The widow Owens had finally passed on. Her long lingering disease would ravage her withered body no more. Childless, not by choice, all that she left behind was a sad story and brief will, bequeathing the only thing she owned outright to her grandnephew, Oliver.

He was a pale, callow soul. Tand awkward, aged thirty years. Well-meaning with his sorrow but all too accustomed to its numbing effects. His own parents had passed not long ago; all his progenitors passed in quick succession. Bad things seem to always come in threes. The graveside service was attended by few. Oliver bowed his head, glancing occasionally upward, as if watching for a signal. His thin face showed little worry of the debt his poor parents left him with or the guilt he felt for resenting them. The shade of oaks above stretched into twisted, bony shadows as the cool cloak of dusk laid across the cemetery. Stolid and without motion, only Oliver, the undertaker, and the widow’s executor remained. The latter was a stout, old lawyer with a white mustache that covered his lips as he muttered about the papers and the keys - how one didn’t seem to unlock anything that he could tell - and how everything Oliver needed was in the envelope he carefully stuffed under the lanky heir’s arm. The lawyer left. The undertaker saw to his duties. Oliver drove his rusted Chevy truck to his great aunt’s, for there was nowhere else to go.

The house was once a lush, Victorian estate. It had long-needed repair and stood in relative shambles from its original splendor. There were places where the wood had rotted or shingles had taken wing; where nesting birds had taken their place. Oliver fumbled for his new set of keys and found one to gain his entry. He clicked on the only light which he could find in the dark. A chandelier covered in cobwebs flickered on. He found himself in a forgotten time time surrounded by a variable treasure trove of antique furniture and paintings, covered in dust and soot. The fireplace was a black maw of long expunged cinders, and a spidery trail of smoke leading up to the ceiling. Oliver imagined the flue was most definitely blocked but shuttered to think with what. Cracked windows and warped floor boards made for a creaking, hissing symphony of eerie quiet. He could hear the flapping and cooing of pigeons from somewhere in the rafters which somehow seemed a comforting sound. He made his way to his great aunts master bedroom. He fumbled to find a light by her bedside. He could see this was the only room that was still kept in decent repair. Still, most everything was covered in dust, but for the place where she laid. The day had been long, and though he was hungry, his exhaustion proved more seductive. He laid down in the dustless depression, left by his once great aunt and there fell fast asleep.

Oliver dreamed of his parents and his aunt somewhere by the sea. They laughed and smiled at each other, and then looked at him with heavy eyes. Somehow their smiles turned wicked, and their laughter turned into cackles, which became a hacking, shredding, deafening sound all around him. He awakened with a gasp, sitting up, nearly coming to his feet. He rubbed his eyes and relaxed back down again. “God. Just a dream.“ he forgot where he was for a moment. But then he heard it again. The cutting sound from his dream. Now it sounded more hollow. Like a scratching from somewhere behind or above him. “Rats!” he palmed his face. “And now the nightmare really begins.” There it was again. Scratch, scratch, scratch. He sat up in bed. He looked around, listening. A long silence. Then again, scratch, scratch, scratch. It was getting louder. Always in threes. He got up and opened the door - it creaked. He sighed and listened again. Nothing. It was late, maybe 3 AM. Oliver sat down in bed again. Yawned. Checked his phone. Yes - almost 3. The light from his phone call glimpse of the wall behind his bed and there, etched into the paint with three long scratch marks. Then the sounds came again. Three long scratches. Oliver stood up. The sounds were coming from inside the wall. It wasn’t a rat. Or a raccoon. It was something else. Something in the hollow behind the wall. Something that made him feel as though he was being watched. He picked up his shoes and headed for the door, but then it closed shut. He stumbled backwards into the floor and from below came a desperate din of shredding - claws tearing at the floor beneath him. His strobing phone light showed the plaster coming down in long scratches on the walls - from three jagged nails. And then they came through the wall and up through the floor, all around! Oliver was surrounded by the creatures but they had no face or eyes, only claws. Their hollow ripping grew unbearable, forcing him to cover his ears. He shut his eyes tight, knowing they were closer than ever by their sound. This was it - how he would die! He shrieked, “Please, God! No!” The cacophony ceased. The creeping shredding ripping was gone. Oliver opened his eyes. The scratch marks were gone. Was he awake? Another nightmare? Grief stricken hallucinations? Or was it the curse of his family. A degenerate disease of the mid-brain and inner ear. The auditory curse he came to call “the hollow.”