The Hollow Feast

My name is Elara, and this is what happened after I started seeing the hunger in everyone’s eyes.

It began with a dream that felt more like a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet. I was in a room that smelled of damp earth and old wood, the walls lined with shelves of empty jars. The door was barricaded with a rusted iron bed frame, the single window covered by a warped plank nailed haphazardly. The light bulb overhead was shattered, its glass crunching under my bare feet as I sat up on a thin mattress on the floor. Around me, in a circle, sat ten figures, their heads bowed, their hands limp on their laps. I recognized them all: my mother, my boyfriend, my grandmother, my cousins Finn and Leo, my best friends Maya, Chloe, and Zoe, my father, and my grandfather.

I reached out and touched my mother’s shoulder. ‘Mom, are you okay?’ I whispered. She lifted her head slowly, and her eyes were not her own—they were the color of dried blood, the irises swallowed by a deep crimson. I scrambled back, my heart hammering. Then my sisters, Ivy and Rose, crawled into the circle from the shadows. They each took one of my hands, their grips like cold, wet rope. Ivy bit into the webbing between my thumb and forefinger, and Rose bit into the same place on my other hand, their teeth sinking deep. I screamed, a raw, tearing sound, and they froze. The dream shattered, and I woke in my own bed, gasping.

My hands throbbed. I flicked on the bedside lamp, and there they were: two perfect crescents of teeth marks, already beginning to fade. Within seconds, they were gone, as if the skin had never been broken. But the pain lingered, a dull ache that pulsed with my heartbeat.

I tried to shake it off, but strange things started happening. At school, I sat by the window in my history class, staring out at the overcast sky. When I finally looked back at the board, the entire class was staring at me, their heads tilted at odd angles, their eyes not quite focused. The teacher called my name, but I couldn’t hear her—only a low hum, like a swarm of bees, filled my ears. I blinked, and they were all normal again, writing notes, chatting softly. But the hum stayed with me for the rest of the day.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the imprint of those bites on my hands, the ghost of a wound. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and in the dark, I saw my father standing at the counter, facing the wall. He was eating something, but I couldn’t see what. He didn’t turn when I called to him. The crunching sound was wet and rhythmic.

The next morning, I noticed a black, tarry substance under my fingernails, as if I had been digging in soil. I scrubbed it off, but it left a faint stain. My grandmother rang the doorbell before breakfast, which was odd because she lived three hours away. She smiled too wide when she hugged me, and her breath smelled of copper. ‘You’ve been chosen, Elara,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘The feast is coming.’

I tried to avoid everyone, but they started appearing in my periphery—at the grocery store, in my rearview mirror, outside my window at night. They never moved, just stood and watched, their eyes dark pools. My boyfriend, Daniel, came over to check on me. I told him about the dream and the bites. He laughed it off, but when he hugged me, I felt his hand slide up my back, and his fingers lingered on my shoulder blade with an odd, searching pressure. He pulled back, and his eyes flickered to my neck before he smiled.

Three weeks later, I woke to find the door to my bedroom barricaded from the outside with a heavy dresser. The window was nailed shut. The light bulb in my ceiling had been removed, leaving an empty socket. I screamed for help, but no one came. I heard footsteps in the hall, and then silence. I pressed my ear to the door and heard a low, guttural chant, like a prayer in a language I didn’t know.

I don’t know how long I was trapped in that room. Days, maybe. The hunger grew in me—not for food, but for something else. I could feel it in my teeth, a dull ache. When they finally opened the door, they were all there: my family, my friends, my boyfriend. They formed a circle around me, and I saw the bite marks on their hands, the same crescents. They held hands, and as one, they began to sing—a soft, off-key lullaby that I recognized from my childhood.

In the center of the circle, a small fire had been lit. They motioned for me to step into it. I wanted to resist, but my legs moved on their own. The flames licked my feet, and for a moment, I felt pure agony. Then the pain vanished, replaced by a warmth that spread through my veins. When I looked down, my skin was unmarked. And when I looked at their faces, they were smiling, their eyes still blood-red.

Now I’m part of the circle. We gather every month in that same room, waiting. The hunger never fully leaves, but it’s bearable when we’re together. Last night, I saw a new figure on the edge of the circle—a man I didn’t recognize, with black eyes like a void. He was watching me with a look of terrible recognition. And I knew: I had seen him in my dream, standing at the back of the room, behind the others, waiting. Maybe he was always there. Maybe he is the feast.