The Hollow in the Attic

At 24, I moved into a rented flat in a quiet corner of Bristol, above a shuttered bookshop. The place had a narrow staircase and a window that looked onto a brick wall. It was cheap, and that was enough.

One night, after a long shift at the café, I lay in bed, half-asleep. A weight pressed down on my chest, heavy as a slab. I couldn’t move my arms, couldn’t open my eyes. I thought of the old woman who’d died in the flat before me, or worse, a burglar who’d come through the fire escape. Then I felt breath on my face, not human, but a wet, ragged panting, like a dog’s, only deeper, more hollow, as if it came from a throat too wide for a body.

I tried to scream, but my jaw was locked. The panting went on for minutes, growing closer, then the weight vanished. I bolted upright, reached for the light, but the bulb flickered and died. I fumbled for my phone, its beam sweeping the empty room. No one. I locked the bedroom door and slid to the floor. A strange calm washed over me, and I fell asleep, my chest still heavy.

The next morning, I inspected the flat. The floorboards creaked. The attic hatch in the hall was slightly ajar. I’d never opened it. The estate agent had said it was sealed, ‘just storage, very dusty.’ I pulled the cord, and the ladder descended. I climbed up with my phone’s light.

The attic was smaller than I thought, with exposed beams and pink insulation. In the corner, a dust-covered plastic bin. Inside, a child’s drawing, crayon on paper: a stick figure with a round head and no eyes, lying on a bed, a large grey shape on top of it. Underneath, in wobbly letters: ‘The Hollow Man comes when you sleep.’

I laughed it off, but that night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. The pressure returned, gentler at first, then pressing me down. This time I forced my eyes open. In the dim light, I saw a shape, a dark, formless mass, crouched on my chest. Its breath was a hot, wet draft. I tried to shout, but my voice only came out as a whisper.

I blinked, and it was gone. I spent the next nights at a friend’s, but the thought of the drawing gnawed at me. I asked the landlord about the previous tenant. He paused, then said, ‘Oh, Sarah. She was a quiet girl. Said the attic was haunted. Moved out after six months. Left some things behind.’

I returned to the flat, determined to find the source. I searched the attic again, and behind a loose beam, I found a tape recorder. I played it. It was a child’s voice, shaky: ‘Mummy, he’s here. He’s sitting on my bed. He’s breathing on me. He says he’s been here forever, and he’s lonely. He wants to play with me.’

Then a woman’s voice: ‘It’s okay, honey, we’ll move.’ The tape cut off. I rewound it, played it again. The child was the one who’d drawn the picture. Sarah.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the corners. At 3 a.m., the pressure began. I fought it, but I was pinned. The breathing was louder, wetter. I opened my mouth to speak, and a whisper came out: ‘Who are you?’

The shape replied, in a rasping, thin voice, ‘I am the hollow in the attic. I was here before you, before Sarah, before the bookshop. I was here when the house was a mortuary. I am the last breath of the unburied. I have no one to hold me down, so I hold you.’

I managed to force out, ‘Why me?’

‘Because you are alone too, and you left the door open.’

The pressure eased, and I could breathe. I lay there, shaking. Then I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice behind me, not in front: ‘But now that you’ve spoken, I can stay. You will never leave me.’

I turned, and there was a boy, pale, with dark hollows where eyes should be, his mouth stretched into a grin. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came. The room spun. I remember falling, and then the world went black.

I woke in a hospital bed. They said I had a seizure, likely from stress. But when I returned to the flat to pack, I found the attic hatch open, and the tape recorder was gone. On my pillow lay a crayon drawing: a stick figure lying on a bed, and a large grey shape on top, with two little eyes, looking at me. And in the corner, in childish handwriting: ‘Now you can play with me.’