Chapter 9: The Hollow Descent

I stood at the edge of the opening, staring down into that black, gaping throat carved into my kitchen floor. The stairs were steep, narrow, uneven. They looked handmade—dug out with shaking hands or maybe clawed into the dirt by desperation itself.

The air that rose from below was thick, wet, and earthy. It smelled like rotting wood and something worse—like old breath trapped underground, waiting centuries to be exhaled again.

I didn't want to go down.

But the voice inside me was no longer whispering.

It was humming.

Low and steady, like the vibration of a funeral hymn. It vibrated behind my ribs, echoed in my teeth.

The clippings from the library were still in my jacket pocket. I touched them, crumpled them in my hand like they might anchor me to reality. They didn't.

I grabbed a flashlight from the drawer. The beam cut through the darkness like a dull knife. I stepped onto the first stair.

It groaned.

So did I.

I took another step. Then another.

With every footfall, I felt the house sigh around me, the wood above sealing itself up, as if to say: If you go down, there's no way back up.

The walls closed in as I descended. Dirt brushed my shoulders. Roots jutted out like fingers trying to pull me into the earth.

After maybe twenty steps, the staircase ended.

I was underground now.

The room at the bottom was small—no more than ten feet wide. The ceiling was low, barely above my head. The walls were packed earth, lined with dark, moist stone. There was nothing down here.

At first.

But then I saw it.

A chair. Old. Splintered. Shackled to the floor with thick, rusted chains.

And in front of the chair… a circle of nails, hammered deep into the dirt like a ritual. Their heads were smeared black with something that glistened wetly under the flashlight beam.

In the center of the circle, a human jawbone sat like an offering.

The teeth were cracked. Several had been forcibly pulled out. One still had a nail lodged through it.

My flashlight flickered.

No.

Not now.

I hit it. Hard. The beam steadied—just in time to see what was written on the wall behind the chair.

Carved into the stone, again and again:

"LET ME SPEAK."

Dozens of times. Hundreds. Scratched deep by fingernails or bone or madness itself.

That's when I heard the chains rattle.

Not a memory. Not imagination.

Movement.

Behind me.

I spun around.

There was no one there.

But the nail circle had changed.

There was something new in it.

A tongue.

Fresh. Wet. Pink.

Still twitching.

I stumbled back, dropping the flashlight. It hit the dirt with a thud, spun, and pointed at the ceiling.

That's when I saw the symbols.

Etched into the dirt above me were runes. Old. Primitive. They pulsed faintly, like they were breathing. Like they were feeding on my fear.

And then the voice returned—not in my head this time, but out loud.

"You brought me light. Now bring me sound."

I froze. My lips moved, but I didn't speak.

The voice did.

Through me.

Words spilled out of my mouth like blood from a wound. Ancient syllables, broken prayers, desperate screams.

I wasn't just a listener anymore.

I was the mouth.

My hands moved on their own. They reached into the circle, picked up the tongue, and pressed it to my own.

It dissolved.

Melted into my skin.

Sank into me.

I gagged. Screamed.

And then I heard everything.

A tidal wave of voices flooded my brain. Men, women, children. Screaming. Pleading. Crying for help from beneath the floor of time. Secrets buried under centuries of rot and shame. The house was a tomb and every plank of wood was a coffin lid.

I fell to my knees, convulsing. The light flickered again.

And then I saw him.

A figure in the corner.

Not a ghost. Not a shadow.

A man.

Or what was left of one.

His face was cracked like dry soil. His lips were sewn shut, but the threads pulsed with breath. His eyes were wide, gleaming with pain, locked onto mine.

He raised a finger to his mouth.

Shhh.

Then he pointed to the stairs.

The message was clear: You've been heard. Now go speak.

The flashlight died.

I bolted. Scrambled up the steps, barely remembering how I moved. My legs were shaking, my lungs on fire.

When I reached the top, the opening in the floor was gone.

Sealed.

Perfectly.

Like it had never been there.

Only the flashlight remained in my hand—and the jawbone.

I stared at it.

It was clean now. White. Polished.

A warning.

Or an invitation.

The house around me had changed. The wallpaper peeled like skin. The floor pulsed underfoot. The walls… they breathed. In. Out.

The voice was gone from inside my head.

Because it had found a better place.

Me.

I looked at my reflection in the dark window.

Something smiled back.