The Hollow and the Hungry Ghost

I. The Wrong Door Opened

Mirelle's fingers trembled as she lit the thirteenth candle. The church basement reeked of mildew and old incense, the perfect place to cheat death. She'd come to speak to her sister—just once, just long enough to say the words she'd left unsaid the day the fever took her.

The Latin phrases rolled off her tongue like rotten fruit. The circle of salt sparked blue. Then the air split open with a sound like a ribcage cracking.

Something caught her wrist.

Not her sister's delicate fingers. A man's hand—translucent, freezing, the nails blackened like old blood.

"Little grave-tender," the thing whispered. Its breath smelled of turned earth and copper. "You called. I came."

The candles blew out.

II. The Possession

For three nights, Mirelle scrubbed her skin raw. The cold wouldn't leave. The scent of wet soil clung to her hair no matter how she washed it.

Then the whispers started.

"You taste like fear and foxglove." Against her neck as she strained valerian root.

"The butcher's son watches you. Shall I bite out his eyes?" In her ear at the market.

"Let me in, little witch. Just a crack." At her bedroom window, his shadow stretching across the moonlit floor.

She woke on the fifth night with icy fingers between her thighs.

"You're dreaming," the ghost lied, his mouth hot against her throat.

The dampness between her legs said otherwise.

III. The First Kill

Old Man Cresswell found her gathering belladonna in the churchyard.

"Devil's whore," he spat, grabbing her arm. "I've seen your lights at midnight."

Mirelle opened her mouth to curse him.

She didn't need to.

The ghost's hands erupted from her chest—through her chest—and seized Cresswell's face. His scream cut off as frost bloomed across his lips, his eyes freezing solid in their sockets.

When the ghost withdrew, licking blue-tinged fingers, Mirelle expected horror.

What she felt was hunger.

IV. The Feeding

They took the teacher next. The one who'd accused her of poisoning the well.

The ghost pinned him against the schoolhouse wall while Mirelle carved runes into his chest.

"His fear is sweet," the ghost murmured, lapping at the man's tears. "But yours... yours is divine."

When the man's heart stopped, the ghost became more solid. His hair—black as a raven's wing—brushed her cheek. His hips pressed hers against the bloodstained wall.

"Tell me my name," he demanded.

"Marcel," she gasped. The name came unbidden, tasting of grave dirt and forgotten letters.

His smile showed far too many teeth.

V. The Last Sacrifice

The village came with torches.

Mirelle stood in the graveyard, Marcel's arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder.

"They'll burn your cottage," he said conversationally. "Then the church. Then you."

She turned in his embrace. His eyes were no longer hollow—they burned like banked coals.

"Not if we burn them first."

The spell required a live burial. Six men planted head-down at the crossroads. Marcel sang to her as they worked, an old Breton lullaby about wolves eating the moon.

When dawn came, the ghost had hands that could hold her. A mouth that could bruise. A heartbeat that thundered against hers.

And the village?

The village had six new graves.

Epilogue: The Hollow Ones

Travelers avoid the overgrown cottage where the ravens nest. They say a woman lives there with her silent husband. They say her roses grow too red and her shadow moves when she doesn't.

They're all correct.

And now...

No one knocks twice.

This tale has been pulled from the blackened pages of a waterlogged grimoire found beneath the floorboards of a Breton ruin. If you'd like to read more forbidden histories, consider supporting our work. Tips keep the lanterns burning, subscriptions ward off the dark.

-The Lost Books - Libri Perditi