The Hollow Man

The summer I turned thirteen, my parents shipped my sister and me off to our great-uncle’s ranch in the high desert of New Mexico. My cousin, Miguel, and I had been born two weeks apart, and we were inseparable. The ranch belonged to my great-grandfather, who had died five years before, and my great-grandmother, Doña Elena, still ran the place. She was in her late seventies then, a wisp of a woman with iron-gray braids, but she could outwork any of us. She made her own tortillas, churned butter, and once dispatched a rattlesnake with a single, deft blow of a hoe.

One afternoon, with six cousins ranging from ages nine to fourteen, we invented a game called the Walk Away. One person would lead the line, and one by one, the others would peel off and hide. The leader, upon noticing they were alone, would search for the others. The first one found became the new leader. We played it in the dusty, skeletal orchard behind the house, where the trees were gnarled and the ground was cracked. The game was simple, but it had a strange thrill, especially when the wind picked up and the shadows grew long.

It was Miguel’s turn to lead. He was the oldest, wiry and quick, with a daredevil grin. He started at the dry creek bed and walked straight toward the old, crumbling adobe barn at the edge of the ranch. We let him get a good lead, then one by one, we slipped off. I dove behind a stubby juniper, my sister tucked behind the well, the others scattered among the trees and rocks. I watched Miguel’s back as he walked, oblivious, until he finally turned around and saw he was alone. He laughed, a sharp sound that echoed oddly in the still air.

We stayed hidden, barely breathing, as he walked back and forth, peering behind trees and bushes. He passed within a foot of my hiding spot, and I bit my tongue to keep from giggling. But after a while, the game stopped being fun. The sun began to set, casting long, distorted shadows, and Miguel grew frustrated. He called out our names, but we didn’t answer. We were beginning to feel the prickle of unease when he stopped in the middle of the clearing and stood perfectly still.

Then he turned and looked directly at me, but his eyes were wrong. They were wide and glassy, and his mouth hung open, slack. He started walking toward me, not in his usual lanky stride, but with a stiff, puppet-like gait, feet dragging through the dust. I felt a cold knot in my stomach. I wanted to jump out and yell ‘got you!’ but something told me not to. He stopped right in front of my bush and leaned in close, his face inches from mine, and whispered in a voice that was not his own, a dry, hollow rasp like wind through a dead piñon: ‘I found you.’

I scrambled out, heart pounding, and the others came out of hiding too, laughing nervously. But Miguel just stood there, not smiling, his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. ‘Your turn,’ he said, but his voice had a flat, mechanical tone. He turned and walked away, not waiting for anyone to follow. We exchanged glances, but shrugged it off as part of the game.

The next round, I was the leader. I walked to a cluster of rocks and turned to see the others fading into the landscape. I waited for a few minutes, then started searching. I called out their names, but the only answer was the wind. I walked back toward the barn, but the door was ajar, and I saw Miguel standing inside, his back to me. ‘Miguel?’ I said. He didn’t move. I stepped closer, and he turned slowly. His face was pale, and his eyes were black, like two drops of obsidian. He smiled, but it was horrible, a rictus of old men. ‘We’re all here,’ he said, and gestured to the shadows inside the barn. I looked, and I could see the shapes of my siblings and cousins, standing motionless in the dimness, their backs turned, not moving.

I backed away, panic rising. I ran back to the house, my legs pumping, and burst through the kitchen door. Doña Elena was at the stove, stirring a pot. She looked at me, calm, and said, ‘You played the Walk Away.’ I nodded, gasping. She set down her spoon and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Your great-grandfather used to play that game with his brothers,’ she said. ‘He was the leader on the day they all vanished. He came back, but he was never the same. He said the other side took them, and they left something in him.’

I looked out the window, and I saw the kids walking back toward the house, in a line, with Miguel at the front. They were all moving stiffly, in an odd unison. When they reached the porch, they stopped and turned to face the window, all of them smiling the same thin, eerie smile. I screamed, and Doña Elena put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t go out there,’ she said. ‘They’ve been gone for a long time now. The game is not for us.’

We moved away from the ranch not long after, and my parents told everyone we had a falling out with the family. But I know what I saw. My cousins still write to me sometimes, cheerful letters, but the handwriting is always the same. And every year, on the anniversary of that day, I get a phone call, and there’s only a heavy breathing on the line, and then a dry, hollow voice that says, ‘I found you.’

Doña Elena still lives there, alone now, still making her soap and killing snakes. But sometimes, when I drift off to sleep, I see her in the barn, her back to me, waiting for me to walk toward her, to take my place in the line.