Chapter 9 - Chapter 9: When the Other Vessels Arrived

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Ethan sensed them before he saw them.

The hunger inside him changed its rhythm—no longer slow and patient, but alert, tight, like a muscle preparing to react. It was the same feeling he'd had once before, standing in the ruins of the house, when something old had shifted beneath the earth.

This was different.

This was recognition.

He stood at the edge of Blackwood Hollow just as the fog began to roll in from the eastern hills, thick and unnatural, swallowing the road in heavy waves. The village behind him slept uneasily, lanterns dimmed, doors barred not from fear of ghosts, but from the quiet understanding that safety had become conditional.

Ethan pressed his palm to his chest.

"You feel them too," he whispered.

The hunger did not deny it.

It listened.

The fog parted slowly.

A figure emerged from it.

Then another.

Then another.

Three silhouettes stood on the road, unmoving, their shapes distorted by the mist. They did not hurry. They did not hesitate. They walked with the certainty of something that knew exactly where it was meant to be.

Ethan's pulse hammered.

He had imagined this moment since the stranger's warning, but imagination had softened it. Reality was heavier.

Closer.

The first figure stepped into the dim glow of a lantern.

A woman—tall, thin, her hair braided tightly down her back. Her eyes were sharp, controlled, and far too calm for someone standing in a cursed village at night.

The second was a man in his late forties, shoulders hunched slightly, as if carrying invisible weight. His hands trembled, though his face remained carefully blank.

The third—

The third made Ethan's breath catch.

A boy.

No older than seventeen.

His eyes were dark, unfocused, as if he were looking inward rather than at the world in front of him.

The hunger surged.

Not hunger.

Fear.

Ethan took a step back.

"You're vessels," he said quietly.

The woman smiled faintly. "You learned fast."

The boy flinched at the word.

The man exhaled shakily. "Or he's lying to himself."

They moved closer.

Ethan felt the village behind him stir—shadows shifting in windows, someone coughing, a door creaking open then shutting again.

"Why are you here?" Ethan demanded.

The woman tilted her head. "Because you woke it too loudly."

Her words landed hard.

"I destroyed the house," Ethan said. "I stopped the feeding."

The man laughed—a dry, broken sound. "You relocated it."

The hunger inside Ethan pulsed sharply, defensive.

"Don't," Ethan warned. "You don't understand what I've done to keep control."

The woman's smile faded. "Control is temporary."

She stepped closer, and Ethan felt it—the thing inside her, vast and coiled, pressing against his awareness like two deep oceans touching.

"You're not the first to believe mercy was the answer," she said. "But mercy teaches them how to ask."

The boy finally spoke.

"It hurts less when you stop fighting," he said softly.

Ethan's chest tightened.

"How long have you been carrying it?" Ethan asked him.

The boy shrugged. "Since I was ten."

The words struck like a blow.

The man turned away, jaw clenched. "Don't tell him that."

Ethan stared at the boy. "You were a child."

"I still am," the boy replied. "It doesn't care."

The hunger inside Ethan recoiled.

For the first time, Ethan felt something colder than fear.

Rage.

They sat at the edge of the village, near the old banyan tree, its roots twisting like veins above the soil. The night deepened around them, heavy with unspoken things.

"We didn't come to fight you," the woman said. "We came to see if you'd fail."

Ethan's hands curled into fists. "And if I don't?"

"Then we adapt," the man said quietly. "Like it always does."

Ethan looked from one to the other. "How many of you are there?"

The woman hesitated.

"Too many," she said finally.

The boy stared at the ground. "And fewer every year."

Ethan swallowed. "What happens when a vessel breaks?"

Silence.

Then the man answered. "The hunger doesn't die."

"It looks for a stronger place to live," the woman added.

Ethan's thoughts raced.

"Cities," he whispered. "Crowds. Memory stacked on memory."

The woman met his eyes. "You understand now."

The hunger inside Ethan stirred eagerly at the thought.

He gagged.

"No," he said. "I won't let that happen."

The woman leaned forward. "Then stop pretending this is about saving a village."

Ethan stood abruptly. "Then what is it about?"

She rose too, her presence towering, oppressive.

"Containment," she said. "Sacrifice. And choosing which version of the world survives."

The boy looked up, eyes wet. "We don't get happy endings."

The hunger inside Ethan pressed harder, listening.

Learning.

That night, Ethan dreamed of doors.

Thousands of them.

Some locked. Some broken. Some breathing.

Behind every door was a vessel—men, women, children—each holding a piece of the same vast, patient thing. Some were resisting. Some had surrendered. Some were already hollowed out, walking shells animated by purpose alone.

At the center stood Ethan.

And the hunger smiled through him.

He woke screaming.

The village was silent.

Too silent.

Ethan ran outside.

People stood frozen in the square, eyes wide, bodies rigid, as if paused mid-breath. Their faces were calm, almost peaceful.

The hunger inside Ethan roared.

Not hunger.

Warning.

He turned slowly.

The woman stood at the center of the square, her eyes glowing faintly, veins dark beneath her skin.

"You see?" she said calmly. "This is what happens when more than one of us stays too close."

The man staggered nearby, clutching his head. "It's overlapping," he groaned. "They're bleeding into each other."

The boy screamed and collapsed to his knees.

Ethan felt it too—memories not his own flooding him, voices layered over voices, grief stacking until it became unbearable.

"Stop!" Ethan shouted. "You're tearing them apart!"

The woman closed her eyes briefly. "We warned you."

The hunger inside Ethan surged violently, reacting to the suffering.

Ethan made a decision.

He stepped forward and opened himself.

Not fully.

But enough.

The hunger poured outward like a tide, wrapping the village in a pressure so deep it bent reality itself. The air screamed. Shadows stretched. Time slowed.

The villagers collapsed unconscious.

The woman staggered back, shocked. "You— you let it speak through you."

Ethan trembled, blood trickling from his nose. "I didn't let it choose."

The hunger withdrew reluctantly.

The square fell silent.

The boy stared at Ethan with awe and terror. "You're stronger than us."

Ethan shook his head weakly. "No."

He looked at his hands, black veins now permanent beneath the skin.

"I'm just closer to losing."

The woman straightened slowly.

Her smile returned—but this time, it was not kind.

"Then you won't last long," she said. "And when you fall…"

She stepped back into the fog.

"We'll be ready."

The man followed, broken and shaking.

The boy hesitated, then whispered, "I'm sorry."

They vanished.

Ethan stood alone in the square as dawn crept in.

The villagers would wake with no memory of what almost happened.

Ethan would remember everything.

The hunger inside him was quiet now.

Satisfied.

And deep within it, a new understanding had formed:

It was no longer trapped.

It was networked.

And Ethan—despite everything he had tried.