The savanna was endless at night, a sea of tall grass under a sky so black it swallowed the stars. Villages were scattered, small clusters of huts huddled against the wind. Few dared walk the open land after sunset, for it was when the Hollow Ones came.
No one remembered who first saw them, or how they came to exist. But elders told stories to every child: creatures with no faces, only gaping holes where eyes should be, moving silently through the grass. They hunted not for food, but for fear. Those who looked into the void of their faces were never seen again.
⸻
Amara was a young herder, strong, proud, and curious. She had grown up on stories of the Hollow Ones and had always dismissed them. The cattle were hers to watch over, and she loved the nights when the wind whispered through the grass.
That night, she stayed behind to guard the herd while her brother and father returned to the village. The moon was thin and pale, barely lighting the path. Crickets chirped, hyenas laughed, and everything seemed ordinary.
Until she saw the movement.
At first, she thought it was another herder, walking in the distance. But then she noticed the figures were too still, too perfect. They were tall, thin, gliding across the savanna like shadows without weight. And their faces—there were no faces. Just deep, empty hollows where eyes should have been.
Amara froze, gripping her staff. “Who’s there?” she called.
No answer came, only the whisper of the wind. Yet the creatures moved closer, each step deliberate, their heads tilting toward her as if listening.
Panic rose in her chest. She backed toward the cattle, but the herd seemed to sense the danger. They stamped, lowing, their hooves pounding the ground in terror.
⸻
The first Hollow One reached her. Its arms were long, ending in spindly fingers that dragged along the ground. Its hollow gaze seemed to pierce through her, and she felt a chill that seeped into her bones.
Amara swung her staff. The creature recoiled—but not away. It paused, silent, then leaned closer. She could feel its breath, icy and wet, on her face.
She remembered the elders’ warning: Do not meet their gaze.
She turned her eyes to the ground, keeping her mind elsewhere. The Hollow One hissed, a sound like dry grass cracking in fire. Then it moved on, passing through the herd, leaving a cold emptiness in its wake.
Her heart raced. She had survived, but she knew the creatures were patient. They didn’t attack quickly. They waited for fear to take root.
⸻
Night stretched on. Amara tried to keep moving, circling the herd, avoiding open spaces. Shadows shifted, and sometimes she thought she heard whispers, faint voices calling her name.
She tripped, and when she looked up, three Hollow Ones stood before her. Taller than she expected, their hollows wider, deeper. And then she noticed—the creatures were multiplying. As if the darkness itself birthed them.
Amara ran, her staff in hand, but the savanna seemed endless. Every time she thought she saw the village lights, they vanished, replaced by more Hollow Ones. The whispering grew louder, weaving into a chant she didn’t understand, pulling her toward the heart of the grass.
She stumbled into a dry gully. Her legs burned. She heard them circling, gliding over the earth without sound. The chanting swelled. She pressed herself against the ground, covering her face, willing them to pass.
But one hovered above her, bending low. Its hollow gaze seemed infinite. The air grew heavy. Amara felt herself lifting off the ground, drawn upward by the creatures’ will.
⸻
Hours—or perhaps minutes—later, dawn broke. The savanna glowed gold. Amara lay in the gully, gasping, sun warming her face. The Hollow Ones were gone. She staggered to her feet and ran back to the village.
The elders listened silently as she recounted what happened. Some shook their heads, others whispered prayers. The chief, old and stern, spoke finally:
“You were lucky. The Hollow Ones take only those who look into their hollows. They hunger for fear. But fear can linger, and the creatures are patient. You may have survived tonight, but remember—tonight has not ended.”
Amara nodded, trembling. She never returned to the open savanna at night.
⸻
Years later, travelers who crossed the northern plains sometimes reported strange sightings. A herd of cattle stampeding, though no one had driven them. A shadow that moved too smoothly across the grass. And sometimes, if they were foolish enough to linger, they felt a chill like icy fingers on their spine, and glimpsed hollow faces watching them from the dark.
And somewhere, Amara, now older, still heard the whispers in her dreams, calling her back to the night of hollow eyes.
