its chains. A permanent ache of loss - faces etched with soot. Hands calloused from years of labor and despair.
The storefronts on Main Street told the tale with brutal honesty. The general store and a diner were the only windows with lights on. The others windows in town were dusty, the shelves empty, and doors graced with faded signs that read ‘FOR RENT’ and ‘FOR SALE’.
The barber shop pole, once a garish red and white, was covered in grime. The chairs within sat as sentinels before broken counters, the leather cracked and stiff. Forgotten relics of another time. Even the church had begun to lean as though weighed down by the prayers it no longer received.
Children were scarce. Those few that lingered in the streets had a watchfulness well beyond their years. Their eyes darted with mischief as they explored the abandoned buildings, searching for lost relics. Hiding out of sight of their elders as they spun stories around small fires while sharing stolen cigarettes and warm whiskey.
Dogs trotted listlessly alongside their owners, tails tucked, ribs showing beneath matted fur. The air smelled of wet stone, coal dust, and the lingering sour tang of unwashed bodies, urine, and rot that had settled like a permanent fog.
And then there was the mine. A cavernous mouth bored into the mountain. Its timbers blackened, scarred from decades of work. It was the lifeblood of Granton. But it was also a tether to hardship. Every shift began before dawn and ended after dusk. Each miner emerged covered in soot, their muscles trembling from the rhythm of pick and hammer. Their eyes haunted from the strain of witnessing the mountain swallow them whole.
Among the shadows of Granton’s decayed pride walked Elliot Harding. He was young by most standards yet wizened by The Twins and those that came before him. He had broad shoulders and a quiet way of moving through the world. He was a man of few words spoken only after much thought was given to them. His father had been a miner and his grandfather before him. The hollowed caverns of the The Twins were as much his home as the wooden structure he slept in at night. More so in many respects.
He knew every passage. He felt every loss when their work yielded nothing. Yet, much like his father, Elliot believed there was something deep within, waiting beneath the stone. Something that had been waiting for longer than he could imagine. His grandfather had often spoke of the legends from those before. And a wealth beyond the hardened coal. A secret treasure hidden deep within.
And Elliot could sense he was getting closer.
“There,” the librarian says, brushing a thin layer of dust from the cover. “That is where we must pause—for now. First nights are always about introductions. Names. Hungers. The sound of something waking beneath the earth.”
She holds the book tightly as though reluctant to put it aside.
“Granton has not yet reached the deepest part of its story. The men will return to the mine soon enough, and when they do, they will find that the mountain has been keeping something far older than iron. Stone remembers, you see. It holds many secrets within the dark. Waiting for someone to uncover them.”
Her gaze lingers on you, thoughtful.
She smiles, and again you catch that brief, unsettling flash of teeth.
“Rest now. Come back when the book calls for you. It always does. And the Hollow is very patient.”
© 2025 Jen Sequel. All rights reserved.This work, including the world of The Hollow, its narrator, and all associated characters and stories, is original fiction and may not be reproduced, distributed, or republished without written permission from the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution in any form is strictly prohibited.
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