The Hollow Between

The week had been a blur of deadlines and traffic, so when my partner, Ellis, and I finally stumbled through the door of our rented farmhouse, all we wanted was to collapse. We’d decided on a movie marathon, the kind where you build a nest of blankets and pillows on the living room floor. The house was an old Victorian, all creaky floors and high ceilings, with a kitchen that opened onto the dining room, and a staircase that led to a dark loft overlooking the music room. We inflated the air mattress in the center of the living room, right in front of the TV, and surrounded it with every snack we could find—popcorn, candy, and a six-pack of root beer.

As we scrolled through the streaming service, Ellis joked about watching something scary. I laughed it off, but a part of me felt a chill. The house had a way of amplifying silence, making the hum of the fridge sound like a distant conversation. We settled on a psychological thriller about a family in a remote cabin, and as the credits rolled, the light outside had faded to a heavy purple. The only illumination came from the TV, casting long shadows across the room.

Around midnight, Ellis fell asleep. I was still wired, so I decided to make more popcorn. I padded to the kitchen, flipping on the overhead light, which hummed and flickered. The island counter stood between me and the pantry, its polished wood surface reflecting the low light. I noticed something odd: a faint, almost imperceptible scratching sound, like nails on wood, coming from the direction of the stairs. I froze, listening. It stopped. I shrugged it off, thinking it was just the house settling.

But then I saw it. On the floor, just beside the island, there was a clear handprint in the dust—small, like a child’s, but with unnaturally long fingers. It hadn’t been there before. I looked at my own hands, which were clean. I called out to Ellis, but he was a deep sleeper. A wave of unease washed over me, and I backed away, stumbling over one of the bar stools. As I steadied myself, I heard a soft giggle from the loft above.

My heart pounded. I grabbed a kitchen knife, clutching it as I crept to the base of the stairs. The giggles had stopped. The house was perfectly still. I convinced myself I’d imagined it, that the wind was playing tricks. Back on the air mattress, I tried to wake Ellis, but he only mumbled and turned over.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, when I noticed something moving in the dark corner of the dining room. A figure, tall and impossibly thin, stood there, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. It wasn’t solid—more like a shadow given weight. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it away. When I opened them, it was gone, but the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees.

Then I felt a cold breath on my neck. I spun around, but no one was there. The TV flickered, and the screen filled with static. Through the static, I could see a distorted reflection of the living room, and there—behind my own reflection—was that same thin figure, its arm reaching out.

I screamed, jumping off the mattress and running to the kitchen. Ellis finally stirred, calling my name. I begged him to get up, to leave, but he just sat there, dazed. As I turned to flick on the lights, the power died. The room was plunged into darkness, except for a faint, moonlit glow from the windows.

I could hear breathing, slow and deliberate, coming from all around me. The bar stools began to move, as if pushed by invisible hands, forming a circle around the island. The knife was slippery in my grip. I felt a presence behind me, and I spun around to find Ellis standing there, but his eyes were wide, staring at something behind me.

I turned. The thin figure was standing right in front of me, its face a smooth, featureless void. It spoke, but not with a voice—more like a thought that inserted itself into my mind: ‘You didn’t close the door to the hollow.’

Then the lights flickered back on. The figure was gone. Ellis was shaking, saying he saw it too. We huddled together, grabbing our shoes, and made a run for the front door. As we flung it open, we were greeted by the porch light, which cast a long, distorted shadow of ourselves—but we were two, and the shadow showed three.

We didn’t look back. We drove to a motel outside of town, our hands trembling as we checked in. But as I lay in that motel bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone. I glanced at the bathroom mirror, and for a split second, I saw a faint handprint on the glass—small, with long fingers. The same as the one in the kitchen.

I haven’t slept since. And I’ve learned to always, always leave a light on.