The Hollow Hound

I’ve always had a strange gift—or curse, depending on how you look at it. I can see things that others can’t, shapes that lurk in the periphery, sounds that don’t come from this world. I’ve learned to live with it, to ignore the whispers and the cold spots, but some things refuse to be ignored.

Two nights before I encountered the Black Figure, I was in my basement apartment, a cramped studio with a single window overlooking a brick wall. My bed was shoved against that window, and across the room, my friend Maya slept on a futon, her back to the door. I was reading a worn paperback, my cat, Whiskers, curled at my feet. The only light came from my bedside lamp, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering bulb.

Around midnight, Whiskers shot upright, her fur bristling. She let out a low growl, a sound I’d never heard from her before, and leaped off the bed. She raced to the door, her claws clicking on the linoleum, and planted herself a foot from it, her back arched. She began to yowl—not a hiss, not a screech, but a deep, guttural wail that seemed to vibrate through the floor. I called her, my voice shaking, but she was deaf to me. She just stood there, her eyes fixed on the door as if something were on the other side.

Two minutes passed. My heart hammered. Then, without warning, Whiskers let out a choked whimper and was flung backwards, as if a massive invisible hand had batted her across the room. She hit the side of my bed with a sickening thud and lay still, her body limp. I screamed and scrambled off the mattress, scooping her into my arms. She was breathing, but shallow, her eyes glazed. I dove under my covers, clutching her to my chest, my back to the door, feeling the oppressive weight of something watching.

I’ve never told anyone about that night—not Maya, not anyone. I couldn’t explain it. But I knew, deep in my bones, that whatever had thrown Whiskers was not done with me. It was waiting, patient, and it would come back for its next victim. And I was right. Two days later, I saw it—the Black Figure, a tall, featureless silhouette that stood at the foot of my bed, its head tilted as if studying me. It didn’t speak, but I felt its cold hunger. And then it vanished, leaving me with a trembling cat and a dread that has never fully left me. Whiskers never fully recovered; she flinches at every noise, and sometimes, she stares at a corner of the room with wide, fearful eyes. I know she sees it still, but I dare not look.