The Hollow in the Hallway

When my mother and I moved into Uncle Ray’s house, I thought I was leaving the whispers behind. At our old flat, the air had always hummed with a gentle presence—Grandma Nell, the clairvoyant said. She’d tuck me in at night with a breath that smelled of mint and camphor, and I’d fall asleep to the soft creak of her rocking chair in the corner, even though there was no chair there. But Uncle Ray’s house was different. It was a sprawling, two-story Victorian on the edge of the pine forest, with peeling paint and a porch that sagged like an old man’s shoulders. The moment I stepped inside, the warmth vanished. The walls felt thick, and the floorboards seemed to hold their breath.

The hallway was the worst. It ran from the front door to the back, straight through the heart of the house, and there was always a draft that had no source. The floorboards creaked in a rhythm that wasn’t mine, and the mirror at the end of the hall—an ornate, tarnished thing—reflected a darkness that didn’t match the dim light. I’d avoid looking into it, but every time I passed, I felt a pull, like something was waiting behind the glass.

Uncle Ray was a man of few words and fewer smiles. He had a way of standing too close, and his eyes never quite met mine. He’d made his money in logging, and his hands were rough with calluses, but they were always cold when he touched me—which was too often for comfort. He’d pat my shoulder, but his fingers would linger a second too long, and I’d feel a chill crawl up my neck. Mum, though, was besotted. She’d say, ‘Ray’s a good man, Becca. He’ll take care of us.’ I didn’t argue. I just kept my eyes on the hallway.

The first night, I woke to a soft whisper. It was my name, ‘Becca,’ sung in a low, melodic voice that seemed to come from the wall. I sat up, heart pounding, but the room was empty. The voice wasn’t Grandma Nell’s. Hers had been warm, like a hug. This was cold, like a draft. I pulled the covers over my head and listened to the house settle into its nightly groans.

Over the following weeks, the whispers grew more frequent. They’d come in the afternoon when I returned from school, as I climbed the stairs. ‘Becca, come see,’ they’d say, leading me toward the hallway. Sometimes, I’d catch a flicker of movement in the mirror—a shape that was too thin, too tall, with arms that hung like broken branches. I told Mum, but she dismissed it. ‘You’re just unsettled, love. Give it time.’

One evening, I found an old photograph in the attic—a picture of Uncle Ray’s mother, who’d died in the house decades ago. She was standing in the hallway, and behind her, the mirror reflected a face that wasn’t hers. It was a man’s face, gaunt and hollow-eyed, with a grin that went too wide. I dropped the photo as if burned.

That night, I heard a thumping from the hallway, rhythmic and slow, like a heartbeat. I crept to my door and cracked it open. The hallway was pitch black, but at the far end, by the mirror, I saw a figure. It was tall, shadowy, and it moved with a jerky, unnatural gait. It stopped, turned its head—and for a moment, I saw its face. It was the man from the photo, his skin stretched over bones, his eyes like pits. He raised a long, thin arm and beckoned with one crooked finger.

I slammed the door and pressed my back against it, trembling. But the thumping didn’t stop. It grew louder, closer, until it was right on the other side. Then I heard a voice, not a whisper this time, but clear as day. It said, ‘She’s not here to hug you, little one. She’s here to feed me.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the corner, knees to my chest, as the voice continued. It spoke of my grandmother, how she’d followed me to protect me, but how she was being drained. ‘I have her now,’ it said. ‘And soon, I’ll have you.’

When morning came, I found Mum in the kitchen, looking pale. She said she’d had a nightmare—a tall man in the hallway, reaching for her. I told her everything, and for the first time, I saw fear in her eyes. She finally believed me.

That day, we packed our things. Uncle Ray was away, out in the forest. But as we hurried down the hallway, we saw the mirror. It was cracked, and from the cracks, a black oily liquid seeped. And there, reflected, was my grandmother’s face—pale, but her eyes were kind. She mouthed three words: ‘Don’t trust Ray.’

We fled. We left the house behind, but the memory of that hallway stuck with me. Years later, I learned that Uncle Ray had been a recluse, and that the house had a history of ‘accidents’—visitors who never left. The man in the mirror was his brother, who’d died in the walls, and Ray had kept him bound to the house for company. When I think of that hallway, I still feel the draft, and I hear the whispers. But now, I know they’re not meant to comfort. They’re meant to lure.

And sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear a voice that sounds like my own, calling from the other side of the glass. ‘Becca, come see.’ And I have to remind myself: she’s not there to hug me. She’s there to feed.