The Hollow One of Witherhall Asylum
Long abandoned and swallowed by rot, Witherhall Asylum once housed the most broken minds of a forgotten age. But among whispers of madness and tales of cruel experiments, one name was always spoken in hushed dread—The Hollow One.
No one remembers its face—only the sound. A deep, wet rattle in the silence. They say it was born not from flesh, but from the screams of those left to rot. A failed ritual to “cure” insanity tore open something ancient beneath the asylum, and from that wound, The Hollow One crawled forth. Cloaked in shadows, with ribs like sharpened roots and fingers long enough to scrape memory from the mind, it began its quiet hunt.
It doesn’t kill. Not at first.
It removes.
Memories. Voice. Identity.
Those who see The Hollow One often vanish. The few who return are hollowed—eyes wide, mouths forever silent, souls dimmed like candles snuffed in a storm.
Now the asylum remains locked and fenced, but the hallway where The Hollow One first appeared never stops bleeding through the dreams of those nearby. The paint peels. The floors stain. The door creaks.
And sometimes—just sometimes—you hear the rattle.
The Hollow One is watching again.
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