The fog in Black Hollow was more than weather—it was a living thing, a thick, gray shroud that clung to the pines and muffled every sound. It rolled in off the Oregon coast, swallowing the town whole, and tonight it pressed against Detective Sam Carver’s truck like a warning. At 38, Sam was a man marked by his past: a jagged scar split his left eyebrow, a souvenir from a Portland bar fight he’d never discuss. Five years ago, he’d fled that city, seeking refuge in Black Hollow’s quiet isolation. But the past, he was learning, didn’t let go so easily.
His phone buzzed at 3 a.m., shattering the stillness of his cabin. “Sam, we got a body,” Sheriff Danvers said, his voice taut. “Woods off Route 17. It’s bad.” Sam didn’t need details; he could hear the strain in Danvers’ words. He pulled on his coat, grabbed his Glock, and stepped into the night. The fog swallowed his headlights, forcing him to crawl along the winding road.
The crime scene glowed faintly through the mist, deputies’ flashlights flickering like ghosts. Grace Miller, a 25-year-old librarian, lay sprawled beneath an ancient oak. Her body was a nightmare: chest carved open, ribs splayed outward like a grotesque flower, eyes gone—replaced by dark, bloody sockets. A spiral, precise and deep, was etched into her sternum. Sam’s stomach lurched. He’d seen that symbol before, in Portland, on three women whose deaths still haunted him. The Hollow Man was back.
Deputy Claire Hensley stood nearby, her flashlight trembling. She was young, fresh from the academy, her freckled face pale against the horror. “Who does this?” she whispered. Sam didn’t answer. He crouched beside Grace, noting the pristine snow around her—no footprints, no tire tracks. The killer was meticulous, almost supernatural.
Back at the precinct—a squat, gray building that smelled of stale coffee and regret—Sam pinned Grace’s photo to the board. Her smile, frozen in time, seemed to mock the brutality of her end. Her file was thin: single, quiet, no enemies. “Why her?” Claire asked, hovering behind him.
“It’s not about her,” Sam said, his voice low. “It’s about me.” He tapped the spiral sketch he’d drawn from memory. “This is his signature. The Hollow Man. Three kills in Portland, five years ago. Then he vanished.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “I thought that was a cold case.”
“So did I,” Sam muttered, staring out at the fog pressing against the windows.
That night, Sam returned to his cabin, a whiskey glass in hand to dull the memories. The silence was heavy, broken only by the wind rattling the pines. Then, a faint scratching—nails on glass. He froze, gun drawn, and crept to the window. A spiral stared back, freshly etched, the lines wet with condensation. He checked outside: nothing but fog and undisturbed snow. The killer knew where he lived.
Dawn broke gray and cold. Sam showed Claire the photo of the window. “He’s watching me,” he said. She swallowed hard, her freckles stark against her ashen skin. “What does he want?”
“To finish what he started,” Sam replied. The autopsy report arrived like a gut punch: Grace’s eyes were removed while she was alive, her screams silenced by a gag. The spiral was carved after death—a deliberate taunt. Sam’s mind raced back to Portland, to the Hollow Man’s reign of terror, and the partner he’d lost in the chaos.
At the library, Sam interviewed Tom Reed, Grace’s coworker. Tom was wiry, nervous, his eyes darting. “She mentioned a guy,” he stammered. “Kept coming in, sketching. Gave her the creeps.” Sam searched Grace’s locker and found a sketchbook—page after page of spirals, some frantic, some eerily precise. When Tom’s sleeve slipped, revealing a spiral tattoo, Sam’s hand twitched toward his gun. “What’s that?” he demanded.
Tom paled. “Just a design. Got it years ago.”
“In Portland?” Sam pressed.
Tom’s silence was deafening.
That evening, Sam staked out the woods off Route 17, his truck hidden in the shadows. The fog was thicker than ever, the air heavy with damp rot. He waited, every nerve on edge, until a scream split the silence—Claire’s voice. He bolted from the truck, flashlight slicing through the mist. Her patrol car sat with its door ajar, and Claire slumped against it, blood gushing from her slashed throat. A spiral marred her cheek. A figure loomed above her, knife glinting. Sam fired, but the shadow melted into the trees.
Claire’s last breath was a rasp: “He said... your name.” Then she was gone. Grief and fury roared in Sam’s chest as he called for backup, his hands shaking.
Later, at his cabin, a small wooden box waited on the porch. Inside, Grace’s eyes floated in a jar of fluid, staring blankly. A note was tucked beside them: “See me, Carver.” Sam slammed the door, barricading himself in, but the message sank deep. The Hollow Man wasn’t just killing—he was hunting Sam.
Determined, Sam dug into Tom’s past. Records showed Tom had been a witness in the Portland case—the only survivor of the Hollow Man’s spree. He’d fled to Black Hollow, hoping to vanish. Instead, he’d become a pawn. The next morning, another body turned up: Tom, eyeless, a spiral on his chest, a note pinned to his shirt: “Closer, Carver.”
Sam knew it was a trap, but he had no choice. The clues led to an abandoned mill on the town’s edge, its skeletal frame swallowed by fog. Inside, the air reeked of decay, shadows shifting like living things. A figure waited in the gloom, tall and cloaked, face hidden. “You came,” it said, voice distorted. “Just as I knew you would.”
“Who are you?” Sam growled, gun steady.
The figure laughed—a sharp, brittle sound—and lowered its hood. Jack Riley, Sam’s former partner from Portland, stared back, his face twisted with madness. Sam staggered. “Jack? You’re dead.”
“Dead?” Jack sneered. “No, I remade myself. Became something greater. You failed me, Sam. Left me to rot. Now, I’ll finish you.”
Memories crashed in: Jack, wounded in a raid, left behind as Sam escaped. He’d assumed Jack died. Instead, he’d survived, warped into this monster. The fight was brutal—Jack’s knife slashing, Sam’s fists swinging. Blood slicked the floor, but Sam was outmatched, his strength fading.
Then, salvation: Claire’s backup radio, left in his truck, crackled to life. Deputies stormed the mill, tackling Jack to the ground. As they cuffed him, he grinned at Sam, teeth bloody. “This isn’t over. There are more like me. The spiral never ends.”
Sam watched them drag Jack away, the fog lifting slightly, revealing a dawn as gray as his soul. He’d won, but at what cost? Claire’s blood stained his hands, and Jack’s words echoed in his mind. The Hollow Man was gone, but the shadows lingered, whispering of battles yet to come.