The Hollow Mile.

They say it's only a mile long — the stretch of deserted highway between the collapsed highway bridge and the ruined tunnel that no longer goes anywhere. The mile that doesn't appear on any newer map. No matter how quickly you drive your car as soon as possible, or walk as far as possible, you always take exactly one hour to pass through. Neither more nor less.

Locals just call it The Hollow Mile.

For the others, it's just a scary tale over cigarettes and discount beer, but not for Michael Crane. It was something personal. Something he could not let go of.

It started with a phone call.

"Hi, Mike. It's Dad. I, uh… I think I finally figured out what happened to your brother. Call me back."

Those were the last words his father ever spoke, before he vanished.

It had been nearly a decade since Michael returned to Grey Ridge. Not since the evening his younger brother, Jamie, disappeared. Police had chalked it up to a runaway — "teenage rebellion," they'd called it. But Jamie was not that type of kid. He was reserved, perceptive. Sensitive to the point of making others uncomfortable. Some kids have imaginary friends; Jamie had hidden spots that did not exist. Streets that did not exist. Rooms behind doors that no one else could open.

He used to draw them in charcoal. One kept returning to the top of the pile, however often their mother got rid of it: a thin road between nude trees, with an arched tunnel at the far end, drawn all in black. Across the top in child's block letters: "Hollow Mile."

Michael had forgotten that section. Or maybe he'd just chosen not to remember.

Until now.

The highway was as the stories had said it was — empty, weed-filled, choked in unnatural quiet. Michael left his rental car behind the barrier and walked for the first hundred yards. The GPS conked out. Cell signal to zero. No birds even flew across it.

There was no wind, no animal sounds, no sound of leaves rustling. Just the road. Torn. Dying. Waiting.

He looked at his watch: 1:00 PM sharp.

He continued walking.

The initial ten minutes were just like any normal hike. Then the colors began to bleed out. Not suddenly — just enough to make the world appear washed out. Off. Distant.

Then the whispers began.

Weak. Aimless. Like water creeping beneath boards. He doubled back more than once, sure that somebody was following a few steps behind him. But the road was always empty.

At the twenty-minute mark, he saw the shadows.

They were wrong.

There were things casting shadows that curved the wrong direction. A branch would be pointing west, but its shadow would be cast east. His own shadow stuttered with each step, like on a badly edited loop of film.

His heart sped up.

His breath caught.

He continued walking nonetheless.

Thirty minutes in, he found his brother's sketchbook.

It was on the roadside, inviolate to weather or decades. Same creased cover. Same shaking initials in the corner: J.C. He opened it and there it was — the tunnel. Now, marked in red.

A rough note had been added:

"The hollow mile devours time."

The whispers became more urgent.

At forty-five minutes, Michael was not alone.

Figures moved among the trees. Faces — familiar faces — at the edge of vision. A second-grade teacher. His mother, as she appeared the instant before her death. A girl he loved and abandoned. All saying something invisible. Reaching, always reaching.

Fifty minutes. He ran.

The tunnel stretched out in front of him, as in the drawing. Round, gaping, rimmed with black rock that seemed to be sucking in the light. The air became colder.

Fifty-five.

He reached the entrance to the tunnel and stopped. There was a figure midway — a man, crouched, arms wrapped around knees.

Jamie.

Or it looked like him. But his face was too still. His eyes too empty. And yet, something in the back of them was screaming to be rescued. For freedom. Michael stepped forward.

Again.

The road behind him groaned.

He looked back over his shoulder. The asphalt was tearing open. Peeling back like decaying flesh. The trees were leaning in toward him, not with the wind — but purposefully.

Fifty-nine.

He turned back to Jamie. “Come on!” he shouted. “We’re leaving!”

Jamie didn’t move.

Michael stepped into the tunnel.

The world snapped.

His ears popped. Time folded like wet paper. He felt his mind stretching, splitting, seeing too much and not enough all at once. Somewhere, a thousand miles beneath his feet, something laughed.

Then silence.

His eyes opened.

He was across from the tunnel. The sun was in a different position. His phone rang.

2:00 PM. Exactly an hour.

He turned around — tunnel vanished. So did the road. Trees and quiet instead.

Jamie's sketchbook was still in his hand. But all the pages were different.

Every sketch now included him, Michael, walking the Hollow Mile. Over and over and over. Sometimes with Jamie. Sometimes alone. Sometimes, with something else behind him.

He never mentioned it to anyone.

But now, once a year, on the same day, at the same time, he feels it again — the road calling him back. The shadows writhing sideways. The time distorting, just slightly.

The Hollow Mile never really ends.

It just waits.