Page 5

As I strode comfortably through the trees, one might never know I’d abandoned the Hollow.

In truth, it was my father’s lessons, etched into me from so many childhood visits, that fueled my confidence.

Sweet memories of his voice joined me, ‘Step lightly, Little Dove. The Hollow listens. And we do not know what sleeps beneath the surface.’

Deliberately disobeying my father’s ghost, I stomped through the brush.

With each passing trunk, I moved deeper into Scrying Hollow.

Father told me we’d named it after the witches that once gathered here to scry.

Though, that was a long time ago. Presently, the Hollow was a place overrun by evil, accessed by only the most desperate.

Regret stung me. If I’d continued making custom garments, we might have had enough income, and Lysander wouldn’t have been driven into this wretched place… The whispers started.

That’s okay, I was expecting them.

‘The Hollow whispers, Dewdrop. It’s normal, but never listen. And certainly, never follow them.’

In my head, I repeated an old rhyme, focusing on the verses instead of the beckoning voices.

There once was a peckish bone fairy,

Who snatched a child and carried,

Them off to the Hollow for eating.

The girl’s father, frantic and fraught,

Caught the bone fairy and fought,

But still, his child was crunched.

Oh, how life is fleeting!

At first, I was reluctant to wander far from my net.

The trees inside the Hollow had a way of changing while unobserved.

If you hoped to find your way out, you had to find other, reliable methods of navigation.

Currently, I walked along a faint path, trod into the wood floor by my father and his father before him.

Though the Hollow was nightmarish, these paths were a safe space, and I hesitated to leave them.

The Hollow was not so thick here, and the sunlight penetrated the trees.

I walked in circles and returned to my trap every so often to orient myself.

Hours ticked by, both relief and frustration nestled in my belly.

This isn’t working.

Fortunately, my father had taught me a few tricks when it came to maneuvering through the Hollow.

Quelling my fear, I strayed from my father’s path.

I counted my steps and used various woodland ephemera as waypoints.

Stones, toadstools, and a particular cream flower, which my father called cream cobbles or cobblestones, so named for their reliable lack of movement.

A branch snapped.

I stilled, becoming a statue in the woodland. The gnarled tree at my side, with a dark hole partway up the trunk, was empty. Up ahead, the underbrush remained motionless. As far as I could tell, nothing moved.

A leaf crunched…behind me.

Be still.

Don’t run.

If it were the Hound at my back, I’d be dead already, I was sure of it. Letting my cloak disguise me, I waited for whatever stalked me to wander away. Stay calm. If they cannot find you, they cannot eat you. I held my breath and counted to fifty, like my father taught me.

…forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.

Slowly, I turned around. Only the Hollow. One foot in front of the other, I resumed walking. Here in the shadows, my father’s ghost kept me company.

‘The Hollow watches, Blueberry.’

Indeed, I felt it. For some time, an eerie glow, like a lantern cast with green glass, followed me.

‘It’s a rather peaceful creature who watches, but do not look.

Do not turn around. Pretend you don’t see its foul grin peering around the trees at the edge of your sight.

Once you lay eyes on the Watcher, it will feel threatened.

The creatures high shriek is the last thing you’ll hear as it eats you. ’

You’d think such memories would frighten me, especially here in the Hollow.

Despite the terrors lurking in every shadow, this used to be a merry place.

Between these trees, my father taught me to forage and survive.

Now, his lessons were all I had. They were not intimidating at all; they comforted me.

I walked down a small ravine and climbed up the other side. Reaching up, I grabbed the bank.

“Ugh!” I yanked my hand back. It was wet…and red. Shuffling sideways, I hauled myself over the edge.

The lifeless eyes of a red-fanged deer greeted me.

Without a smell or any sign of decomposition, the brown fur still looked soft and perfect—well, except for the fleshy chunk missing from the back of its neck.

Red-fanged deer travelled in herds, and they weren’t helpless—far from it.

They may look like regular deer, but as the name suggests, red-fanged deer concealed quite the surprise.

They could unhinge their jaw all the way to their shoulders, exposing a jagged row of fangs.

No, the fangs weren’t naturally red.

I’ll let you conclude why we’ve named them that, though.

I glanced around and rubbed my fingers together. The blood was still watery.

Fresh.

The corpse was relatively untouched—had I stumbled upon the Hound’s dinner? Again, I looked around. Was the beast out there, watching me?

Would it feast twice in one day?

I wiped the blood in the moss and hastened on.

Would I recognize the Hound when I saw it?

Like most, I’d only ever heard stories. During father’s incoherent rambling, he’d said the beast, ‘looked like a wolf, yet not like a wolf.’ A guard who’d survived an attack, which unfortunately left another captain dead, said the creature had a tail that was long and thin like a lion’s.

While the stories each differed, all accounts mentioned the beast’s eyes:

Two yellow beacons that shone in the night.

My legs began to tire, and I paused to drink. I walked for another stretch. Apart from the low whispers, and the watchful creature, I didn’t find anything. Not a rabbit, or shrew.

“Ugh.”

I’d left Lysander too long already, and if I wanted to be home before Lottie and my mother, I needed to turn around. Up ahead, a trickle of light caught my attention.

I’ll check that out, then I’ll go back.

I passed through a copse of birch trees, the kind with leaves that silvered in Autumn, and stumbled into a large meadow.

The sun was just above the treetops, and the last rays shone on a pond, glittering like a mirror in the meadow.

I’d heard stories about the pond, Madelena’s Pool.

When magic was high, people used the pond to travel through space and time.

I’d never ventured this far into the Hollow; had Father?

Stepping into the sunshine, I batted aside white and pink wildflowers.

I scrutinized the treeline across the meadow and my heart lurched. Shadows darted in and out of the trees. I ducked down, hiding behind the tall grass.

Forest wraiths, seven of them.

They were wisps of a skeleton, with tattered black clothes billowing behind them.

I thanked the stars I’d seen them before it was too late—before they sucked the life from me.

I waited until long after they were out of sight and stood.

The sun was lower in the sky than I’d like, I’d have to hustle back—fear, like a bolt of lightning, froze me where I stood.

Two bright beacons.

Two bright beacons watched me from the wood across the meadow.

At once, I knew the all-consuming terror that floods the goat when preyed upon by a frothing, ravenous wolf. Between the jagged pines, a massive canine, no smaller than a workhorse, sat in the dark. Even seated, the beast’s ears disappeared behind the tall branches.

For nearly a decade, my mind spun images of the beast. It was a nightmare, a non-physical thing that consumed me. To actually find and face it…part of me never expected I’d get this far.

Whether I was ready or not, I’d done it.

I’d found it.

The Hound.