The Hollow Men

“The world ended in a week. The rest of us just took longer to notice.”

The Hollow Men don’t rebuild. They don’t raid, or scrape by, or cling to the wreckage like there’s anything left worth saving. They’ve seen what others won’t face—that the world didn’t just collapse ten years ago, it’s still collapsing. Slower now. Quieter. But no less certain.They wear masks—all of them—but no two the same. Plague beaks, carved bone, scrap metal, or cloth wraps worn soft with age. Each one chosen, crafted, or found—a reflection of what they’ve become. The mask isn’t for protection. It’s for distance. A way to hollow themselves out, to slip the weight of faces and names, until all that remains is a vessel for remembering.And they don’t give names. Not to strangers. Most are known only by what others call them—Crow Mask, Iron Jaw, The Archivist—names drawn from the shape of their mask or the trace they leave behind. But a true name, that’s different. That’s given only when the mask comes off, only when trust cuts through the hollow.In shedding names and selves, they leave gender behind as well. They are no longer men or women—just memory in motion.That kind of trust is rare. And dangerous.They move through what’s left—abandoned towns, broken roads, the places no one stays long—and when they settle, it’s never for long. Their camps are temporary, tucked into half-collapsed churches, crumbling libraries, or rotting train stations swallowed by ivy and rust. A place to sleep, to write, to wait out the dark. When they move on, they leave nothing behind.But where the world has frayed, where something happened, they leave their marks:
A circle, hollow but whole, carved into stone.
A garden of bones laid in spirals beneath a dead tree.
A scrawl of paint, half warning, half prayer, left to fade in the rain.
These are not camps. These are memorials—signposts for the dying spiral.They speak when words are needed. Not silent by rule, but deliberate. They leave their words like they leave their marks—measured, meant to last.But if that trust breaks—if the mask is removed and the thread between souls is severed—the Hollow Man beneath may not survive it. Some tear their masks away, lost without the shape it gave them. Others vanish into the dark, convinced they’ve stained the spiral they swore to follow.People mistrust them. Fear what they represent. Call them cowards. Madmen. Ghosts wearing skin.
But the Hollow Men know better.They’ve seen hope rot.
Watched walls crumble, empires fall, promises snap like dry twigs beneath a boot.
They know there’s nothing left to build.The Hollow Men don’t hope.
They don’t rebuild.
They remember.

“We are the witnesses. Hollow, so the world might echo through us.”

Origins

“They didn’t appear. They were just there—like the wreckage had always included them.”

Origins of The Hollow Men

Where they came from is a question with too many answers—and no certainty.The Hollow Men didn’t announce themselves. They simply began appearing: masked, silent, already watching. No one saw them form—only scatter. Like ash on the wind, they were drawn to what had already burned.Some say the first was a war reporter who vanished after filming the fall of a city—his last transmission cut with a static-warped frame: a masked figure standing in the ruins.Others claim they were once caretakers—people who tried to mend what the world refused to heal. Worn thin, they turned from bandages to ink.A quieter rumor insists they were scribes, historians, archivists. Those who served the record before the people, who chose memory over mercy.Whoever they were, the Hollow Men don’t speak of beginnings. They aren’t building something. They’re witnessing what’s left.

Structure & Communication

There are no leaders. No ranks. Just masks.The Hollow Men do not gather often, and when they do, it is not to speak. Occasionally, small groups meet—silent circles beneath shattered overpasses or forgotten rooftops—only to exchange notes, journals, and the weight of what they’ve seen.They communicate in fragments:

  • A ring drawn in chalk

  • A crow’s feather left in a doorframe

  • A bell, still swinging on a string

Scraps are passed from hand to hand: pages blackened with charcoal, stitched notebooks made of receipts and old book covers. Journals change hands not to be read, but to be carried.When they cross paths on the road, most don’t speak. If they do, it’s only because the silence needs help saying something.They don’t need commands. They remember the same things. And that’s enough.

“From humble sparks came the fire — not just to create, but to understand what made us light it in the first place.”

Culture

“Culture isn’t what we say — it’s what we choose to do when no one’s watching.”

Culture of The Hollow Men

Memory is sacred. Preservation, not interference.The Hollow Men aren’t here to heal the world—they're here to remember it. To walk through what’s left and mark what matters, not to rebuild what cannot be restored.Trying to "undo" what happened is seen not as hope, but as erasure—a dangerous denial of the truth the world is still trying to teach.They don’t give names. Not to strangers. Most are known only by their masks—Crow Mask, The Archivist, Iron Jaw—titles drawn from scraps and shapes, from how the world sees them.A true name is something else. That’s only given when the mask comes off, and only when trust runs deep enough to survive the silence.In letting go of names, identities, and past selves, the Hollow Men also leave behind gender. They do not identify as men or women.
They are what remains when identity is stripped down to memory, intent, and silence.Every Hollow Man is, in truth, no one.They do not see the infected as evil. They are a stage, a reflection of the world remaking its people to match its new shape. Infection is not a failure. It is a transition.

Marks & Symbols

Where something mattered, they leave a mark.

  • Open Circle → This place is remembered.

  • Circle with a Dot → Something lingers here. Be wary.

  • Broken Ring → The memory here is stained. Proceed with care.

Other marks are less known—spirals, eyes, scratch lines—each carrying meanings that shift between hands, passed like folklore among the masked. They draw with charcoal, ink, or blade, whatever lasts long enough to speak.These signs aren’t warnings or claims. They’re memorials.

Memory Gardens

These are not graves. They are echoes.Where something ended, the Hollow Men leave more than just signs—they shape the silence into ritual:

  • Stones laid in spirals beneath a dead tree

  • Bones arranged in careful shapes

  • A ring of rusted nails buried shallow in the dirt

  • Threads knotted around branches, always in threes

  • A mirror, half-buried, facing the sky

  • Wax seals pressed into the dirt — unbroken, unread

These are not camps. They are places meant to say:This mattered.

Death & Legacy

When one of them dies, the mask is placed somewhere visible.

They do not bury the body. It is left untouched—part of the world now. A small memory garden is built nearby: a circle, a sign, a final silence.Their journals—if found—are either taken or burned, depending on what they hold. Not everything is meant to remain. Some truths are too heavy to pass on.If a Hollow Man believes they’ve broken the path, they may choose an Unmasking. They leave their tools, their mask, their name—everything—and walk into the wild, alone. Whether that’s a death or a beginning depends on who you ask.

Lifestyle

“They don’t live anywhere. They just pass through—quiet, careful, like they’re borrowing the world a night at a time.”

Lifestyle of The Hollow Men

They don’t build. They borrow.The Hollow Men settle in the bones of what was. Collapsed libraries, hollowed-out churches, the backroom of a gas station swallowed by moss—they move through ruins like ghosts that remember too much.Their camps are temporary, barely more than a bedroll, a fire pit, and a satchel of pages. A place to rest. To write. To wait out the dark.When they leave, they take nothing and leave no trace—unless the place demands remembrance. Then, and only then, they mark it.

Attire, Tools & Tokens

There is no uniform—only shared silence.Every Hollow Man wears a mask, but no two are the same:

  • Plague beaks, worn smooth with age—echoes of old-world medicine and quiet fear

  • Welded plates, scorched and bolted—half-shield, half-face

  • Stitched veils, made from curtains, shrouds, or prayer cloths—soft, concealing, almost kind

  • Scavenged bone, carved and wired into shape—ritual made flesh

  • Wrapped cloth, layered and frayed—worn like mourning

Each mask is chosen, crafted, or found—a reflection of what they’ve become. A mask isn’t for protection. It’s for distance. A way to hollow themselves out, to let go of faces and names, until what’s left is just memory wrapped in skin.Masks are rarely replaced. If one breaks, it’s buried, burned, or left behind, marked and remembered.

Their clothing is layered, utilitarian, built for long travel and long silence.Faded coats, reinforced wraps, old-world fabrics patched with modern salvage—nothing shines, nothing draws attention.Their colors speak in whispers:

  • Dust-stained blacks

  • Dried-blood browns

  • Ash grey

  • Rust-soft green

Gloves and hoods are common. Not for warmth, but for distance.The less skin shown, the less tethered they become.The less the world remembers them as people.

Most carry a satchel or sling, worn close. Inside:

  • Charcoal, ink, chalk — to mark, warn, remember

  • Scrap-bound journals, stitched from receipts, newspapers, book pages — each one personal, and almost always unreadable to outsiders

  • At least one knife or blade — not always for defense. Sometimes for carving symbols. Sometimes for silence

And always, something small:

  • A coin bent in half

  • A child’s shoelace

  • A mirror shard

  • A dried flower wrapped in waxed cloth

These are not keepsakes. They’re reminders—of moments, of endings, of what should not be forgotten.

Some wear small chimes or bells, not loud—just enough to catch the wind.They’re not for warning. They’re to let the land know:A witness has passed through.

Rumors

“You don’t find them. You just notice where they were—after something ends.”

Rumors of The Hollow Men

They don’t talk much. But plenty gets said about them.In a world this broken, the line between fact and story wears thin. The Hollow Men never offer correction. Maybe they don’t care.Maybe the rumors are part of the point.

The Archive (or the Last Room)

Some believe the Hollow Men are keeping everything.That every journal, sketch, and recorded moment isn’t just scattered—but being gathered.They call it the Archive, or the Last Room.Some say it’s deep inside a government bunker. Others swear it’s a sealed train tunnel, or the sub-basement of a university swallowed by collapse.No one has proof. But the idea sticks:they’re not just remembering for themselves. They’re building a record. Quietly. Relentlessly.Not to fix what fell.Just to make sure no one forgets how it fell.

The One Who Burned Their Name

One rumor speaks of a Hollow Man who turned on the path—burned their journal, left their mask behind, and walked into the flood zone east of the old interstate.Some say they’d seen too much. Others say they’d finally decided no one deserved to remember.Supposedly, there’s still a small stone circle out there. No name. No camp.Just blackened paper buried in the mud.People avoid it. Not out of fear. Just something closer to unease.

The Knotted Bell

There’s a burned-out church up north—nothing left but the bell tower and a pile of old wood.The story goes that a group of Hollow Men met there after one of their own died.No talking. Just silence, and the bell rope tied in a tight, deliberate knot before they left.Now the knot’s still there. No one unties it.People pass the place quietly, even if they don’t believe in the story.It’s not haunted. It’s just marked.

The Crow-Thread Trail

In some regions—especially near old blackout zones—people report seeing thin black cords or thread tied between trees, fences, collapsed highway rails. Each one marked with a feather, or a strip of cloth.It’s said that if you follow them, you’ll find where the Hollow Men have been—or where they don’t want you to go.No one’s been caught laying them. But they appear overnight.Some think they’re boundaries. Others, a breadcrumb trail for other Hollow Men.Either way, most folks don’t cross the lines.

The Empty Station

There’s a power relay station west of the city—burned out years ago, half sunk in water. Everyone says it’s useless, stripped to bones. But someone keeps leaving markings there: rings drawn in soot, scraps of wire twisted into spirals, a rusted door wedged open with a stone.The rumor goes that a Hollow Man camps there for one day every year, always the same date. No one knows why. No one’s caught them. But if you pass through after, the place smells like rain and old paper.And nothing’s missing—just rearranged.Some think it’s a signal. Others say it’s grief.

The Highway Walk

Along Route 9, there’s a stretch of broken highway that folks avoid—not because of danger, but because it’s quiet. Too quiet.Drivers say they’ve seen a figure walking the divider, same pace, same direction, for years. Doesn’t matter if it’s raining or blazing or dead calm—they’re there. Same mask. Same coat. Always alone.The story goes they’re walking the route of an evacuation that never finished.No camp. No journal. Just a path they can’t let go of.

“Maybe none of it’s true. Doesn’t matter. The stories still wait for them.”