the hollow e-book cover

The land’s thirsty, they say. Never go there after dark.

There’s something uncanny about the hollow. It’s damp and chilly all year round, and it hides a dark secret–one Jo’s been running from for most of her life. But now it’s time to tie up loose ends, so Jo’s coming home.

Will the past stay buried where it belongs, or is she about to awaken a monster?



The Hollow



    • Horror Suspense
    • Literature & Fiction
    • Short Story


    • eBook


“I grew up on the edge of woodlands and spent many days walking through them. The Hollow brings back that childhood experience of loving the woods but coming upon that place that scares you to your bone. Maybe it is irrational. Maybe it is a trick of the light. And maybe something hungers. F.K. Marlowe gives that a face.
– Leto Armitage, Author (May, 2022)
“You won’t go in the woods alone again. A wonderfully written, creepy, horror-filled short story that made me think; What if Pet Sematary had a werewolf in it? A must-read.
– D. G. Barnes, Author (May, 2022)

“The Hollow’ brings to life the demons of a shattered past, carefully blending supernatural terror with the ravages of a broken childhood. F.K. Marlowe proves herself to be a master of atmospheric suspense as she animates the shadows in the corners of our minds. This is a must read for fans of M.R. James and tales of cosmic horror.”

– Deni Weeks, Author (May, 2022)

“After reading Marlowe’s skin-crawling debut, Calyptra Mortiferum, I expected more creeping bugs. However, I found myself pleasantly surprised to read an almost suburban tale filled with suspense and foreshadowing as thick as the moss in The Hollow. Readers will be left on the edge of their seat, hanging on each and every word.

– M. W. McLeod, Author (May, 2022)


“I hate this path. It crawls through the little patch of woodland behind the house, eventually winding its way up the mountain. But first it pauses in a hollow that’s damp and chilly all year round, the sunlight never quite filtering through intertwined branches and grey, spindly leaves. In summertime the rusty cast of thorn bushes masked by small white flowers reminds me of gore seeping through bandages. In winter, only dripping red roots remain, bleeding from the soil.

There are stories about it, always have been. Overgrown pit shafts, concealed wells, sinkholes. The land’s thirsty, they say, swallowing the unwary, the drunk and the despairing. Listen to the locals and the place is rife with ghosts, busier than the high street on a Saturday afternoon. I never believed the stories. The place has a grim enough history without the fairytales, for me.

And yet it’s here that my footsteps bring me, time after time, as if I’m under some spell. Even now, after all these years, all the miles I thought I’d put between us. It has pulled me back again like a magnet, like a noose. I’m not the first to feel that tug, or the effort it takes to resist.

It’s wet today, a fine drizzle in the air, and somewhere near but out of sight, the insidious trickle of water. My boots make deep indents in the leaf mould. The pup leaps about joyfully in the deep, ruddy debris drifted in piles at the margins of the path, pouncing on imaginary creatures and seizing sticks in triumph. So much for animals having a sixth sense. Or maybe the stench of decay is natural to them, a fact of life we’ve evolved to ignore, except when we can’t.

The air’s sour, a mist rising from the sodden earth. I can feel it clogging my lungs, curdling. It’s time to go, before I drown in it.”