I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. The Hollow Pact wasn’t just a game. It was a deal—a binding we didn’t know we were making. When Timmy said “we’ll always come back,” he didn’t mean as friends, laughing and whole. He meant something else. Something starved.

The pounding stopped abruptly, leaving only the whispers. I sank to the floor, knife in hand, trying to piece it together. Why did they need me to let them in? Why couldn’t they just break the door down?

And then I remembered the oak tree. The offerings. The chant. “Bind us together, you and me.” We’d tied ourselves to something—something in the woods, something that listened. It had taken them, one by one, and kept them. But it wasn’t enough. They weren’t enough.

They were hungry because they weren’t complete. The pact was a circle, and I was the missing piece. Letting them in didn’t mean opening the door—it meant giving myself up, finishing what we started. They’d come back, but they couldn’t stay, couldn’t rest, until I joined them.

The whispers grew louder, more desperate. “We need you, Danny. It hurts out here. It’s cold. It’s empty.”

I saw my reflection in the kitchen window, and there they were—behind me, their faces melding into one grotesque shape. Timmy’s eyes, Sarah’s broken jaw, Matt’s claw-like hands.

“We’re already inside,” they said, their voices a single, hollow rasp. “But we can’t have you until you say yes.”

That was it. The pact demanded consent. They could torment me, haunt me, but they couldn’t take me unless I let them.

The doorbell rang again—3:03 AM.