The Hollow Hall

I’ve never been one to see ghosts or demons in every flickering shadow. I’ve chalked up most of my life’s oddities to tired eyes and an overactive imagination. But there is one thing I cannot explain away, no matter how hard I try. It hasn’t shown its face in years, and I pray it stays that way.

The first time I saw the thing was the summer I turned six. We had just moved into an old farmhouse on the outskirts of a dried-up town called Morrow’s Rest. The house was a sprawling, crooked thing, with a long hallway that ran the entire length of the second floor. The previous owners had half-finished converting the attic into a bedroom, leaving a gaping hole in the ceiling and bare wooden beams exposed. My mother, always a do-it-yourself type, decided we’d finish it ourselves. So that summer, the upstairs was a maze of ladders, paint buckets, and drop cloths.

One afternoon, my mother was outside on the porch, painting the shutters. I was supposed to be napping, but I was too restless. I wandered into the unfinished room, the one that would eventually be my older brother’s. The room was nearly empty, save for a mattress on the floor and a few boxes. The window was thrown open, and the sheer curtain billowed like a ghost. I remember the dust motes dancing in the light, and the smell of fresh-cut wood.

I was about to leave when I noticed something under the bed. At first, I thought it was a shadow cast by the curtain. But then it moved, and two red points of light flickered open, like embers in the dark. They were eyes, I knew that instantly. They stared at me with an unnerving stillness, and I felt a cold dread wash over me. I wanted to run, but my legs were frozen. A voice, not quite a whisper, seemed to slither into my mind: ‘Stay. Play with me.’

The eyes blinked, and I finally snapped out of it. I backed away slowly, my heart pounding. I made it to the doorway and then sprinted down the hall, screaming for my mother. She came running, paintbrush still in hand, and found me trembling in the corner of my room. I sobbed and pointed to the other room, but when she looked, there was nothing there. She chalked it up to a nightmare and tucked me back into bed.

But I knew what I saw.

Years went by, and I almost convinced myself it was a dream. But then, when I was twelve, it came back. My mother had sent me up to the attic to fetch a box of Christmas decorations. The attic stairs creaked under my weight, and the air was thick and musty. I rummaged through the boxes, and as I was about to leave, I saw a small hatch in the floor, a crawl space we’d never used. I’d forgotten about it until then. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pried it open with a crowbar.

Inside, there was a small, hidden room. It was empty, except for a single child’s rocking chair in the center. The chair began to rock back and forth on its own. And then I saw them again—those red eyes, now in the corner of the room, watching me from the darkness. The same feeling of dread, the same voice, older and more insistent: ‘You came back. Good. We can be friends now.’

I slammed the hatch shut and ran. I didn’t stop until I was outside, gasping in the cold, gray afternoon. My mother found me sitting on the back step, shaking. When I told her, she grew pale. She told me that a boy had died in this house, a long time ago. He’d fallen from the attic window. The room we had been finishing was his. She’d never told me because she didn’t want to scare me.

After that, I avoided the upstairs as much as I could. But the thing followed me. I’d catch glimpses of red eyes in reflections, in the corner of my vision. I’d hear a soft, rhythmic creaking at night, like a rocking chair. I started sleeping with the lights on, but it didn’t matter. It was always there, waiting.

Finally, when I was seventeen, I decided to face it. I went to that hidden room, opened the hatch, and descended into the darkness. The rocking chair was still there, but now a shape sat in it—a boy, maybe ten years old, with skin as pale as bone and eyes that burned like molten iron. He didn’t speak, but I felt his loneliness, his rage at being trapped in that house for decades. He motioned for me to come closer, and my body obeyed against my will.

I knelt in front of him, and he put a cold, wet hand on my cheek. His lips moved, and I heard his voice, not in my ears, but in my mind. ‘Play with me,’ he said. ‘Stay.’ But I shook my head. I told him I couldn’t, that I was sorry he was alone, but I had to live. I remembered a story my grandmother used to tell, about how to lay a spirit to rest. You have to acknowledge them, and then let them go. So I whispered, ‘I see you. I’m sorry you’re lost. I forgive you. But I cannot stay.’

And then, for the first time, the eyes flickered. They softened, and the boy faded until he was just a shimmer. The chair stopped rocking. The room grew cold, and then normal. I climbed out, and the house felt different. Lighter. The shadow in the corner was just a shadow.

I never saw the red eyes again. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint creaking from that room, and I wonder if he’s still there, waiting for another friend. I don’t believe in demons, but I believe in that boy, in that house, and in the hollow hall that connects this world to the next. And I’m grateful every day that I was able to leave him behind.