The Hollow Lane

It was a Tuesday in late October, 1994, and I was driving back to my apartment in the outskirts of Bloomington, Indiana, after a late shift at the campus library. The clock on the dashboard read 1:47 AM, and the only company I had on State Road 46 was the occasional deer standing at the edge of the treeline, eyes glowing in the high beams. My car, a beat-up Honda Civic, rattled along the empty asphalt, and I was lost in a fog of exhaustion, counting the miles until I could collapse into bed.

I had just passed the turnoff for the old quarry when I noticed something in my rearview mirror: a pair of headlights, impossibly close. They were so bright, so blinding, that I had to squint to see anything else. My heart lurched. There was no exit for miles, and no side road where a car could have merged. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and tried to maintain my speed, but the vehicle stayed glued to my bumper, so close that I could see the texture of its grille in my mirror.

The hairs on my arms stood up when I realized I was not alone on this road. I had seen no cars for the last twenty minutes, and yet this thing had materialized out of nowhere. I pressed the accelerator, but the speedometer barely moved; it was as if the road itself was holding me back. The headlights grew brighter, and a low hum filled the cabin, vibrating through the seats.

After what felt like an eternity, the car swerved into the passing lane and crept up beside me. My eyes darted to the driver’s side door, and there, painted in white, chipped letters, were the words ‘THE HOLLOW MAN.’ The vehicle itself was a dark, rust-eaten sedan, maybe a Chevy from the late ’70s, with a cracked windshield and a dented hood. But it was the driver that made me suck in a breath. He was a man, or what used to be a man, with skin the color of wet newspaper and eyes that were not eyes but black, empty sockets. He turned his head slowly, and even though I couldn’t see his gaze, I felt it, like a cold finger tracing my spine.

My knuckles went white as I looked straight ahead, pretending I hadn’t seen him, but my peripheral vision caught him mouthing something, his lips moving in a silent rhythm. I glanced at the speedometer: 45 mph in a 55. I pushed the pedal down, but the engine sputtered, and the car’s response was sluggish. The sedan matched me, keeping pace, and the driver raised one hand, palm flat, like a warning.

Then, without warning, he slammed his brakes, and the sedan swerved behind me, then into the right lane. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. In my rearview, I saw the sedan’s door swing open, and the man leaned out, grabbing the roof. He was not just following me; he was preparing to climb onto my car.

A primal terror seized me. I floored the accelerator, and this time the engine roared, the car lunging forward. I weaved through the empty lanes, but my pursuer was relentless, matching every move. I could see his shadowy form in the mirror, closing the distance. I passed a sign that said ‘Bloomington 10 miles,’ and I knew I had to make it to civilization.

I took a sharp curve so fast that my tires squealed, and for a moment, I thought I had lost him. The road straightened, and my headlights cut through the dark woods on either side. But then, a shape appeared in the middle of the road, standing still. It was him, the Hollow Man, now ahead of me, blocking my path. I screamed and swerved, but it was too late. The front of my car hit him with a sickening thud, and I felt the impact through the steering wheel.

I slammed the brakes, and the car skidded to a stop. The man was gone. I sat there, trembling, staring at the empty road. In the silence, I heard a tap on my passenger window. I turned, and there he was, his face pressed against the glass, his black sockets inches from mine. His mouth moved, and though I could not hear him, I read the words on his lips: ‘You took my place.’

I screamed and threw open the driver’s door, stumbling onto the cold asphalt. The sedan was gone. The night was still. I ran until I reached a gas station, and the attendant called the police. They found my car abandoned on the side of the road, the engine still warm, and they found no trace of any other vehicle. But when they asked me to describe the driver, I could only say that he was hollow, that he was not a man.

Years later, I learned that the road I had been on was built over an old, forgotten county road that had been the site of a mysterious accident in 1972, where a man named Edgar Hollow had disappeared, leaving only his car behind. On the driver’s door, written in white paint, were the words ‘THE HOLLOW MAN.’ The locals say that if you drive that stretch alone after midnight, he will find you, and he will try to make you his replacement. I know now that I escaped that night, but I also know that I left something behind on that road, a piece of myself, and that the Hollow Man is still out there, waiting for the next lone driver to cross his path.