The Chamber Below

The storm outside had calmed, but inside the manor, something darker stirred.

Each creak of the old wooden beams felt like a pulse — as if the house itself had started breathing.

Aarav and Maya stood at the base of the spiral staircase leading to the attic. A heavy iron latch sealed the trapdoor above.

Maya held her protective charm — a small, circular talisman carved with sigils — but even that trembled in her grip.

"This is where it lives," she said.

Her voice was quiet, but not out of fear of waking someone. It was as if the walls themselves might be listening.

"The Hollow Man?" Aarav asked.

Maya nodded. "The fourth mirror is up there. But the Hollow Man… it's not just a spirit. It's a remnant. A fragment of something older, stitched together from every voice that's ever screamed in this house."

Aarav tightened his hold on the pendant at his neck. "Then we don't have a choice."

The iron latch moaned as Maya unhooked it. The trapdoor opened with a groan, releasing a breath of stale, icy air. It smelled of rust and mold — and something faintly metallic, like dried blood.

They climbed the narrow steps, each board creaking under their weight. The deeper they went into the attic, the darker it felt — as if the shadows were not just darkness, but a presence.

A single beam of moonlight filtered through a broken window, illuminating dust motes that swirled like ash.

Then they heard it.

A faint voice.

"Maya…"

She froze. "That's… my grandmother's voice."

But the sound was wrong — too hollow, too stretched, like a recording played backward.

"Don't listen," Aarav warned. "It's trying to pull you in."

In the farthest corner of the attic, something moved.

A shape unfolded itself from the shadows, tall and skeletal. Its skin looked like leather — stitched crudely together, as if made from many different faces.

Where its eyes should have been, there were only dark, sunken hollows.

It tilted its head. Then it spoke — but not with its own voice.

"Aarav… help me… I'm Eleanor…"

The voice was perfect. Eleanor's tone, her cry. Aarav's chest tightened.

The creature took a step forward, its movements jerky, like a marionette pulled by broken strings. Chains dragged across the floor as it moved.

"Don't look directly at it," Maya whispered, clutching the talisman. "It feeds on recognition. If you acknowledge it, it becomes real."

But the Hollow Man's voice shifted again — now it was Aarav's mother's voice. "Come home… please, come home…"

Aarav felt his mind twist. His breath grew shallow. "How does it know?"

"It knows everything," Maya said, trembling. "It's a collector of voices, of memories. If it speaks as someone you love… it can make you bleed willingly."

In the center of the attic stood a cracked wardrobe. Its doors were chained shut.

Behind the chains, Aarav could see the faint glow of silver — the fourth ritual mirror.

The Hollow Man turned its faceless head toward it, then back at Aarav.

"You want this?" It spoke with Aarav's own voice now, perfectly mimicked. "You'll have to give something first. A memory. A truth."

Aarav's hands shook. "What… do you want from me?"

The Hollow Man smiled — a grotesque tear forming across its stitched skin.

"Your name."

Maya gasped. "Don't say your name aloud. If it learns your true name, it will own your shadow."

Aarav felt a wave of dizziness — as if the Hollow Man was already peeling away his thoughts. He heard his mother's voice again, his sister's laughter, fragments of forgotten childhood moments. All of them spilling from the Hollow Man's mouth.

"Aarav…" the thing cooed, stepping closer. "You're not like them. You belong here. You were Ambrose once."

The attic grew colder. The boards under Aarav's feet creaked as though they were sinking.

The Hollow Man lunged. Aarav barely ducked as its clawed hand slashed through the air, cutting deep marks into the wooden beam beside him.

Maya threw the talisman — it struck the Hollow Man's chest, burning its skin with a hiss. The creature screamed, voices overlapping — a dozen people crying out at once.

"Get the chains off the mirror!" Maya shouted.

Aarav rushed to the wardrobe, fumbling with the rusted lock. His hands trembled as the Hollow Man thrashed behind him.

Finally, the lock snapped. The wardrobe doors burst open, and the fourth mirror's light spilled out — pale, silver, cold.

Aarav looked into it.

For a moment, he saw nothing but blackness. Then — a flash.

Ambrose Blackthorn again.

Only this time, Aarav saw himself becoming Ambrose — the same black veins spreading across his body, his face twisting with anger, blood dripping from his hands.

A voice whispered in his mind:

"To stop the Hollow Man, you must accept what you are. Or you will be hollow too."

Aarav grabbed the mirror and turned it toward the Hollow Man.

The creature froze. Its stitched face reflected in the glass began to warp, its stolen voices echoing wildly. It shrieked — a sound so high-pitched that the attic window shattered.

The Hollow Man crumbled into dust, its form disintegrating until only silence remained.

The mirror flared with golden light.

Words burned onto its surface:

"The Hollow Man — The Collector."

Aarav collapsed to his knees, gasping. His head throbbed — but inside, he heard more voices now. Not just Eleanor, but others — Ambrose, the Hollow Man, whispers blending into a storm.

Maya knelt beside him, eyes wide. "Four mirrors… but you're not okay. Aarav, your veins—"

He looked at his arms. The black veins were spreading, reaching his shoulders.

"They're merging with me," he whispered. "The mirrors… they're not just keys. They're pieces of them. And now… they're inside me."