The Hollow Couch

The last place I wanted to be was Gran’s old farmhouse, but with Gran and Pop gone to a funeral and Aunt Lena due for surgery, someone had to wrangle her twins. The house always felt too big, even with all of us in it. The walls were thick, the halls dark, and the furniture swallowed sound. That night, with Lena grimacing on the pull-out couch, her stomach a knot of dread, and my cousins scattered, I was stuck in Kate’s room, a guest bed that smelled of dust and old flowers. My cousin Stephen had his own room down the hall, a small den with a TV that only picked up static. Lena’s twins, five-year-old twins, were already asleep in the room next to the kitchen, propped up with pillows like little soldiers. Rachael, the other cousin, was in Gran’s room, which I always avoided—Gran’s room had a crucifix above the bed that seemed to watch you, and the curtains never fully closed.

I was eleven, too old to be scared of the dark, but the farmhouse had a way of making you feel small. Kate’s room had a single window that faced the overgrown garden, where a dead oak tree tapped its branches like fingernails on glass. I lay on the bed, eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the creaks. Lena had promised to turn off the light, but she was in the bathroom again, her fourth trip in an hour. I clutched the quilt, waiting. Then I felt it—a slow, deliberate pressure at the foot of the bed, like a hand pressing into the mattress, then a drag of claws. I thought it was one of the cats, maybe, or a dog. But the pressure moved with an odd rhythm, not like a cat’s tread. It was more like something was breathing into the blanket, slow and hot. I held my breath. The pressure stopped. I opened my eyes.

In the dim light from the hall, I saw the blanket at the foot of my bed rise, then settle. A dark shape, half-formed, was crouched there, about the size of a small dog, but with no clear edges. It seemed to be made of the shadows themselves, but it had a weight to it. My heart hammered. I tried to call out, but my throat tightened. The shape began to move, slowly, up the bed, dragging something wet. I kicked out, but my foot passed through it, and then it was gone. I scrambled to hit the light, but the switch was across the room, and I was frozen. I heard a low, gurgling sound, like water in old pipes. Then, from the hallway, a thud. I forced myself to run, to flick the switch, and when the light flooded the room, there was nothing.

I stood shaking, the light buzzing. I checked under the bed, in the closet, anywhere a small creature could hide. Nothing. But the air was thick with a smell I couldn’t place—like stale vinegar and wet wool. I decided it was my imagination, the stress of the day. I turned off the light and got back into bed, but I kept the covers tight around my chin. Hours passed, and I must have slept, because I woke to a scream. It was one of the twins. I barefooted down the hall, my heart in my throat. The twins’ room was dark, and the little boy, Danny, was sitting up, pointing at the corner. “There’s something in the wall,” he whispered. I turned on the light. The wall was just plaster, with a crack running down the middle. I comforted him, and he went back to sleep, but I felt a cold draft from the floorboards.

The next day, Lena was pale, her face drawn from the laxatives and the anxiety. She told us to stay close to the house. Stephen tried to watch TV, but the static was worse, and the couch where Lena had slept looked disturbed—the cushions were askew, and there was a dark stain near the armrest. Lena dismissed it as spilled tea. I didn’t believe her. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in Kate’s bed, listening. Around 2 a.m., I heard the front door creak, as if someone had come in. I slipped out of bed and peered down the hall. The living room light was off, but I could see the shape of the couch, and on it, a lump. Lena, asleep. But as I watched, the lump shifted, and a second figure rose from the floor beside the couch—a tall, thin silhouette that seemed to bend over her. I opened my mouth to scream, but the silhouette turned, and in the faint light, I saw its face—not a face, but a hollow, like a concave mask, and it had no eyes, only dark pits. It looked at me, and then it melted back into the shadows.

I didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, Lena was groggy, and she complained of a strange pain in her stomach, like something twisting. She went to the hospital, and we were left with Gran’s sister, Aunt Bea, who came to stay. Aunt Bea was old and superstitious. She went into the living room and stood by the couch, sniffing the air. “This house has a hollow,” she said, “a hunger. It feeds on those who are empty.” She looked at me, and I knew she meant Lena, and her bowels, emptied out. Aunt Bea made us all sleep in the same room that night, with the lights on. But she also left a plate of salt by the couch.

The next day, we heard that Lena’s surgery was successful, but she had a strange complication—a blockage that required a second operation. She’d had dreams, she said, of a dark shape pressing on her stomach. When we returned to the house, Aunt Bea was gone, but the couch was gone too. She’d had it taken to the dump, she said, and she’d left a note: “The hollow is not the couch. It’s the house. Move soon.” We did. We never went back. But sometimes, at night, I still feel that pressure at the foot of my bed, that slow, patient pawing, and I know that the hollow is just waiting for someone to be empty again.