The Hollow Season
Day Zero
The first thing Lena noticed was the silence.
Not just quiet—the kind of silence that pressed in, thick and unnatural. No wind through the trees, no distant calls of birds or coyotes. Even the snow, falling heavy outside the window, seemed to hush itself before hitting the ground.
She shook it off and carried her duffel bag inside, stamping her boots on the threshold. The house smelled of dust and cold wood, of something long undisturbed.
A week. She would only stay for a week. Just long enough to check the property, sort through her grandfather’s things, and decide what to do with the land.
She didn’t realize, then, that she had already overstayed.
Day One
The power went out before she could unpack.
One moment, the overhead light hummed softly, casting long yellow shadows over the kitchen table. The next, nothing. The radio in the corner let out a single, sharp crackle before falling silent.
Lena sighed, already picturing the walk to the breaker box in the barn.
She rummaged through the junk drawer and found a flashlight. Outside, the cold was immediate, clinging to her face, creeping through the seams of her coat. Snow swallowed the world in a blank hush.
She reached the barn, but before she could touch the rusted latch, she noticed something strange.
Her footprints.
Or rather, the lack of them.
She turned, sweeping the flashlight back along her path. She had walked through untouched snow. No trail behind her. The wind must have covered them already, she thought, even as a deep part of her knew the air was still, the snow undisturbed.
The barn door groaned open. Inside, the breaker box hung open, exposed wires dangling. Something had chewed through them.
Lena sighed, shaking her head. “Looks like I’m roughing it.”
She turned back toward the house.
A second set of footprints stretched beside her own in the fresh snow.
Day Three
The food was running low.
She had meant to make a supply run, but every time she checked the clock, it was either too late or too early. The sun never seemed to move. The sky remained a permanent shade of gray.
The calendar hadn’t changed, either. It had been January 12th for three days now.
She tried calling for help. Her phone had no signal. The landline was dead. Instinctively she felt like she should be panicking, but somehow she was inexplicably calm. Calmer than she had ever been.
She vaguely remembered a story about a frog who jumped quickly from boiling water but which then swam calmly in cool water while it was heated from below—eventually boiling the frog who was none the wiser. Calmly she wondered for a moment if she was now that frog, but the thought left her as soon as she had it. As if it had never come.
The radio crackled.
Her grandfather’s voice.
“Don’t stay past the Hollow Season, Lena. Or it’ll keep you too.”
She spun toward the radio, heart hammering. The voice had been soft, crackling through the static like a whisper from behind a closed door.
The radio wasn’t plugged in. Weird. Well, maybe not so weird. Normal. Right. Of course. Everything was fine.
The scent of pine curled around her, thick and cloying. Not fresh. Not clean. Something rotten beneath it.
The door to the cellar stood ajar. She didn’t remember leaving it open. Had an intruder entered? She wondered but then forgot. It didn’t matter. She no longer remembered the cellar door.
Day Five
She found the notebook in her grandfather’s desk.
She barely remembered opening the drawer, her fingers moving as if guided by something outside of herself. The pages were filled with frantic, looping script.
Don’t stay past the thaw.
Leave before the season turns.
Time slips different here.
It only needs you to forget.
She gripped the edges of the desk, nausea rolling through her.
Something shifted behind her. A whisper of movement. She turned sharply.
The frost had thickened on the window, nearly obscuring her reflection.
She raised a hand to wipe it away—
Her reflection did not move.
A second too late, it blinked. She thought it was weird as she inhaled, but by the time she exhaled, she didn’t know what had been weird and when she inhaled, it was as if nothing had ever been weird at all.
Day Seven
The hunger gnawed at her.
She had barely eaten. Couldn’t. Every time she reached for food, it seemed… wrong. The milk had curdled, thick like sludge. The bread had molded overnight, black and webbed with rot. Even the canned goods tasted off. Metallic. Almost bitter.
She found a single apple in the bottom of her bag, untouched. She turned it over in her hands, something uneasy stirring inside her.
Had she packed this?
She couldn’t remember.
Her fingers trembled as she bit into it.
Rot burst across her tongue. Soft, mealy flesh collapsed against her teeth, and something squirmed between them.
She spat it out, gagging.
The apple in her hand was untouched. Smooth. Shining. Whole.
She hurled it across the room. It landed with a hollow thud and rolled to a stop in the kitchen doorway.
A moment later, it moved.
Just slightly. A slow, shuffling tilt.
Like something was breathing beneath the floorboards.
Day Nine?
Lena didn’t sleep anymore.
She tried, but every time she closed her eyes, something shifted. The walls creaked in ways they shouldn’t. The wind howled when it wasn’t blowing. Her breath fogged the air, but the reflection in the window did not breathe at all.
The house was watching her.
It wasn’t haunted. There were no ghosts.
It was something worse.
It was waiting.
She tried to pack her things, but the idea of leaving felt foreign now. Every time she reached for the door, she hesitated.
What would she be leaving behind?
What was waiting outside?
Hadn’t she always been here?
Hadn’t this always been home?
Final Entry
Lena sat at the kitchen table.
The candle burned low, flickering in the draft.
The radio let out a single, sharp crackle before falling silent again.
The reflection in the window smiled.
She did not.
Outside, the snow fell in heavy, whispering sheets, covering the footprints leading to the barn.
Inside, the house let out a deep, satisfied sigh.
And waited.
For the next visitor.
For the next hollow season.
Nope, I got nothing