The Hollow Beneath/Isolation
Dante had always been drawn to the quiet places, the forgotten corners where the world seemed to hold its breath. It was March 13, 2035, a damp Sunday evening, when he found the trapdoor. He’d been wandering the woods behind his new rental—a crumbling cabin in upstate New York—looking for something to shake the monotony of unpacking. The forest was dense, all twisted pines and moss-slick stones, and the air carried a chill that bit deeper than it should’ve for early spring. That’s when he saw it: a square of rusted iron half-buried under a snarl of roots, its edges gnawed by time.
He crouched, brushing dirt from the metal. A faint hum vibrated through his fingertips, like the drone of a distant engine. Curiosity tugged at him—Dante was never one to leave mysteries alone. He pried it open with a stick, the hinges screaming as the trapdoor yawned wide. Below was a shaft, narrow and black, with a ladder of iron rungs bolted to the stone. No light reached the bottom. He should’ve walked away. But Dante didn’t.
He grabbed a flashlight from the cabin, its beam shaky in his hand, and descended. The air thickened as he went, sour with mildew and something sharper—coppery, like old blood. The ladder groaned under his weight, each step a gamble. After twenty rungs, his boots hit dirt. The tunnel stretched ahead, low and rough-hewn, walls glistening with damp. His flashlight caught glints of quartz or something like it, winking in the dark. The hum was louder now, pulsing in his skull.
Dante pressed on, the tunnel sloping downward. He told himself it was just an old cellar, maybe a Prohibition hideout. But the carvings started to appear—crude shapes etched into the stone: eyeless faces, hands with too many fingers, spirals that seemed to twist if he stared too long. His breath quickened, fogging in the beam. The hum grew into a rhythm, a heartbeat not his own.
The tunnel opened into a chamber, vast and domed, the ceiling lost in shadow. In the center stood a pit, edges jagged like a broken jaw. The hum poured from it, a low chant that clawed at his ears. Dante’s flashlight flickered, and for a moment, he swore he saw movement in the dark—something pale and too tall slinking beyond the beam. He froze, heart hammering. “Hello?” he called, voice thin. The echo came back wrong, layered, like a dozen mouths mocking him.
He edged toward the pit, compelled despite the dread coiling in his gut. The flashlight barely pierced its depths, but he glimpsed something—a shimmer, like wet skin, writhing far below. The air turned heavy, pressing on his chest. Then the whispers started. Not words, not really—just fragments, hissing his name: Dan-te, Dan-te. They slithered from the pit, threading through the hum. His light died with a pop, plunging him into blackness.
Panic seized him. He stumbled back, hands scraping the wall, searching for the tunnel. The whispers grew louder, insistent, and with them came a stench—rotting meat and wet earth. Something brushed his ankle, cold and slick. He yelped, kicking out, but hit nothing. The dark was alive now, pressing in, and he ran blind, crashing into stone, clawing his way up the tunnel. The ladder—where was the ladder?
His fingers found the rungs at last, and he hauled himself up, lungs burning. The trapdoor loomed above, a faint square of twilight. He burst through, slamming it shut, and collapsed onto the forest floor, gulping air. The hum faded, but the whispers lingered, faint as a memory. Dante scrambled back to the cabin, locking every door, every window. He didn’t sleep that night, the flashlight clutched like a talisman.
Morning brought no relief. The cabin felt wrong—too still, too watchful. He decided to leave, to pack his car and never look back. But as he stepped outside, the trapdoor was there. Not in the woods—right in his yard, ten feet from the porch. Open. Waiting. Dante blinked, rubbed his eyes. It didn’t move. The hum trickled out, soft and coaxing.
He called the landlord, voice trembling. “There’s a trapdoor—some kind of cellar. What is it?” The old man laughed, a dry rasp. “Ain’t no cellar under that place, son. You been drinking?” Dante hung up, staring at the hole. It hadn’t been there yesterday. He was sure of it.
By noon, the whispers returned, louder, threading through the cabin’s walls. Dan-te, come see. He tried to ignore them, stuffing clothes into a bag. But the hum followed, rattling the windows, and when he looked outside, the trapdoor was closer—five feet from the steps. He grabbed his keys, bolted for the car. The engine sputtered, died. He tried again. Nothing. The whispers laughed.
Dante barricaded himself inside, piling furniture against the door. Night fell, and the hum became a roar. The trapdoor was under his window now, iron lid flung wide. He peeked out, and something stared back—a face, or what might’ve been one, pale and eyeless, stretched too long. It grinned, teeth like needles, and reached up, fingers splitting into tendrils. Dante screamed, falling back as the window shattered.
The thing didn’t enter. It waited. Hours passed, or maybe minutes—time smeared in the dark. The whispers filled his head, promising secrets, promising truth if he’d just come down. Dante’s resolve cracked. Maybe it wasn’t fear driving him now, but need. He had to know.
He crawled to the trapdoor, legs shaking, and descended again. The chamber was different—smaller, the pit wider. The thing stood at its edge, towering, its body a tangle of limbs and glistening flesh. It didn’t speak, but the whispers did: You’re home. Dante stepped forward, flashlight long gone, guided by the hum. The pit yawned beneath him, and he didn’t resist when the tendrils pulled him in.
The forest went quiet. The trapdoor vanished, leaving no trace. Dante’s car sat empty, his cabin untouched. Weeks later, a hiker found a flashlight in the woods, its lens cracked, still warm. Beneath it, carved into a stone, was a single word: Dante.