The Breath Beneath Cypress Hollow

The Hollow Names

Episode 1: The Breath Beneath Cypress Hollow

By Candle Light Chaos

Fog wove itself across cracked asphalt like a living thing, swallowing the road ahead in long, drifting sheets. Joel’s rusted pickup growled down the path anyway, headlights smeared by mist. The forest pressed in on both sides—tall cypress trees bent in the wind, limbs arching low as if trying to keep the truck from going further.

Inside, the heater clicked and wheezed. Four teenagers glowed in the artificial light of their cellphones.

Lena, perched shotgun, was all angles and defiance, fiddling with her livestream gear like she’d done this a thousand times. Her black hair was streaked with neon blue, her face sharp and knowing. Amber, poised in the back seat with designer boots caked in Georgia clay, double-checked her camera battery with the casual grace of someone who knew how to look good panicking. Nico, bundled in a hoodie, bounced his leg with a rhythm only he could hear—nerves disguised as energy. And then there was Joel, hands tight on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on every shadow beyond the trees.

The silence between them wasn’t casual.

Nico (turning down the radio’s nervous indie beat): “Still time to back out. Just sayin’.”

Lena (not even looking up): “Still time for you to grow a spine.”

Amber (grinning like a campfire dare): “The drawers in the morgue slam shut on their own. The last streamer who came out here hit over a million views.”

Joel (flatly, eyes never leaving the road): “My brother never came out.”

The statement rippled through the cab like a cold breath. Even the heater seemed to sputter at those words.

Up ahead, something white fluttered in the fog—just for a second. A hospital wristband caught on a thorn branch, its plastic stained and faded. Joel didn’t slow down.

Elmhurst Institute for the Psychiatrically Forsaken

The truck crunched to a stop at the gates. Weeds pushed through cracked gravel beneath the tires. Ahead of them loomed Elmhurst, its sagging facade dressed in ivy and rot. Shattered windows stared down like blind eyes. A rusted arch over the entrance groaned in the wind:

ELMHURST INSTITUTE FOR THE PSYCHIATRICALLY FORSAKEN

Nico (barely whispering): “Y’all feel that?”

Amber (already filming): “That’s the intro shot right there.”

Joel was already out of the truck.

Inside the Hollow

The double doors groaned open like they hadn’t been touched in years. The flashlight beams stabbed ahead and met only dust and silence. The lobby was worse than abandoned—it was forgotten. Mold bloomed like bruises along the corners. Graffiti veins spread across the walls, thick and tangled like something alive.

Near the information desk, a toppled gurney blocked the hallway. One cracked leather restraint hung from it, still buckled.

Nico (snorting): “Smells like something died in here… again.”

Lena (locking eyes with Joel): “Basement’s where the last footage showed drawers moving. We hit that first.”

Joel (quietly): “We don’t split up.”

Down the hallway, an old intercom hissed to life. Static, then a voice—barely audible.

A whisper. Then silence.

Psalm 88. In reverse.

The Stairwell

The stairwell descended like a throat. The walls closed in. A mural of children in hospital gowns lined the staircase—hand-in-hand, ring-around-the-rosy style. But one child’s face had been scratched away until only cracked plaster showed.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Amber’s camera jittered—she slapped it. The screen flared with static.

Nico’s light flickered just as they reached the bottom. He tapped it. It didn’t come back on.

Joel (in a whisper): “He used to draw me pictures down here. My brother. Trees and angels. Before... whatever happened to him.”

Lena (half-breathless): “Wait—this wasn’t your first time in here?”

Joel didn’t answer.

The Mortuary

The air turned heavy as they entered the basement mortuary. The kind of air that sticks to your lungs. Rows of metal drawers lined the far walls, like a morgue frozen mid-scream. Some hung open. Some were latched.

A rusted autopsy tray sat beneath a dim ceiling bulb. And on it—splayed like it had been waiting—lay a small, mummified doll with glass eyes missing. Its fabric dress was stiff with age, its mouth frayed open like it had something to scream but no more thread to do it with.

Amber filmed it. Her screen glitched again.

Then Joel moved forward. Toward a drawer labeled 17B.

He pulled it.

Something toppled out. Another doll. This one with a Bible page tucked behind one glass eye.

Lena reached for the note inside:

“He walks between rooms now. Not Dr. Halbrook. The other one. The one wearing the girl’s face like a mask.”

Nico (backing away): “Okay, that’s enough creepypasta. We get it—cool gimmick—”

BANG.

A drawer across the room slammed shut. Metal echoed into forever.

They froze. No one was near it.

Amber (voice shaking): “That’s not the wind.”

Joel (barely audible): “He’s watching.”

A breath stirred the air. Wet. Guttural. Animal.

Shadows moved beneath the drawers. A shape—elongated and twitching—slid beneath one unit and disappeared without a sound.

Lena: “Run.”

They fled. Flashlights jerking. Boots slipping. The mural children on the walls seemed to grin as they passed.

The doll on the tray remained behind.

Its head tilted—just slightly—toward the door.

Outside Again

Back in the truck. The heat didn’t help. None of them were speaking.

Amber’s hands trembled on the camera. Nico had curled up in the backseat, hoodie drawn up to his nose, rocking slightly.

Joel reached into his coat. Pulled something free.

A page. Ripped from the Bible. Stained red-black at the edges.

Lena’s light revealed the words, scrawled in ink—or something else:

“Forgive me, Lord. I gave him Joel’s name.”

Joel didn’t blink.

No one asked what he meant.

Because somewhere behind them—deep inside Elmhurst—the intercom was crackling again.

Repeating a single word:

“Rounds.”

To Be Continued...