The Hollow Beneath

The Hollow Beneath

Elliot had always been drawn to the woods. As a child, he’d spend hours exploring the dense forest behind his grandparents’ house, imagining it was filled with hidden kingdoms and magical creatures. Now, at thirty-two, those childhood fantasies felt like distant dreams—but the woods still called to him.

When Elliot inherited the family cabin deep in the heart of the forest, he saw it as an opportunity to escape the chaos of city life. The cabin hadn’t been used in decades, and its exterior was weathered, but the interior retained a rustic charm. Dust clung to every surface, and cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling, but Elliot didn’t mind. He spent his first week cleaning, repairing, and settling into what he hoped would be his new sanctuary.

On the third night, something changed.

It started with a sound—a faint tapping coming from outside. At first, Elliot thought it was branches scraping against the windows, but when he went to investigate, there was nothing stirring in the windless night. The tapping persisted, growing louder and more rhythmic, like knuckles rapping on wood.

Curiosity got the better of him. Grabbing a flashlight, he stepped out onto the porch. The beam of light cut through the darkness, revealing only trees swaying silently in the distance. Yet the noise continued—closer now, almost beneath his feet.

Elliot crouched down and pressed his ear to the wooden planks of the porch. The tapping echoed clearly, accompanied by a low, guttural hum that vibrated through the soles of his shoes. It sounded… alive.

He stood abruptly, heart racing. “Hello?” he called into the night, his voice swallowed by the oppressive silence.

No answer came—not verbally, anyway. Instead, the ground beneath him shifted ever so slightly, as though responding to his presence. A shiver ran down his spine. He decided to check the basement, reasoning that perhaps some animal had gotten trapped under the house.

The basement door creaked open reluctantly, revealing a narrow staircase descending into pitch-blackness. The air grew colder with each step, carrying with it a damp, earthy smell. When Elliot reached the bottom, his flashlight revealed a small, cluttered space: old furniture draped in sheets, stacks of yellowed newspapers, and jars of preserves long past their expiration date. But one thing stood out—a trapdoor set into the center of the floor.

The trapdoor was unlike anything else in the basement. Its surface was smooth, polished oak, etched with symbols that looked vaguely familiar yet impossible to place. More unsettling was the fact that the tapping seemed to originate directly below it. Each knock resonated through the handle of the flashlight in his hand.

Against his better judgment, Elliot knelt and examined the trapdoor. There was no lock, just a simple iron ring embedded in the wood. His fingers hovered over it, trembling slightly. What if it was an animal? Or worse—what if it wasn’t?

Before he could second-guess himself, he pulled.

The trapdoor swung open with surprising ease, releasing a gust of frigid air that smelled of wet soil and decay. Stairs led downward into absolute darkness. The tapping stopped.

“Is anyone there?” Elliot asked, his voice barely audible even to himself.

A soft whisper answered him. “Come closer…”

His stomach churned, but morbid fascination rooted him to the spot. Slowly, he descended the stairs, counting each step until his feet touched solid ground. The flashlight illuminated a cavernous space far larger than the cabin above suggested. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like jagged teeth, and the walls glistened with moisture. In the center of the chamber stood a massive stone altar, its surface stained dark red.

And around the altar were figures—dozens of them, hunched and motionless. Their forms were humanoid, but distorted, their limbs elongated and twisted unnaturally. They turned their heads in unison to face him, revealing faces that were featureless except for gaping mouths filled with rows of needle-like teeth.

Elliot’s breath hitched. “What… are you?”

One figure detached itself from the group and glided toward him. Its movements were fluid, almost serpentine, and its shadow stretched impossibly long across the walls. When it spoke, its voice was a chorus of whispers overlapping in perfect harmony.

“We are the Forgotten,” it said. “And you have awakened us.”

Panic surged through Elliot. He backed away, nearly tripping over the stairs as the creatures began to advance. Their whispers grew louder, forming words that clawed at his mind.

“Join us.”

“Feed us.”

“Stay forever.”

Desperation drove him forward. He bolted up the stairs, slamming the trapdoor shut behind him. His hands fumbled with the iron ring, locking it securely before collapsing onto the cold basement floor. For a moment, all was silent.

Then the whispers returned.

This time, they weren’t coming from below—they were inside his head.

Over the next few days, Elliot tried everything to leave. He packed his car, only to find the engine dead. He attempted to hike out of the woods, but the trees seemed to shift, leading him back to the cabin no matter which direction he chose. And always, the whispers lingered, urging him to return to the altar.

By the end of the week, he stopped resisting.

When neighbors finally ventured into the woods months later, searching for the missing man who had inherited the cabin, they found no trace of him. Only the cabin remained, pristine and untouched, as though waiting patiently for its next visitor.

And deep below, the Forgotten waited too.