Maggie had lived in Hollow Creek her whole life, but she’d never seen the sinkhole before. It appeared overnight in her backyard—a perfect circle, about six feet wide, plunging into darkness. The edges of the grass looked like they had been neatly cut, as if something had gently lifted the earth away rather than tearing through it.
At first, she called the city, but they had no record of any underground caves or tunnels in the area. "Probably just erosion," the man on the phone had said, uninterested. "We'll send someone next week."
That night, Maggie woke up to a whisper.
It was coming from the hole.
She crept to the back door, heart hammering. The voice was faint, indistinct, but rhythmic. Like someone was speaking just beneath the surface.
She grabbed a flashlight and stepped out onto the damp grass.
"Hello?" she called, peering into the abyss. The light barely penetrated the inky blackness.
The whispering stopped.
Then something whispered back.
It was her own voice.
Maggie stumbled backward, her breath catching. The voice coming from the hole—it sounded exactly like her.
She turned and ran inside, slamming the door. She barely slept, lying rigid in bed as the whispers returned, rising and falling like breath.
By dawn, she decided to leave. She packed a bag, grabbed her keys, and yanked open the front door.
The hole was in her driveway now.
Bigger.
She stepped back, chest heaving. The whispers were louder, clearer now. It wasn't just her voice anymore. It was dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Calling her name.
Maggie turned to run—
—but the ground beneath her feet gave way.
And the whispering swallowed her whole.
