The Hallowing Shadows

The first sign was so small, you didn’t even notice it: your shadow, just a little too long under the streetlights. It stretched unnaturally, curling at the edges as though reaching for something. When you stopped to stare, it froze, snapping back into place. You convinced yourself it was nothing, but the cold, prickling sensation at the base of your skull lingered all the way home.

A week later, your reflection stopped obeying you. At first, it lagged—fractional delays in the mirror’s mimicry that you attributed to exhaustion or bad lighting. But then one night, you leaned closer, your breath fogging the glass, and it grinned. You didn’t. Its lips peeled back in a grotesque smile, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth you didn’t have. You staggered back, crashing into the bathroom door. When you dared to look again, it was just you. Except, now, you weren’t so sure.

Then the dreams began.

Every night, you found yourself in the same place: a vast, empty field under a sky that seemed alive, its blackness rippling like tar. The ground was wet and fleshy, pulsing underfoot, and with every step, it tugged at you, swallowing your legs up to the knees. Faces bubbled to the surface of the earth, eyes wide with terror, mouths frozen mid-scream before sinking back into the quivering mass.

And then you heard it: a voice—no, voices—calling your name from somewhere deep below. They whispered promises you didn’t understand, their words curling into your brain like smoke. You woke each time gasping for air, the taste of dirt and rot thick on your tongue.

The hunger came next. It wasn’t the normal kind. Food became meaningless. No matter how much you ate, you felt emptier with each bite. Worse, certain things began to smell appealing—raw meat, a coppery tang in the air when someone scraped their knee. The thought of tasting it was horrifying. The thought of not tasting it was worse.

You started avoiding people. Not because you wanted to, but because you could feel them now—their heat, the pulse of their blood, the delicious vibrations of their fear. Strangers glanced your way, their faces wary, as if they could sense the shift in you. You caught your reflection in the shop windows sometimes, but it wasn’t your face looking back anymore. It was thinner, hungrier.

The night it all came apart, you were walking home late. The streets were quiet, the air thick with the promise of rain. You felt it first: a pressure, like being watched from inside your own skin. Then you saw it—your shadow, long and spindly, writhing on the walls like an insect pinned under glass.

It moved independently, stretching higher, its edges fraying into spindles of darkness. And then it tore itself free.

It peeled off the pavement and stood before you—a grotesque, dripping thing in your shape but not you. Its skin sagged, mottled with bruises and rot, and its eyes… they weren’t eyes. They were pits, yawning and endless, filled with crawling things that hissed and writhed in the dim light.

“You’ve felt it,” it said, its voice a chorus of rasps and screams. “You know what you are.”

“No,” you whispered, backing away.

It smiled, wide and unnatural, splitting its face from ear to ear. “Don’t lie to me. To yourself.”

Its arms stretched, bones cracking as it reached for you. “We’ve waited long enough.”

You turned and ran, but the world around you shifted, bending like molten glass. The streetlights flickered and popped, plunging you into darkness. You felt it closing in, its breath like acid on the back of your neck. When it caught you, its claws sank into your shoulders, the pain searing through your body like liquid fire.

“You’ve been hollowed out for so long,” it whispered, its voice melting into your thoughts. “You’ve just been too blind to see it.”

The ground opened beneath you, swallowing you whole.

When you woke, the air stank of rot and ozone. The sky above you churned, its color an unnatural greenish-black. You tried to move, but your body felt wrong—your limbs too long, your joints bending in impossible angles.

You looked down and saw claws where your hands had been, your skin slick and gray, stretched over a frame that wasn’t human anymore.

A puddle reflected your face—or what was left of it. Black pits stared back, set in a skull too sharp, too alien. Behind you, your shadow loomed, monstrous and alive, twisting and coiling like smoke.

And then it spoke, not with words, but with a voice that vibrated through your bones. “Welcome back,” it said.

The hunger rose again, sharper than ever, but this time, it wasn’t just a need. It was purpose. It was power.

And for the first time, you weren’t afraid.