The Dark Corners of Cedar Hollow

I was five when we moved to Cedar Hollow, a house that seemed to sag under its own history, its peeling white paint and crooked shutters giving it a face that watched the street. My mother, a skeptical woman by nature, would later admit she felt eyes on her from the upstairs landing, but she always blamed it on old pipes and drafty windows. I knew better.

My room was at the end of the upstairs hallway, the door always slightly ajar because it was warped and never fully closed. The first night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I noticed a patch of darkness by the closet that seemed deeper than the rest of the room. It was as if the shadows had pooled there, thick and viscous, refusing to be diluted by the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to a hundred, but when I opened them, the blackness had shifted closer, an inky silhouette without edges, like a piece of night cut out and given form.

Over the nights, I saw more of them. They’d stand at the foot of my bed, lean over me with faces that were smooth voids, their bodies like tattered cloth swaying in a breeze I couldn’t feel. The only relief came when I flicked on my bedside lamp; the moment light flooded the room, they vanished as if they’d never been. I’d keep the light on until exhaustion claimed me, but my mother would always turn it off in her nightly checks, muttering that I’d waste electricity. I tried to explain, but she’d just sigh and say I had a vivid imagination.

One night, I woke to find my mother’s silhouette in my doorway, darker than the hallway behind her. I called out, but she didn’t move. Then her shape turned and drifted away, and I heard her footsteps creak down the hall to her own room. In the morning, I asked if she’d been at my door, but she shook her head, saying she’d been asleep. Her eyes had that look—the one that said she was lying even to herself. From then on, I’d sometimes catch her staring at the far corner of her room as if expecting something to emerge.

The things became bolder. I’d see them peel away from the walls, sliding along the floor like oil, surrounding my bed in a circle of silent watchers. They never made a sound, but the air around them was cold, and the static in my head told me they were waiting. Waiting for something. I started sleeping with the lamp on, and when my mother turned it off, I’d wake in the dark with them standing over me, their presence like weights on my chest. I’d scream, but the screams seemed to get swallowed by the blackness.

Our dog, a golden retriever named Sandy, refused to enter my room after the first week. She’d whine at the threshold, her tail tucked, and no amount of coaxing would bring her in. My mother dismissed it as the dog being old, but I’d see Sandy turn to stare at empty corners, her hackles raised, growling at nothing. It made me wonder if she saw the same things I did, but from her low perspective, they might have loomed even larger.

The final straw came on a hot July night. My mother had left my window open, and I was lying in a feverish haze from a summer cold. The lamp was on, but so was the moon, and I saw them—four of them, standing in the corners, their forms shifting like smoke. They began to move, gliding toward me, their void-faces tilting as if examining me. I wanted to scream, but my throat closed. One of them reached out a hand—if it could be called that—a tendril of darkness, and touched my forehead. The touch was ice, and I felt a pull, as if something was trying to leave my body. At that moment, my mother burst in, having heard my choked gasps, and slammed on the light. The things retreated, melting back into the shadows, but I could still feel the cold spot on my brow.

My mother saw them that time. I saw her eyes widen, her hand fly to her mouth. She didn’t say a word, but that night she dragged her mattress into my room and we slept with every light in the house blaring. The next day, we packed what we could and drove to my grandmother’s in Ohio, leaving Cedar Hollow behind without a second glance. I never saw those shapes again, but I’ve never quite shaken the feeling that they’re still there, waiting in the dark corners of any room, patient as the grave. And sometimes, when I look into a dark doorway at night, I think I see a shape that’s darker than the rest, watching me, and I wonder if they’re not gone at all—just waiting for the light to go out.”}