The Hollow Hours

The first time it happened, I was six, in the old farmhouse my family rented for a summer. I remember the wallpaper with its faded roses and the way the moonlight pooled on the floorboards. I was lying in bed, fully awake, or so I thought. My eyes were open, and I could see the room clearly: the chipped dresser, the pile of clothes on the chair. My mind was calm, replaying the day’s events. Then I noticed a slight shift in the room, a subtle change in the color of the moonbeams, from silver to a sickly green. A small, dark shape scurried along the baseboard, impossibly fast, and vanished under the wardrobe. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a mouse, though I knew it wasn’t. It had too many legs, and it moved like water flowing uphill.

Years passed. I grew up, moved to the city, and forgot. But the dreams, if they were dreams, persisted. They always started the same: I was in my bed, in my apartment, awake. The city hummed outside my window, the occasional siren slicing through the night. Everything felt normal. Then the color would drain from the world, leaving everything in a muted gray. My peripherals would blur, and I’d hear a sound, not loud, but pervasive, like a radio station between frequencies, carrying a voice that wasn’t speaking English. I’d try to move, but my limbs would be heavy, pressed down by an invisible weight. The voice would grow clearer, forming words I couldn’t understand, and then, from the corner of my vision, I’d see something standing in the doorway. It was tall, impossibly thin, with skin like stretched parchment, and it had no face. Just a blank expanse where features should be. But I could feel it looking at me, with an intelligence that was ancient and hungry.

Last week, I read a forum post about ‘dream communication.’ It said that spirits and entities can access our minds more easily when we sleep. I dismissed it as internet folklore, but the truth is, I’ve known this all along. Because every time I have these dreams, I feel a foreign presence, not just watching, but reaching into my mind, sifting through my memories as if they were a filing cabinet. And the worst part is, the things I see in those dreams, the places, the faces, I recognize them. They’re places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met. But they feel like memories, shaped by someone else.

Five nights ago, I woke up, or thought I did. The apartment was dark, the city lights giving the room a murky glow. I lay there, heart pounding, telling myself it was just a night terror. Then I heard the doorknob turn. Slowly. And the door creaked open. There was no silhouette, just a shift in the darkness, a deeper blackness that separated from the rest. It moved toward my bed, and I felt a cold hand press against my forehead. The touch wasn’t physical; it was a sensation of being penetrated, of something invasive sliding into my skull. I tried to scream, but my voice was gone. A whisper filled my ears, in that non-English language, but somehow I understood: ‘You are not the first, and you will not be the last.’ Then I was jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my alarm clock flashing 3:33 AM.

I haven’t slept properly since. I stay up as long as I can, hoping to avoid the dreams. But exhaustion always wins. And when I succumb, the dreams are more vivid, more intrusive. The faceless one is now a constant, waiting for me. Last night, it showed me a memory that wasn’t mine: a child’s room, with a different wallpaper pattern, and a young boy’s face, staring at the same scarecrow-shaped figure in the corner. The face morphed, became a girl, then an old woman, and finally, it was my own face, older, terrified, locked in a silent scream. The entity’s voice echoed, ‘They all wore your face, in the end.’

Now I sit here, in the cold light of morning, staring at my reflection. The sleep deprivation has left dark circles under my eyes, and there’s a new mark on my neck, a small, circular bruise I can’t explain. I’ve tried to tell my doctor, my friends, but they say it’s sleep paralysis, stress. They don’t understand. It’s not my mind playing tricks. It’s a door, and something is on the other side, knocking, learning, and soon, it will find a way to open. But tonight, I’ll stay awake. I’ll stare at the door, and I’ll pray that the thing in the corner stays put. Because I’ve started to see it in my waking hours now, a flicker in the peripheral, a distortion in the air. It’s getting closer, and I don’t think I have much time left.