The Hollow Hallway

I was nineteen when it happened, living with my aunt in her old farmhouse out on the edge of town. My daughter, Lily, was just three months old, and I was running on fumes. My aunt, bless her heart, offered to take Lily for the night so I could sleep. I practically kissed her feet and collapsed into bed.

Our bedroom was at the far end of the house, down a long, narrow hallway. The bathroom was right next to my aunt’s room, which was at the opposite end. That night, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. At around six in the morning, I heard my aunt’s voice calling down the hall, asking me to come get Lily, dress her, and feed her before my early shift at the diner. I was so groggy, but I remember thinking, ‘I’ll just grab her and bring her back.’

I slipped on my slippers and shuffled down the hallway. The floorboards creaked under my weight. I could see the light spilling from my aunt’s open door at the end. As I got closer, I noticed something odd – the hallway seemed longer than it should be. The shadows from the morning light stretched in ways that didn’t feel right. But I was too tired to think much of it.

When I reached the bathroom, I paused. The door was ajar, and I could hear soft cooing sounds from inside – like Lily’s baby noises. I peeked in, and there she was, lying in her bassinet, which my aunt must have moved next to the tub. But my aunt’s room was on the other side of the hall, and the bassinet had been in there. I shook my head, thinking I was still half-asleep.

I went into the bathroom, picked up Lily, and brought her to the kitchen to feed her. She seemed calm, gurgling at me as I prepared her bottle. I fed her, changed her, and then started back down the hallway to return her to my aunt. As I walked, the hallway felt wrong – the walls seemed to close in, and the floor tilted slightly. I quickened my pace, but the end of the hall seemed to recede, like I was walking in place.

I called out, ‘Auntie? Where are you?’ My own voice echoed back strangely, distorted, as if from a deep well. I looked down at Lily – she was fine, smiling up at me – but her eyes seemed darker, more knowing than a baby’s. I felt a chill run down my spine.

I finally reached the door, but when I pushed it open, the room was empty. The bed was made, and there was a thick layer of dust on everything, as if no one had been there in years. I stumbled back, clutching Lily, and the hallway stretched out before me, twisted and endless. I turned to run, but the floor gave way, and I fell into darkness.

I woke up in my bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. My aunt was standing over me, holding Lily, her face pale. She said, ‘You were calling out in your sleep. You scared me.’ But she had a strange look in her eyes, and for a moment, I saw the hallway behind her – long, dark, and empty, with a door at the end that was slowly closing. I never told her what I saw, but from that night on, I always kept Lily close, and I never walked down that hallway alone again. Sometimes, when I pass the bathroom, I still hear that soft cooing, and I remember the hollow hallway that almost swallowed me whole.