The bullet burned as it lodged deep into Dr. Greaves’ side, a hot agony that clamped his throat shut. It was a dull pop, a tremor that seemed to pull him apart, and when he looked down, his coat was already blooming red. His eyes lifted, meeting the milky gaze of the blind man, who held the still-smoking pistol in his gnarled hand, his face a perfect picture of startled horror, like he’d just awoken to his own ghost.
“Señor! I—ay, Dios mío!” the blind man stammered, the gun trembling in his grip before he shoved it into his pocket. “It was not meant for thee, no, no, maldito Hollow, it plays tricks, plays tricks!” He babbled, shaking his head, his voice thick and guttural, as if Hollow’s air clung to his tongue.
Dr. Greaves staggered, clutching his side, breath hissing through clenched teeth. He felt the warm seep of blood, slick between his fingers. “Y-you fool,” he rasped, trying to summon anger but finding only a rising tide of weakness. “What… what have you done, you blind devil?”
“Peace, peace, señor,” the man replied, his hands fluttering out, reaching for Greaves as if to calm a wild beast. “The wound, ’tis small, nothing to worry, ah? But come, come — I shall bring thee to a holy hermit, a healer of souls. He can mend you, mend you right.”
With a half-mad gentleness, the blind man seized Greaves under one arm, pulling him forward, his fingers digging deep into his flesh as they stumbled through the twisting streets of Hollow. The alleys seemed to narrow, bending inward, folding like the ribs of a skeletal beast. Greaves felt his vision blur, the world around him taking on an ethereal glow, twisting like smoke in a glass.
“Hold fast, hold fast, docteur,” the blind man murmured, his voice low and raspy. “The hermit — ah, he is a friend to us all, a saint in this wretched place. You’ll see, you’ll see.”
They reached a crumbling shack, half-swallowed by shadows and creeping vines, its door hanging loose on rusted hinges. The blind man guided Greaves through the threshold, into a small, dimly lit room where the air was thick with the scent of rot and damp earth.
There, lying in a heap upon a straw-strewn mat, was the hermit — or what seemed to be a man. His form was obscured, tangled hair falling across his face in greasy ropes, his breath slow and deep, as though he dreamt of things long dead.
“Rise, saintly one, rise!” the blind man whispered, nudging the hermit’s shoulder with the edge of his foot. “A soul in need hath come, wounded by a bullet gone astray. The gods, they mock us, but you — you can save him.”
The hermit stirred, his eyelids fluttering open, revealing eyes that seemed unfocused, as if he were peering through layers of veils. He looked at Greaves, his mouth twisting into a vague, drowsy smile.
“Ah, another wanderer in Hollow,” he murmured, his voice thick, like honey laced with dust. “You come here, you bleed here, all the same. But fear not, for here, the pain doth pass.”
“Will… will you help me?” Greaves managed, his voice weak, every word a strain against the weight in his chest. “The wound… it festers… I need a doctor, not a… not a mystic.”
But the hermit only chuckled, a sound soft as a sigh, and patted Greaves’ shoulder with a strange, paternal gentleness. “Aye, you shall have what you need,” he replied, voice soft as shadows. “But know, my friend, in Hollow, the body and spirit must suffer alike. Ye be in the hands of fate now.”
With that, he turned away, muttering in some forgotten tongue, his fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air as if weaving a spell. Greaves lay back, breathing shallowly, watching as days seemed to slip by, the light changing, fading, until time itself felt like a feverish dream.
The blind man and the hermit treated him with a kindness that was almost mocking, feeding him strange, bitter herbs that did little to ease the pain but seemed to set his mind adrift. And still, they pressed him into labor, sending him stumbling to fetch water, or clean the grime from the shack’s walls, tasks that seemed to loop and repeat, as if the work itself were as endless as Hollow.
One day, the blind man approached, his head tilted, listening to some distant sound Greaves couldn’t hear. “The doctor, he comes,” he said, his voice thick with reverence. “A man of healing, a man of bone and blood.”
Greaves felt a surge of hope, weak and flickering, like a candle in a storm. He leaned forward, watching the doorway, and at last, figures emerged, shuffling shapes in ragged clothes, their faces obscured by cloths tied tight around their heads. They moved like ghosts, silent and slow, their eyes glinting with a strange, hungry light.
The tallest among them stepped forward, reaching out to touch Greaves’ forehead with fingers rough and calloused. “Señor,” he murmured, his voice thick, cloying. “You seek healing, yes? But healing in Hollow… it comes with a price.”
Greaves nodded, feeling the words stick in his throat. “Whatever it takes,” he whispered. “Please… I am dying.”
The “doctor” only laughed, a low, throaty chuckle that sent a chill through Greaves’ bones. “Dying? Oh, señor, dying is but a word. Here in Hollow, death is not what it seems.”
The others laughed, their voices echoing, twisting into something darker. The “doctor” produced a needle, gleaming in the dim light, and held it up, turning it slowly, like a blade before a sacrifice. Greaves tried to pull back, but his body was too weak, his limbs heavy as stone.
“Hold him fast,” the doctor whispered, and hands closed around Greaves’ arms, fingers digging in, pinning him down. He felt the prick of the needle, cold and sharp, as it slid into his flesh, and a strange warmth spread through him, a numbness that settled over his mind.
The hermit chuckled softly, watching from the corner, his face half-obscured by shadow. “The wound is cleansed,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But the soul must pay its price.”
Greaves lay still, unable to move, his mind clouded with fog, his vision swimming. He could feel the laughter of the others, hear it echoing in his ears, but it seemed distant, as if coming from another world.
“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “What… what is this place? Why am I here?”
The doctor leaned close, his breath warm against Greaves’ ear. “Hollow,” he replied, his voice like the hiss of a serpent. “It is where you belong. The darkness claimed you, long before you knew.”
The days continued, each one bleeding into the next, his mind trapped in a feverish haze, his body forced to endure endless tasks that felt like penance. The blind man would pat his shoulder, murmuring soft, nonsensical words, while the hermit watched, his eyes half-lidded, a faint smile on his lips.
One night, as the pain grew unbearable, Greaves cried out, his voice hoarse, desperate. “Please! Help me! I can’t bear it any longer!”
But the hermit only chuckled, shaking his head. “Patience, patience, my friend. The journey is not yet done. We must cleanse the spirit, as well as the flesh.”
And then, at last, the truth came. The “doctors” threw off their masks, revealing faces twisted and leering, eyes gleaming with malice. The hermit shrugged off his robe, revealing himself not as a man, but as something hollow, a shape given form by shadows and smoke.
They laughed, a sound that filled the room, echoing off the walls, growing louder and louder until it drowned out Greaves’ own thoughts. He lay there, helpless, his body wracked with pain, as they surrounded him, their laughter mingling with the darkness, their faces blurring, shifting into shapes he could not comprehend.
He tried to scream, but no sound came, his voice lost in the laughter that swallowed him whole.
Epilogue: The Pit
They burned, all of them, the hermit, the blind man, the so-called doctors. They writhed in an endless sea of flame, their skin blackening, peeling, dripping like wax, their mouths open in silent screams that echoed through the fire.
“Mercy!” they cried, voices thin and stretched, each word dripping with agony. “Mercy, release us from this torment!”
But the flames rose higher, consuming them, filling every crack, every hollow, with searing heat. They clawed at the walls, their fingers curling, blistering, their faces contorted with a horror that knew no end.
“Please, let us out!” they begged, their voices hoarse, raw, as the fire licked at their flesh, consuming them from the inside out. “We are damned, but show mercy, we beg you!”