The Hollow Hours

I’m not writing this for sympathy or for someone to tell me it’s all in my head. I know it’s in my head; that’s the problem. My name is Casey, I’m eighteen, and I’ve been having sleep paralysis episodes for the past three years. It started when I lived in a small town in Ohio, but it’s followed me here, to this dusty little apartment in Arizona, where the sun bleaches the color out of everything by noon. It’s not the typical ‘can’t move, scary shadow in the corner’ thing, at least not anymore. It’s evolved into something infinitely worse.

It began as a gnawing, a subtle wrongness in the dead of night. I’d wake up, or think I woke up, my body a leaden shell, and I could breathe, but I couldn’t move a muscle. My eyes would dart around the room, and for the first few months, nothing was amiss. Just the familiar shapes of my furniture in the dim glow from the streetlight. But then, the silence started to be interrupted by a low, resonant hum, like a distant generator, or maybe a giant tuning fork held just outside my ear. It wasn’t a sound I heard with my ears; it was a vibration deep in my bones. And with it came a sensation of being watched, but not from any corner of the room. It was as if the room itself was watching me, every mote of dust, every shadow, every breath I took.

Then, a few months before I left Ohio, I had the first ‘visitor’. I slept with a nightlight, a little ceramic pig that glowed warm orange. In my paralysis, I saw a small figure standing at the foot of my bed. It was a child, a little girl with lank, dark hair that hung over her face. She wore a stained, oversized t-shirt that reached her knees. She just stood there, perfectly still, and I could feel her gaze even though I couldn’t see her eyes. My heart hammered, my lungs screamed for me to move, but I was frozen. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I finally pried them open, she was gone. I chalked it up to a nightmare, a manifestation of stress over the upcoming move.

I moved to Arizona, hoping the dry heat and the change of scenery would reset something in my brain. For the first few weeks, my sleep was blessedly blank. But then, the hum returned. And with it, my nightly companion. Only now, she wasn’t just standing at the foot of my bed. She was closer. The first time after the move, she was at the side of my bed, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, regarding me. I could almost make out her features under the curtain of hair, but they shifted like smoke. The next time, she was sitting on the edge of the mattress, her weight barely a depression, and I could smell her—a mixture of damp earth and old, dried flowers. The time after that, I felt a cold, papery hand brush against my cheek, and I heard a voice, a child’s voice, breathy and close to my ear, saying, ‘You’re not sleeping, are you?’

I started to dread the night. I would fight sleep for as long as I could, but exhaustion always won. And every time, she would be a little closer, a little more tangible. Last week, I saw her face for the first time. It was a blank slate, smooth and featureless, like an egg, but with faint indentations where eyes and a mouth should have been. And she was no longer a child. She was taller, her limbs elongated, her proportions wrong. She stood over me, her featureless face inches from mine, and I felt a pressure on my chest, as if she was pushing down. I couldn’t breathe, not because of a physical block, but because the air in the room seemed to leave. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then, she spoke again, her voice no longer childlike but a terrible, hollow whisper that seemed to come from all directions: ‘You’re ready now.’

And then, for the first time, I wasn’t awake. I was falling, falling into a darkness that was thick and suffocating. I felt myself being dragged, my soul peeling away from my body. I fought, I clawed, I screamed, but I was powerless. I saw a flash of a place—a vast, sun-bleached plain under a sky that was the color of a bruise. And there was a house, a small, dilapidated structure with a cracked porch, standing alone. I knew, with a dreadful certainty, that she wanted to take me there. I broke free with a jolt, gasping for air, my body drenched in sweat. But the hum hadn’t stopped. It was coming from my bedroom closet.

This is why I’m writing this. This afternoon, I decided to open the closet. I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it for weeks, but I couldn’t take the suspense. I reached for the knob, my hand trembling, and I turned it. The door swung open, revealing a bare closet, just a few dusty boxes and a rod with a few shirts. But on the floor, in the very center, was a small, hand-drawn picture. It was a crude drawing of a stick figure child, and next to it, a stick figure adult, both with blank faces. And beneath them, in a child’s scrawl, the words: ‘We’re here.’

Tonight, I’m writing this in the dark. My nightlight is out, and the lights are off. I can’t sleep. I’m sitting in the corner of my bed, my back against the wall, my knees drawn up. The hum is louder than ever. And I can hear a faint, rhythmic tapping, like small feet walking on the wooden floor. It’s coming from the closet. The door is still open, and I can see nothing but darkness inside. But I know, I know that when the tapping stops, she will be standing over me. And this time, I won’t be able to pull myself back. I’ve tried everything—I’ve changed my sleep schedule, I’ve seen doctors, I’ve tried to stay awake. But sleep always wins. And every time, she gets closer to taking me to that sun-bleached place. I don’t think she’s a ghost. I think she’s something older, something that feeds on the stillness between waking and sleep. And she’s chosen me.

I can hear the tapping stop. There’s a cold draft from the closet, and the smell of damp earth and dead flowers fills the room. I’m too tired to fight anymore. I’m going to close my eyes, and I’m going to let her take me. But I needed to write this down, to leave a record. If you find this, and you’re reading it alone in the dark, please, don’t fall asleep. Not with the closet open. Not ever. Because she’s waiting for us all. And in the hollow hours, she will take you home.