That lavender scent hit him the moment he walked in—same as always, like the room itself was trying to tell everyone who entered that everything would be okay. Mateo Cross watched Margaret Wilkins shift in the leather chair across from him. Forty-seven years old, hadn't had a decent night's sleep in half a year, and it showed. Her hands were shaking as she gripped the armrests—he'd picked that chair specifically because it didn't make any noise. No squeaks, no creaks. When you're dealing with sleep issues, every little sound matters. "So, how'd last night go?" Mateo kept his voice soft, pen ready over his notepad. After eight years as a sleep therapist, he could probably do this with his eyes closed. But people needed to feel like you were really listening, you know? "Same old story." Margaret's voice came out thin, stretched. "Got into bed at eleven. Closed my eyes. Counted backward from a hundred, then tried two hundred. And then I just... laid there. Watching those damn numbers

Mateo couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong as he searched every corner of Ivy's room, the darkness pressing in like a living thing.He'd been at it for hours now—checking behind furniture, tapping on walls, shining his phone into shadows that seemed to swallow the light. Nothing. Just the old house groaning and Route 16 humming in the distance."See?" He forced a smile. "Nothing here. Just an old house being an old house."Ivy hadn't moved from her bed. She watched him with eyes that had gone from fever-bright to something far worse—empty. Like she'd checked out completely."When'd you last sleep?" he asked, already dreading the answer.She took forever to respond. "Saturday morning. Seven o'clock."Christ. Today was Tuesday. That's what—79 hours? No wonder she was seeing things."And you're hearing scratching?""Only at night." Her voice was barely there. "Only at 3:33."Yeah, that tracked. Stay awake long enough and your brain starts making up its own horror

The Boston Police headquarters on Tremont Street looked exactly like it had seven months ago, during the initial investigation: cold fluorescent lights, beige walls, and that unmistakable smell of burnt coffee mixed with paper. Mateo stood in the lobby with Eloise beside him, Ivy wedged between them, gripping each parent's hand like she was holding on for dear life.Detective Reeves came through a security door. She was younger than Mateo had pictured—maybe late thirties, with sharp eyes and brown hair yanked back in a tight bun. Her slacks and blazer had that rumpled look that screamed too many late nights."Dr. and Mrs. Cross. Thanks for coming so quickly." Her eyes dropped to Ivy. "Is there somewhere she can wait? What I need to show you... it's probably better if she doesn't see.""My mom's on her way," Eloise said. Her voice sounded like glass about to crack. "She'll be here in twenty minutes."They sat in those awful plastic chairs while they waited. Ivy colored in a Disney act

They left at dawn. Mateo drove while Eloise stared out the window at the highway rushing past. Ivy sat in the back with her grandmother, coloring in a workbook, her face blank and peaceful. Eloise's mother, Joan, had insisted on coming. "I'm not letting my granddaughter out of my sight," she'd said, jaw set in that way that meant arguing was pointless. She was sixty-three, gray-haired, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. "And if this town's as dangerous as you say, you'll need an extra set of hands."The GPS kept losing signal as they drove north. First it'd show the route clearly, then the screen would flicker and reset, showing them in the middle of nowhere with no roads around. Mateo had to navigate the old-fashioned way—following road signs and a printed MapQuest sheet he'd made at the hotel.The landscape changed gradually. Suburbs gave way to small towns, then farmland, then dense forests that pressed close to the road. These trees were old-growth—massive oaks and pines that

They burst out of the church. The fog had thickened into something almost solid, pressing against them like water. Through it, Mateo could hear sounds—footsteps, many footsteps, all heading toward them. The possessed congregation, hunting."This way!" Father Thorne's voice cut through the murk. He grabbed Mateo's arm, pulling him right, then left, through narrow alleys between buildings. Eloise was right behind them, breath coming in ragged gasps."The car," Mateo panted. "Ivy—she's in the car—""I know. We're going there first." Father Thorne moved with surprising speed for a man his age, navigating the fog-shrouded streets like he'd memorized every inch. "But we can't stay there. The car won't protect her. Nothing made of metal or glass holds against the Hollow."They emerged onto Main Street. The car was still there, doors locked, windows fogged. Through the condensation, Mateo could see two shapes: Joan in the front seat, Ivy in the back.He yanked open the door. "We're leaving. N