The Empty Overalls

The old farmhouse on Bellhollow Road came to us cheap, which should have been the first warning. My parents, always chasing a bargain, believed they’d found a diamond in the rough. I was ten, and the peeling paint and sagging porch felt like an adventure, not an omen. The house smelled of dust and dry wood, and the floors creaked in patterns I grew to know like a heartbeat. But it was the cellar that bothered me. It was a root cellar, really, at the end of a narrow hallway off the kitchen, the door always slightly ajar, as if someone had forgotten to close it. My mother said it was just the humidity. I knew better. There was a presence down there, a weight in the air, like holding a breath.

One night, I woke to the sound of something dragging across the floor above my bedroom, which was on the second floor. I lay still, listening. The sound was slow and heavy, like a body being pulled. I told myself it was the wind, but the air was still. I got up, my heart thudding, and walked to the top of the stairs. The hallway below was dark, but I saw something that made my blood run cold. At the bottom, near the cellar door, stood a figure. It was wearing faded blue overalls, the kind a farmer might wear, and its back was to me. But the worst part: there was no face. The head was just a pale, featureless surface, like a mannequin’s. I watched, paralyzed, as it slowly turned, as if sensing me, and then it took a step backward into the darkness of the cellar, and the door swung shut with a soft click. I didn’t sleep that night. I told my parents the next morning, but they dismissed it as a dream. They said the house played tricks on your mind. But I knew what I saw.

Weeks later, while exploring the attic, I found a box tucked behind an old chimney. It was covered in dust and spider webs, and my fingers brushed against something smooth. Inside, wrapped in a yellowed cloth, was a small porcelain doll, its face painted with a crude smile. The eyes, though, were dark and empty, like tiny voids. I felt a chill even then. I took it to my room, thinking it was just a creepy old toy. But strange things began to happen. I’d find the doll in different places — on my dresser when I’d left it on my desk, under my pillow. And the figure in overalls started appearing more often, always near the cellar, always with that faceless head, sometimes just standing in the shadows of the hallway. I began to feel like I was losing my mind. I’d question my own eyes, wondering if I was seeing things. But the fear was real.

My parents thought I was acting out. They sent me to a counselor, who suggested I might have an overactive imagination. I started to believe it myself. Maybe I was making it all up. But then my father asked me to help him clean out the cellar. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t say no. As we descended the narrow steps, the air grew cold and damp. The cellar was filled with old jars, rusted tools, and a pile of burlap sacks. In the corner, half-hidden behind a support beam, was a pair of overalls, draped over a wooden stool, like someone had just taken them off. My father laughed, ‘Looks like a scarecrow’s lost its clothes.’ I didn’t laugh. I recognized those overalls. They were the same ones the figure wore.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, when I heard a noise from the cellar. It was a dragging sound, slow and heavy. I gripped my blankets, praying it was nothing. But then I heard footsteps on the stairs, inside the house. They came up, one by one, creaking under a great weight. They stopped at my door. The doorknob turned slowly. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The door creaked open, and there stood the figure, its faceless head tilted. It didn’t move. It just stood there, as if waiting. And then, in a voice that was not a voice, I heard a whisper in my mind, ‘Let me in.’ I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. It took a step forward. I closed my eyes, bracing for the worst. But nothing happened. When I opened them, the room was empty. The door was closed. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that it was not done with me.

Years later, we moved away, and I tried to forget. But the memories remained, vivid and terrifying. And every time I see a pair of overalls, I feel a shiver down my spine. Because I know that somewhere, in that house on Bellhollow Road, a faceless figure in empty overalls is waiting, and it always will be.