The Hollow Hour

During my freshman year at Dryden University, I rented a small flat above an old bakery that had been converted into student housing. The apartment was cramped, with a narrow hallway connecting three rooms. My bedroom sat at the end of the hall, perpendicular to the bathroom and directly across from a room I used as a study. That night, my mother and younger brother had come to visit, and since the flat was tiny, they slept on a fold-out couch in my study, which was just a few feet from my bedroom door.

I remember waking up with a start, the digits on my phone glowing 3:00 AM. A strange restlessness crawled under my skin, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the old refrigerator from the kitchen. Then, a sound cut through the quiet—a low murmur, like someone talking in a hushed voice. It came from the study. I figured my mom and brother were talking, maybe unable to sleep. But I felt a pang of unease. I decided to go check on them.

I pushed back the covers and stepped onto the cold floor. The hallway was dark except a sliver of light spilling from under the study door. As I approached, the murmuring grew clearer—but it wasn’t my mom’s voice or my brother’s. It was a voice I didn’t recognize, a raspy whisper that seemed to be speaking in a language I had never heard. I froze, my heart hammering. I called out, ‘Mom? Jamie?’ The voices stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was thick, heavy. I reached for the doorknob, but my hand hesitated. Something felt wrong. The light under the door flickered, casting odd shadows.

I pushed the door open. The study was empty. The fold-out couch was neatly folded, untouched. The only light came from a small lamp on the desk, which was flickering, as if the bulb were dying. On the desk sat a notebook, open to a page full of strange symbols and scrawled notes. My mother and brother were nowhere to be seen. I called their names, my voice trembling. No response. I checked the bathroom, the kitchen, even the stairwell outside my door. Nothing. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.

I ran back to my room, my mind racing. I grabbed my phone to call my mother’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail. Jamie’s phone rang in his room, but there was no answer. I paced the hallway, trying to make sense of it all. Then I remembered the notebook. I went back to the study. The lamp was steady now, but the notebook was closed. I opened it again—the pages were blank. I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

Just then, I heard a faint sound from the bathroom. A dripping, maybe. Or a soft tap. I walked over, my legs shaky. The bathroom door was ajar, and the light was off. I pushed it open. In the dim light from the hallway, I saw my reflection in the mirror. But it wasn’t me. The reflection smiled—a slow, knowing grin—and raised a hand, pointing toward the corner of the room. I spun around, but there was nothing. When I turned back, the reflection was back to normal, but my face was pale, my eyes wide.

I backed out, my breath coming in short gasps. I ran to my bedroom and slammed the door, locking it. I sat on the bed, hugging my knees, trying to calm down. But then I heard the murmur again—this time from right outside my door. It was the same voice, now speaking in a clear, broken tone: ‘We are still here.’ I clapped my hands over my ears, but the voice seemed to come from inside my head.

The clock on my phone showed 3:33 AM. I felt a cold presence behind me, and a hand touched my shoulder. I turned, and there was my mother, her face pale, her eyes vacant. She whispered, ‘You should have stayed in bed.’ Behind her, Jamie stood in the doorway, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. And both of them spoke in that same raspy voice, in unison: ‘The hollow hours belong to us.’

I screamed, but no sound came out. The room spun, and everything went black. When I woke, it was morning. Sunlight streamed through the window. My mother and brother were in the study, eating breakfast, acting as if nothing had happened. But when my mom smiled at me, I saw the same glint in her eye, a flicker of something not human. And on my nightstand, there was a note, written in a handwriting I didn’t recognize: ‘We remember.’ My phone showed 3:00 AM, not morning. The clock hadn’t moved. I haven’t slept since. I don’t know if they will let me sleep again.