Megan Inky Apr 2026

He strolled in, hands in his letterman jacket pockets. “I’ve been watching you. The way your pen moves. The way you stare at your paper like it owes you money.” He stopped at her table. “I know what you can do.”

Now, at seventeen, Megan had embraced the moniker. She wore ink-stained jeans like a badge of honor, and her favorite hoodie—once gray, now a constellation of faded blotches—was her uniform. But the ink wasn’t just a cosmetic issue anymore. Megan had a secret.

“Oh, and while you were staring at the monster, Priya was in the hall. She filmed you blackmailing me. And she’s already sent it to the principal, your parents, and the school board.”

Megan Inky wasn’t her real name. Her real name was Megan O’Connor, but she’d earned the nickname in fourth grade when she accidentally uncapped six permanent markers in her backpack during silent reading. The resulting explosion of blue, black, and red left her hands, face, and the entire inside of her desk looking like a Jackson Pollock painting. From that day on, she was Megan Inky. megan inky

The Hollow tilted its head. Lucas took a step back. “What are you doing?”

Lucas nodded, satisfied. “Midnight. Don’t be late.”

She held up her pen. The nib glinted.

She touched her pen to the creature’s chest, right over the lock she’d drawn. But instead of opening it, she drew one final line—a crack. The lock split. The cage bars melted. And The Hollow began to unravel, not with a scream, but with a soft, almost peaceful sigh, like a held breath finally released.

“My great-grandfather saw it once, in a dream,” Lucas said quietly. “He spent forty years trying to bring it here. He believed it could grant a wish to whoever woke it. One wish. Anything.”

It was a Tuesday. A grey, drizzly Tuesday in October that smelled like wet leaves and regret. Megan was in the art room after school, alone—her favorite time. She’d just finished a detailed ink drawing of a raven on a thick sheet of watercolor paper. Its eye was a perfect, glossy bead of black. She leaned back, admiring her work, when the door creaked open. He strolled in, hands in his letterman jacket pockets

“I protected myself,” she replied. “And you. That thing wasn’t a wish-granter. Your great-grandfather just drew a nightmare and got obsessed with it. I read his notes while you weren’t looking. The ‘wish’ part? He made that up. The only thing The Hollow would have done is eat.”

Megan set the paper down. She uncapped the ink. Her hand trembled, but not from fear—from focus. She began to draw.

“Your wish,” it whispered, in a voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. The way you stare at your paper like it owes you money

He left, and Megan was alone with her raven drawing. The raven’s head turned, its beak opening in a silent caw. It knew she was scared.

Lucas stared at the mess. Then at Megan. His face cycled through shock, fury, and finally—something like respect.