The Hollow Man in the Fern

My name is Marta Reyes, and I’m a senior in high school now. I’ve never told anyone the full story, not even my therapists, because they’d lock me away for good. But I need to get it out, so here it is.

I grew up in a small town called Cedar Falls, in a house that sat at the end of a dead-end street, surrounded by a dense forest of old pines and ferns. My parents were often busy with work, leaving me to my own devices. I was a quiet kid, but they said I had a mean streak, a darkness in me that led me to do terrible things to animals and even to my classmates. I don’t remember most of it—just flashes of blood and screaming, and the pleased looks on my own face in mirrors. But what I do remember clearly are the things I saw when I was alone.

It started when I was about nine. I would often stay up late, watching TV in our living room, which had a large picture window that looked out onto the front yard and the forest beyond. The TV would glow in the dark, and I’d feel like I was being watched. Then I began to see it: a shape, darker than the night, just a silhouette of a tall, thin man, standing among the fern plants at the edge of the property. He never moved, just stood there, staring in at me. When I blinked or looked away, he’d be gone, but I knew he was still there, just waiting for me to look again.

At first, I thought he was a neighbor or a trick of the light. I told my parents, and they checked outside, but found nothing. They said I was dreaming, that the TV was playing tricks on my mind. But I knew what I saw. The figure became a constant presence. Sometimes he’d appear in the hallway, standing perfectly still at the end, watching me from the shadows. Other times, he’d be in my bedroom doorway, a black cutout against the dim light of the nightlight in the hall. He never spoke, never moved, never threatened me directly. But his stillness was more terrifying than any chase.

One night, I decided to confront him. I was eleven, and I’d grown used to his presence, even though it made my skin crawl. I caught him in the living room again, standing by the window, his head tilted as if curious. I stood up, my heart pounding, and I said, ‘Who are you?’ He didn’t answer, but he raised a hand, a long-fingered silhouette, and pointed to the window. I followed his gesture and saw my reflection in the glass. But it wasn’t me. It was a girl with hollow eyes and a twisted smile, my face contorted into something that looked like pleasure. I screamed, and the figure vanished.

After that, I started to lose time. I’d find myself in the backyard, dirt under my fingernails, and a dead bird in my hand. Or I’d wake up to find a drawing I didn’t remember making, depicting a figure with a wide, grinning mouth swallowing a smaller shape. I knew these were the ‘evil’ things people talked about, but I couldn’t recall doing them. The worst was when I was thirteen: a girl in my class, Emily, fell down the stairs at school and broke her arm. I had no memory of the fall, but I felt a strange satisfaction, and for weeks, I saw the hollow figure following me, closer than ever.

Now, I’m eighteen, and I thought I’d outgrown it. I moved away for college, to a city with bright lights and no forest. But last week, I came back to my parents’ house for summer break. They insisted, saying they missed me, and that the house had been renovated. I didn’t want to go, but they guilted me into it.

The first night, I was sitting in the living room, watching a late show, just like when I was a kid. The window had been replaced, but the ferns were still there, grown tall and wild. I felt that familiar prickle on my neck. I looked up, and there he was again, the same dark figure, standing among the ferns. But this time, he was not still. He took a step forward, and then another, walking slowly toward the window. I froze, my breath caught in my throat. He reached the glass and put a hand to it, leaving a trail of frost on the pane. And then, for the first time, he spoke, in a voice like dry leaves scraping the ground: ‘We are not done, Marta.’

The next morning, I found my mother in the kitchen, her face pale. She said she had a nightmare of a tall man in her bedroom, whispering my name. My father wouldn’t come near me, and I noticed he flinched when I entered the room. They both started acting strangely, avoiding me, and I realized they were afraid of me, not for me. I tried to leave the next day, but my car wouldn’t start. I called a taxi, but the road was mysteriously flooded, even though it hadn’t rained.

That night, I locked myself in my room, determined not to look out any windows. I heard a scraping at the door, and a low, humming sound. I put my hands over my ears, but the humming grew louder, until it felt like it was inside my head. And then, in the corner of my eye, I saw him, the hollow man, standing beside my bed. He was close, so close I could see that he had no face, just a smooth, black void where his features should be. He reached out his hand, and I felt a cold touch on my cheek. Then he whispered, ‘You are what I am, Marta. We are one.’

I screamed, and then everything went black. When I woke up, I was in the ferns outside the window, the morning sun glaring in my eyes. My clothes were wet with dew, and there was blood on my hands. I looked back at the house, and I saw my parents’ silhouettes in the kitchen window, watching me with a mixture of fear and sorrow. I knew then that I was not who I thought I was. I had been the hollow man all along, or we were the same impossible thing.

I haven’t left the house since. I stay in my room, in the dark, because I’m afraid of what I’ll see in the light. The friendly neighborhood kids have started to avoid this house, and I’ve heard them whisper that there’s a ‘Fern Stalker’ who lurks in the trees. They don’t know how close they are. The man in the ferns follows me everywhere now, and when I look in the mirror, I don’t see my own reflection. I see that hollow face, grinning at me with a mouth that is not a mouth, wanting to be free.

The police came by today, asking about a missing child from the next road over. I looked at the officer, and I felt the pull, the hunger in my chest. I smiled, and I saw him take a step back. That’s when I realized that the story isn’t about the thing I saw. It’s about the thing that sees through me. And I don’t know how to stop it. I’m writing this down while I still have a single human thought left, but the ferns are rustling outside, and he’s calling me back. I don’t know if I’ll be me when I return.