Pixiom

Ten years after her brother’s tragic death, Clara Carter receives a letter in his handwriting: “Come home, Clara. I’m waiting.”

But Hollow’s End is no ordinary town.

Its cobblestone streets swallow secrets. Its fog hides faces that aren’t quite human. And beneath the abandoned mill, something ancient stirs—a hunger that feeds on stories, twisting grief into lies and memories into cages.

Returning to bury her guilt, Clara discovers her brother Liam is neither alive nor dead. Trapped in the realm of the Weaver, a primordial entity that weaves reality from stolen tales, he warns her of the town’s curse: “They’ll wear you like a mask.”

As Clara digs into her family’s past, she uncovers a chilling truth. The Carters were never victims—they were keepers of the Hollow, sacrificing loved ones to pacify the Weaver. Now, the entity wants a new story. Hers.

The Weaver’s Hollow

The door's slam echoed through the hollow bones of the house, sealing Clara in a tomb of silence. Her reflection splintered in the cracked mirror, each shard warping her face into something unrecognizable. But he—the boy in the red hoodie—held her gaze. Liam's silhouette flickered like a dying flame, his too-wide grin stretching beyond the edges of the glass.

"Liam," Clara whispered, her voice trembling. "What happened to you?"

The thing wearing her brother's face tilted its head, ink-black tears pooling at its chin. "You already know," it hissed, the words slithering into her mind. "You left. They took. Now they hunger… for you."

Behind the figure, the mirror's depths shifted. Shadows coagulated into shapes—a woman clawing at her throat, a child curled in a corner, their mouths frozen in silent screams. Echoes. The Weaver's collection.

Clara's hand flew to her pocket, clutching the letter. "I'm here to save you. Tell me how!"

The reflection laughed, a sound like shattering glass. "Save? No. Join." Its fingers pressed against the mirror, the glass bulging like skin. The rot spread faster now, black veins crawling up the walls, the lilacs outside the window withering to ash.

A memory surfaced: Liam, age twelve, daring her to touch the mirror during a storm. "It's alive, Clara. It breathes." She'd called him crazy. Now, the glass did breathe—frost blooming with each ragged exhale.

The floorboards groaned. Clara stumbled back as the hallway elongated, doors multiplying into a labyrinth. A low hum vibrated in her teeth, the house itself chanting. Wrongwrongwrong—

She fled to the study, where her father's desk sat buried under dust. A drawer hung ajar. Inside, a photograph: the Carter family, smiling. But the image rippled—Liam's face melted, replaced by the hollow-eyed boy in the mirror. Scrawled on the back in her father's hand: "The pact is broken. It wears him now."

The hum crescendoed. Clara turned.

The mirror stood in the doorway, its frame oozing sap. Liam's reflection reached out, fingers breaching the glass, skeletal and glistening. "Stay. Stay."

She bolted, crashing into the attic. The door slammed behind her, locks clicking. Safe. For now.

But the air here was thicker, sweet with decay. A trunk in the corner spilled open—childhood toys, a threadbare stuffed owl. Beneath them, a journal. Her father's.

"The Weaver demands a story," the first entry read. "We feed it lies to keep it sleeping. But Liam… he tried to tell the truth."

A crash downstairs. The mirror's glass shrieked.

Clara gripped the journal. Footsteps climbed the stairs. Slow. Relentless.

"Clara…" Liam's voice, was soft and desperate. Not from below—from the far attic wall. Another mirror, smaller, smudged with grime. His true reflection, eyes wide and terrified, pressed against the glass. "The well… it's in the well—"

"The Boy in the Mirror"