The Hollow Man in the Pines

I have always been prone to seeing shapes in the corner of my eye, but these past few months, the shapes have started to linger. It began after we moved to the old farmhouse on the edge of the Thornwood Forest. My stepfather called it a fixer-upper, but my mother saw it as a fresh start. I tried to convince myself that the creaks and groans of the house were just the wind, that the shadows stretching across the fields were just trees. But then I started seeing him.

It was a humid August night, the kind where the air hangs thick and heavy. We were out back, trying to catch fireflies near the overgrown apple orchard. My brother, Liam, was chasing them with a mason jar, his laughter cutting through the cicadas’ drone. My mother and stepfather, Doug, were on the porch, sharing a beer and watching the stars. I was standing at the edge of the orchard, my feet sinking into the soft, damp grass, when I saw a figure between the gnarled apple trees. He was tall, impossibly thin, with shoulders that seemed to bend at unnatural angles. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast his face in complete shadow. He stood perfectly still, one hand raised as if in greeting. I felt an icy chill wash over me, the kind that seeps into your bones. I blinked, and he was gone.

I told myself it was a trick of the moonlight, a scarecrow I hadn’t noticed before. But the next night, I saw him again. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I glanced out the window over the sink. He was standing at the edge of the pine forest, closer now. His hand was still raised, but now I saw that his fingers were unnaturally long, almost skeletal. He began to move his hand in a slow, beckoning gesture, as if coaxing me closer. My blood ran cold. I dropped the plate, and it shattered on the floor. By the time I looked up, he was gone.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed in the attic room, listening to the wind whistle through the cracks in the walls. I heard a scratching sound, like nails on wood, coming from the window. When I turned to look, there was a pale, gaunt face pressed against the glass. It was him. His eyes were hollow pits, black as pitch, and his mouth was stretched into a grotesque smile that seemed too wide for his face. He tapped on the glass with those long fingers, once, twice, three times. I pulled the blanket over my head and prayed until dawn.

The next morning, I tried to tell my mother, but she dismissed it. ‘It’s just your imagination, sweetie. You’ve been reading too many horror novels.’ Doug laughed and said it was probably a deer. But Liam looked at me with wide eyes. He had seen something too, he whispered. A man in the pines, watching us. That afternoon, we found a trail of footprints in the mud near the forest edge. They were not human. The feet were too narrow, the toes too long, and they ended in a set of deep claw marks, as if whatever made them had dragged its nails through the earth.

A few nights ago, we were all swimming in the old reservoir behind the property. It was a moonless night, and the water was black, like oil. My mother and Doug were floating on their backs, and Liam was splashing near the shore. I swam out to the middle, feeling the cold water embrace me. I was floating, staring up at the stars, when I heard a splash behind me. I turned, and there he was. The man from the pines, standing on the surface of the water, his feet barely disturbing the surface tension. He was closer than ever. His hat was gone, and I could see his face clearly for the first time. It was gaunt, with skin stretched tight over a skull, and his eyes glowed with a sickly yellow light. He smiled, and his teeth were needles.

He spoke, but his voice didn’t come from his mouth. It came from inside my head, a cold, slithering sound. ‘I have been waiting for you.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I felt myself sinking, the water pulling me down. He reached out a hand, and his fingers brushed my forehead. I felt a searing pain, as if a brand had been pressed into my skin. Then he vanished, and I was alone in the water, gasping for air.

That was the last night I saw him. But I know he’s still there, in the pines, waiting. Sometimes, at night, I see the outline of his hat against the moon. And last night, I found a message scratched into the window frame, in letters that looked like they were written in blood. It said: ‘I have found a way inside.’ I don’t know what he means, but I am terrified to sleep. Because I know that he is not just a vision. He is real. And he wants something from me.