Mesia and the Hollow Eyes

The village of Elder Hollow was quiet—too quiet. Tucked between blackened trees and crooked hills, it was a place the world had mostly forgotten. Only one road led in, and no roads led out, as if the earth itself had sealed the place shut.

Mesia was twelve when she arrived. She didn’t know why her uncle brought her there—only that her parents were gone, and the city was no longer “safe.” Uncle Bartholomew never said much. He smoked thick cigars and spoke in half-muttered warnings.

“Don’t stray from the house after dusk,” he told her. “Don’t look out the attic window. And whatever you do, Mesia, if you hear someone call your name from the woods… you don’t answer.”

She nodded. She was too polite to question things, even when her bedroom had scratch marks on the door and a padlock on the inside.

It didn’t take long for Mesia to notice the eyes.

They were in paintings, carved into trees, and stitched into curtains—always the same: large, round, and hollow. No iris, no pupil. Just deep, empty ovals staring outward. They gave her chills. Once, when she mentioned them to her uncle, he slammed his cup so hard the ceramic cracked.

“They see things,” he muttered. “Don’t talk about them.”

One night, the wind refused to sleep.

It howled through the window cracks and rattled the floorboards like bones. Mesia couldn’t rest. She climbed quietly from her bed and wandered the halls, barefoot and pale in the moonlight. The old house creaked like it was breathing.

Something drew her to the attic door.

She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the wind, or perhaps it was the voice she almost didn’t hear—whispering so softly, like a lullaby through the walls:

“Mesia… come see…”

The attic was forbidden, but children and curiosity are old friends.

She opened the latch.

The air hit her like a shiver—cold and old and full of dust. Cobwebs clung to the low beams. There was a window at the far end, just as Uncle Bartholomew had warned her about. It was round, framed in rusted metal, and looked out toward the forest.

She approached.

At first, she saw only fog.

Then the fog moved.

Figures emerged from the woods, slow and tall—too tall. Ten, maybe twelve of them, walking stiffly toward the house. No faces. Just deep, empty sockets where eyes should be.

She gasped and stepped back—but the floor groaned.

One of the figures stopped.

Turned.

And lifted a hand.

It pointed directly at her.

Mesia slammed the attic door shut and raced to her bed, heart thudding like a trapped bird. She didn’t sleep.

By morning, the world pretended to be normal again. Uncle Bartholomew made porridge. The trees stood still. No sign of the figures.

But something had changed.

The house watched her now.

She felt it in every room. When she opened the bathroom mirror, her reflection blinked late. When she closed her closet, she heard a second breath that wasn’t hers.

Then came the scratching.

At night, from beneath the floorboards. Like someone writing… or trying to get out.

She told her uncle. He went pale, gripped her shoulders, and said:

“You opened the attic, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then he told her the story.

Many years ago, Elder Hollow had been larger—more children, more laughter. But something came from the forest. It didn’t speak. It only watched. At first, the villagers ignored the hollow-eyed figures. Until people started to change.

They spoke in whispers.

They stopped sleeping.

Some just vanished.

One by one, the children went first. They said the Hollow Eyes were looking for something—a child with the “sight,” someone who could see them back. That’s when the villagers sealed the attic. When they painted eyes on the trees, on the doors, on the clothes—to keep them away.

It didn’t work.

“We made a deal,” Uncle Bartholomew said. “One child every twenty years. To keep the rest of the village safe.”

Mesia froze. “You brought me here... to give me to them?”

He looked ashamed.

Before he could answer, the lights flickered—and went out.

The house moaned. The wind screamed. And from every wall came voices—chanting her name in a thousand broken whispers:

“Me—si—a… Me—si—a…”

She ran. To the attic. To the window.

They were already there.

Surrounding the house. Eyes wide. Hollow. Hungry.

Mesia had no choice. She opened the window.

And stepped into the night.

They say Elder Hollow is quiet again.

The trees have grown thicker. The house is still.

But if you go near it—if you look into the attic window at just the right moment—you might see a girl in a white dress.

Her eyes?

Hollow.

Just like the rest.