the hollow ones

They took a shortcut. It took them somewhere that isn't on any map. When their SUV skids off a washed-out mountain road in the West Virginia backcountry, Ronald, Angie, Lisa, and Michael have one goal: get back to civilization before dark. Instead, they find footprints in the creek mud - bare feet, adults and children, still fresh. A tunnel cut into solid rock. A room where dozens of shoes are lined up by size, waiting for feet that never came back for them. And carved into the stone wall, in letters worn soft with age, they find their own names - carved three months before any of them left home. The Voss family has lived beneath this mountain for six generations.
They are not the monsters the old stories describe. They're something worse: patient, organized, and devout. They keep books. They keep records. They keep girls. And for forty-two years, they've been waiting for Margaret's daughter to come home.