The Hollow in the Hall

I’m nineteen, and my family—my parents and my twin brother, Elias—moved to a small town in the Swedish countryside last summer. We live in an old farmhouse that’s been in our father’s family for generations. It’s the kind of house that creaks and settles, but I’ve never been one for scary stories. Until last night.

My parents were visiting friends in the next town, and Elias had gone to a party. I was alone, curled up on the sofa in the living room with a book. Around ten, I heard it: footsteps. Not from upstairs, but from the kitchen, then the utility room, then the living room, as if someone was walking through the house in a slow, deliberate circuit. I called out, ‘Hello?’ but there was no answer. The footsteps stopped.

I got up, my heart hammering, and checked the kitchen. Empty. The utility room was off the kitchen, a narrow space with a back door. I stepped inside, and as I turned to lock the door behind me, I heard a loud knock on the wall to my left. Then more footsteps, right outside the door. I pressed my ear to the wood—silence. Then a heavy, dragging sound scraped along the floor, like something was being pulled.

I eased the door open, just a crack, and peered into the kitchen. The hallway beyond was dark, but in the doorway of the room next to my bedroom—we call it the sewing room—there was a shape. It was crouched low, like an animal, but its limbs were too long. Its fingers were thin, almost skeletal, and its legs were bent at unnatural angles. It had no face, just a smooth, black head, but I could see the outline of a skull. It didn’t move. It just watched me.

I couldn’t move. My body felt like it was made of stone. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. The creature tilted its head, as if studying me, and then it vanished. Instantly, the paralysis broke, and I sprinted to my room, slamming the door behind me. I grabbed my phone and called my best friend, Maja. She answered, and I whispered, ‘There’s something in the house.’ I crept back to the door, opened it a crack, and looked into the hallway. The creature was there again, but this time it was closer, right outside my door, its blank face inches from mine. I screamed and slammed the door, and Maja on the other end was shouting, ‘What’s happening? Are you okay?’

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat with my back against the door, phone in hand, until dawn. When the sun rose, I finally dared to leave the room. The house was still, but in the hallway, on the floor, there were wet footprints leading from the sewing room to my door. They stopped at the threshold, as if the creature had stood there all night, waiting. I’ve never told anyone but my family. I don’t think they believe me.

But last night, I heard the footsteps again. This time, they were in the attic. And the attic door, which has been locked for years, was wide open.