The Hollow Man in the Lantern’s Glow

It began two nights after I moved into the creaking Victorian house on the edge of Harlan Marsh. The house had been in my family for decades, abandoned after my great-uncle’s mysterious death. I thought it would be a fresh start, a place to write my novel away from the city’s noise. But the house had other plans.

The first night was uneventful, save for the wind rattling the old windowpanes. The second night, I went to bed early, exhausted from unpacking boxes. I fell asleep on my side, facing the wall, with my back to the door. I was in that half-dream state when a pressure on my shoulder pulled me from sleep. It was a firm, almost insistent grip, as if someone was trying to wake me up. I turned, my heart thumping, and saw a figure standing beside the bed. It was a solid black shape, darker than the room’s gloom, and it wore what seemed like a robe with a loose hood. No face, no features, just a void.

I froze, my breath catching. The figure was close enough that I could have reached out and touched it. My hand fumbled for the bedside lamp, a small brass thing with a pull-chain. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the intruder. As my fingers found the chain and pulled, the room flooded with warm light from the bulb. The effect was immediate, but not in the way I expected. The light illuminated every corner of the room instantly, but the shadowy figure did not vanish. It shrank, collapsing in on itself like a black balloon deflating, but it didn’t disappear. It compressed into a small, dense sphere of darkness on the floor by the bed, about the size of a baseball. It pulsed once, then rolled under the bed.

I stared at the space under the bed, my mind racing. I’d never seen anything like that. My rational brain tried to explain it away: a trick of the light, a half-dream, a stray piece of clothing. But the pressure on my shoulder lingered, a cold spot on my skin. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I sat up, lights blazing, watching the floor.

The next night, I made sure to keep the lamp on, but I was exhausted. I fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. I woke again to the same pressure on my shoulder, this time harder, more insistent. I had forgotten to pull the lamp’s chain before I slept. The room was dark. The figure was there again, taller this time, looming. I managed to slap the lamp’s base, and the light came on. The shrinking happened again, but this time slower. I watched as it folded into itself, like a piece of paper being compressed by an unseen hand. It left a dark smudge on the floorboards that faded over a minute.

Now it’s the third night. I’ve barricaded the door with a heavy dresser, but I know it won’t stop it. It came through the walls last time. I’ve been researching the house’s history. I found an old diary of my great-uncle in the attic. He wrote about ‘the guest’ that would visit him, waking him at night. He described the same figure, the same shrinking. He wrote that it was ‘a soul lost between worlds, seeking a vessel.’ The last entry was a warning: ‘If it wakes you, don’t look. Keep your eyes shut. If you see it shrink, it’s already too late. It’s taking a piece of you with it.’

I didn’t listen. I saw it. And now I feel it. A hollow spot in my chest, right where my shoulder was touched. It’s like a cold emptiness that’s growing. Tonight, I’ve placed the lamp on the floor, near the bed, and I’ve tied a string to the pull-chain to my wrist. If it comes, I’ll pull the light without looking. But I know it’s already inside me. It’s waking up. I can feel it moving, trying to take shape. I’m writing this as a warning. If you see a shadow that shrinks, don’t turn on the light. Pray that it doesn’t notice you. Because once it does, it marks you, and that hollow grows until there’s nothing left but a shell. And then it will wear your skin, and it will wake someone else.