The Hollow Glide

It was a humid Tuesday in late August, and sleep had abandoned me. My apartment, a cramped one-bedroom in the rail district of Marlowe, offered no reprieve. Around 1 AM, I gave up on tossing and turned on the TV, an old sitcom rerun playing to the hum of the air conditioner. A low rumble shook the windows, and I glanced out to see a cargo plane dragging its belly across the sky, its lights blinking against the haze. I watched it vanish behind the rooftops, then shambled to the kitchen window for one last look, though it was already gone.

I leaned against the sink, staring at the alley below. The streetlight by the dumpster flickered. That’s when I saw it: a shape in the narrow passage between the brick walls, where the shadows pooled. At first, I thought it was a man in a black coat, standing too still. But the proportions were wrong. The head was too small, the limbs too long, and it seemed to absorb the light around it, leaving an oily void. Then it tilted its head, and I knew it was looking at me.

I froze. The thing didn’t run; it glided. Its legs moved in a blur, but its upper body stayed eerily upright, as if it were sliding on ice. It crossed the alley in a heartbeat, scaling the opposite wall with insect-like ease, then paused at the roofline, as if waiting. I dropped the curtain and pressed my back against the fridge, heart thudding. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a stray dog, but the image of those too-long limbs clung to me.

I didn’t sleep. At dawn, I gathered my courage and stepped outside. The alley was empty, but on the pavement where the thing had stood, I found a patch of frost—in August. The frost formed a perfect outline of a human form, but with fingers that stretched twice the normal length. I knelt to touch it, and a deep cold shot up my arm, bringing with it a whisper of something ancient and patient. I yanked my hand back and looked around, but the street was quiet.

For the next week, I avoided the windows after dark, but the thing found me. It appeared in my dreams, always in the background, always gliding. Then, on the seventh night, I woke to find my bedroom door ajar. I hadn’t left it open. A draft of cold air flowed from the hallway, and I heard a sound like dry leaves skittering over concrete. I flicked on the light. The hallway was empty, but the frost pattern was there again—this time on my floor, as if it had knelt beside my bed.

I moved out two weeks later, but the frost has followed. Even now, in my new place a hundred miles away, I find it in the corners of my vision: a faint shimmer of cold air, a patch of rime on the windowpane on a warm night. And last night, I saw it again—gliding across the parking lot, pausing to look up at my window. It moves faster now, as if it knows I’ve seen it. I’m not sure how much longer I can run, because it always finds me, and each time it gets a little closer, a little more solid—like it’s learning to take shape.

I’ve started leaving the porch light on, but it doesn’t seem to care. It just glides, that impossible glide, always in my peripheral vision, always closing the distance. And I’ve started to notice something worse: the frost patterns are not just outlines anymore. They’re words—short, deliberate phrases burned into the ground. The first one said, ‘I see you.’ The second said, ‘You’re almost there.’ Last night, it said, ‘Welcome home.’