Jeremiah hadn’t spoken a word since the field—except for the cryptic whispers Nia caught on her recorder. Now he sat wrapped in blankets on Bree’s couch, his eyes darting to every shadow that moved. Every noise outside made him flinch.


“I’ve seen that look before,” Bree said, arms folded. “That boy’s been touched. Not by a person. By something else.”


Nia stared at the audio recording, looping the part that made her stomach drop.


“He wears Mama’s voice.”


They all knew what that meant. The Hollow wasn’t just taking children—it was wearing their pain, their memories, their trust.


Malik spread out his homemade maps and highlighted areas where the disappearances had happened. “All the kids were last seen within a mile of Harper’s Field,” he said. “But check this out—each of their parents died in weird circumstances before or after. Fires. Car crashes. Suicides.”


“Blood sacrifices,” Bree whispered. “We used to joke about that as kids. That the land was cursed. But nobody really believed it.”


Kenyatta stood at the window, his hand twitching near his hip. “Y’all ever wonder why this neighborhood never gets fixed? Why every damn mayor promises funding, and it just disappears?”


Nia’s voice was low. “Because they know. They’re feeding it.”


Suddenly, the power cut out.


The room plunged into darkness.


Jeremiah screamed.


From outside came a long, low moan—like wind through a cracked tombstone.


Then came the voice.


Nia’s mother’s voice.


But Nia’s mother had died in 2003.


“Ni-ni... come outside, baby. Mama’s waiting…”


Jeremiah bolted for the door. Bree tackled him before he could reach it.


Through the window, Malik swore he saw a tall, thin figure made of ash and smoke standing under the streetlight, its mouth too wide, filled with too many teeth. Smiling.