Lucas’s smile was thin. “Because I need you to draw something for me. Something specific.” He flipped to the last page. The drawing there was rough, almost childish, but unmistakable: a figure, human-shaped but wrong—too many joints, fingers like roots, a face that was mostly empty space with three too-large eyes. Underneath, in shaky letters: The Hollow.
“Draw it,” Lucas said, pointing to the page with The Hollow .
It was a Tuesday. A grey, drizzly Tuesday in October that smelled like wet leaves and regret. Megan was in the art room after school, alone—her favorite time. She’d just finished a detailed ink drawing of a raven on a thick sheet of watercolor paper. Its eye was a perfect, glossy bead of black. She leaned back, admiring her work, when the door creaked open. megan inky
It collapsed into a puddle of ordinary black ink, soaking into the paper, the table, the floor.
“The lock,” Megan said, standing up. She was shaking, but her voice was steady. “You can’t grant anything until the lock is opened. And only I have the key.” Lucas’s smile was thin
The paper bulged. Ink dripped onto the table, then rose upward, defying gravity. The Hollow pulled itself free of the page, unfolding like a nightmare origami. It was seven feet tall, all sharp angles and liquid shadow. Its empty face turned toward Lucas.
Lucas’s face went white. He hadn’t expected it to actually work . “I—I wish for—” The drawing there was rough, almost childish, but
Lucas’s phone buzzed. He looked down. Megan smiled, tired but genuine.