The Hungry Hollow

Eloise had just turned three, and we lived in a crooked little house at the edge of the Hungry Hollow, a deep, tangled forest that seemed to swallow light. I’d never been superstitious, but that place gave me the creeps; the way the trees leaned in, the way the air went still and thick even at noon. That’s why I kept my daughter, Clara, away from anything that might spark an unreasonable fear. No monster movies, no scary picture books, not even that cartoon with the friendly ghost. She was too young, too innocent.

But Clara started talking about ‘the hungry ones’ before she could even say her own name properly. At first, I thought it was just a phase, imaginary friends like kids have. But it wasn’t friendly. She’d wake up screaming, pointing at the corner of her room, her small face crumpled with terror. ‘The hungry ones are watching, Mama,’ she’d sob. ‘They want to eat the light.’ She wasn’t scared of monsters under the bed; she was scared of something that fed on the very warmth of our home.

I tried everything logical. Nightlights, lavender oil, a strict bedtime routine. But every night, as the dark seeped in through the windows like a liquid, she’d clutch her stuffed rabbit and whisper the same plea: ‘Don’t let them get me, Mama. Eat them for me.’ The first time she said that, a chill ran down my spine. Eat them? It was such a strange, primal thing for a child to say. I asked her why, and she just looked at me with those big, serious eyes. ‘Because you’re a mother. Mothers eat the bad things so children don’t have to.’

I started to notice things. The way my mouth would water, an almost metallic taste, whenever I was near the edge of the Hollow. I’d find myself staring into the darkness, my jaw clenching with a hunger I couldn’t explain. One evening, I caught myself actually chewing on a piece of tree bark I’d picked up from the yard, spitting it out in disgust. But the hunger didn’t go away. It grew.

The night everything changed, Clara was asleep, and I was sitting by the window, watching the Hollow breathe. The trees swayed, but there was no wind. And then I saw them. Shapes, darker than the darkness itself, crawling between the trunks. They were thin, long-limbed, with too many joints. They moved like insects, but their heads turned toward the house with an unnerving intelligence. My heart hammered, and my mouth flooded with saliva. Not out of fear. Out of hunger.

I understood then. They were feeding on something, on the light, on joy, on peace. And somehow, my body knew they were just prey. I was a mother. It was my job to protect my child. I walked to the front door, my steps guided by a will I didn’t recognize. I stepped into the yard, and the shapes froze, their eyeless faces fixed on me. I opened my mouth, and a sound came out, a low, resonant hum that vibrated in my chest. And then I lunged.

I don’t remember everything that happened. It was like a fever dream, a blur of tearing and swallowing, of something cold and bitter sliding down my throat. When I came to, I was back in the house, my mouth wiped clean, and the Hollow was silent. Clara slept peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling. I sat beside her, stroking her hair, but I couldn’t look at myself. I felt wrong, full, and strangely satisfied.

The next morning, Clara sat up and smiled at me, her eyes shining. ‘The hungry ones are gone, Mama. You ate them all.’ I smiled back, but my stomach churned. She hugged me, and I felt a warmth that wasn’t just affection. It was a warmth I’d consumed. I looked out at the Hollow, and the thought hit me: they would come back. They always come back. And I would be waiting, my mouth watering, ready to eat them again. Because that’s what mothers do.