The Hat Man in the Greenhouse

I have a greenhouse attached to my bedroom, a glass coffin of a room where I keep my orchids and my secrets. The door is always ajar, and through the panes, I can see the jungle of leaves and the white lattice of the roof. That’s where he stands, in the doorway, a silhouette against the moonlit glass. He wears a hat with a brim that circles his head, a halo of darkness, and the rest of him is a void, a shape cut out of the night. I’ve named him Mr. Hollow, because he’s not solid, not a man at all, but a hole in the world that takes the form of a person.

I live with my aunt, my cousin, and two roommates in an old Victorian house that creaks like a ship at sea. The greenhouse was my sanctuary, a place where I could escape the clutter and the noise. But now, it’s his territory. The first time I saw him, I thought it was a trick of the light, a shadow from a passing car. But he’s been there for four months, and I’ve come to know his habits. He doesn’t move much, just stands in the doorway, sometimes leaning against the frame, sometimes peeking around the corner as if he’s playing a game. He never speaks, never answers when I ask him what he wants. I’ve tried ignoring him, but I can’t. His presence is a weight on my chest, a cold draft on my neck.

The others don’t see him. My aunt thinks I’m stressed from work; my cousin jokes about me needing a girlfriend; the roommates just avoid me when I bring it up. I’ve stopped mentioning him. But I know I’m not crazy. I’ve read about entities, spirits, thought forms, but none of that helps. The only thing that makes sense is that he’s attached to me, a parasite of the soul, and he’s been here long enough that he’s starting to feel more real.

Lately, he’s been bolder. Last week, I was working at my desk, and I felt his gaze on my back. I turned, and he was standing in the doorway of the greenhouse, but this time he was closer, just a few feet away. I could see the brim of his hat, and the darkness beneath it seemed to have texture, like a swarm of flies. My heart hammered, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. ‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice trembling. He didn’t answer, but I swear I saw the hint of a smile in the way the darkness shifted.

He’s been getting closer ever since. Last night, I was in the greenhouse watering my orchids, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I spun around, and he was there, so close I could see the tiny details of his hat’s weave, the way the darkness pooled around his nonexistent feet. I stumbled back, knocking over a pot, and in that moment, I realized he wasn’t trying to scare me. He was trying to communicate. I saw his form flicker, like a bad signal, and for a split second, I saw a face–pale, gaunt, with eyes that were all black and full of sorrow. Then he was gone, and I was left shaking among the broken ceramic and soil.

I’m not sure if he’s evil or if he’s tied to me somehow. But I know one thing: he’s not just a passive observer anymore. He’s reaching out, and I’m afraid to find out what happens when he finally touches me. The greenhouse feels colder now, and the orchids are starting to wilt. I’ve tried to stay in my room, but he’s there, in the doorway, watching. And when I close my eyes, I see his hat, a black halo in my mind. He’s getting closer, and I don’t know if he’s a guardian or a predator. But tonight, I’ll leave the greenhouse door open, and I’ll sit in my chair, waiting. I’ll ask him one more time, but this time, I’ll listen with more than my ears. I’ll listen with my fear, and maybe he’ll finally tell me what he wants.