The Hallway Monument

In the autumn of 1984, I was eight, and my sister Lily was six. We shared a room on the ground floor of our grandparents’ farmhouse in the dusty plains of Nebraska. Our parents had moved us there for a year while my father worked on a bridge project. The house was old, with creaking floorboards and a smell of mothballs and dry timber. My sister and I slept in twin beds on opposite sides of the room, with a window between us that looked out onto the endless wheat fields.

One evening, after our parents had kissed us goodnight and climbed the stairs to their room, I lay in my bed, unable to sleep. The moon was full, casting a pale silver light through the window, illuminating the hallway that led from our room to the rest of the house. I was on my side, facing the wall, but something made me turn over. When I looked down the hallway, I saw a figure standing there.

It was tall, impossibly tall, its head brushing the ceiling beams, its shoulders almost touching the doorframes on either side. It was not a man, but it had the shape of a man, and it was made of something like glass or crystal, but not clear—more like frozen smoke. The edges of it shimmered, and I could see the faint outlines of the wooden wall behind it through its body, but at its center, it was opaque. It had no face, no features, just a smooth, silent surface. And behind it, I saw what looked like wings, folded against its back, but they were not feathery; they were sharp and angular, like shards of obsidian.

I felt no fear, only a strange calm. I had been taught about angels in Sunday school, so I thought it must be my guardian angel, come to watch over me. I whispered, ‘Are you real?’ But it did not answer. It just stood there, motionless, as if it had been there forever.

The house was silent. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the occasional tick of the grandfather clock in the living room. My sister slept soundly in her bed, her breathing soft and rhythmic. The figure did not move, did not blink, did not breathe. I stared at it for what felt like hours, until my eyes grew heavy and I drifted into sleep.

When I woke the next morning, it was gone. I told Lily about it, but she laughed and said I had a nightmare. I tried to forget it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.

The next night, I saw it again, but this time it was closer. It stood at the foot of my bed, looming over me. Its presence was more tangible, and I could feel a cold emanating from it, like standing near a deep freezer. I noticed that the light from the window seemed to bend around it, creating a halo of darkness. And this time, I thought I saw a crack in its surface, a thin fissure running down its chest, like a flaw in glass.

On the third night, it was even closer, and I could see that the crack had widened, and inside the crack, there was something dark, like a void. And I heard a sound, faint and far away, like a whisper, but not words—more like a distant scream. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. ‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice trembling.

And then, for the first time, it moved. It leaned forward, and its face (if you could call it that) tilted down toward me. I saw that the crack was not just on its chest; it spread across its entire body, and through the cracks, I saw not darkness, but a vast, empty space, like a night sky with no stars.

And then it spoke, but not with a voice. The words appeared in my mind, cold and clear: ‘I am not your guardian. I am the reminder.’

I didn’t understand. ‘The reminder of what?’ I asked.

It did not reply. Instead, it began to recede, step by step, back down the hallway, until it faded into the shadows. And I was left shaking, clutching my blanket.

I didn’t tell anyone, not even my sister. I was too scared. But I couldn’t sleep. Every night, I lay awake, waiting for it to return.

On the fourth night, I decided to confront it. I got out of bed and walked to the doorway of our room, looking down the hallway. It was there, standing at the far end, where the hallway turned toward the kitchen. But this time, it was not alone. There were others behind it, faint shapes, like statues, all facing me.

I took a step forward, and they did not move. I took another step, and I felt a cold breeze, and the floorboards creaked beneath my feet. The shapes began to shift, and I realized they were not statues but people, frozen in time, their faces contorted in silent agony. They were all looking at me, their eyes empty, their mouths open, as if they were screaming without sound.

I froze, and the main figure turned its head, and the crack in its surface split open, revealing a gaping maw of darkness. And from that void, I heard a voice, not in my mind, but out loud, a whisper that seemed to come from all around me: ‘This is what you will become. This is what you have always been.’

And I screamed, and I ran back to my bed, pulling the covers over my head, sobbing.

The next morning, I was sick. I had a fever, and I stayed in bed for days. My parents thought it was the flu. My sister brought me soup and told me stories. But I couldn’t shake the vision. I saw those figures behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes.

When I finally got better, I was different. I no longer feared the angel; I feared myself. I had dreams of falling, of breaking, of becoming one of those frozen people in the hallway.

One night, about a month later, I woke up and found that the angel was standing in my room, right beside my bed. It was silent, unmoving. And I saw that its crack had healed, and its surface was smooth again. But it was different. It was no longer translucent; it was solid, like black marble, and its wings were spread wide, blocking the window.

I looked at it, and I whispered, ‘I understand now. I am the reminder, too.’

And the angel nodded, slowly.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I blinked, it was gone. The room was empty, and the morning light was streaming in. I never saw it again.

But to this day, when I pass a mirror, I sometimes catch a glimpse of a tall figure behind me, and I turn, but there is no one there. And I hear a whisper, faint, like wind through dry grass: ‘Remember.’