The Hollow Man of Cinder Ridge

I never put much stock in the supernatural. I was a practical man, a retired surveyor who trusted maps and measurements, not ghost stories. That was before the winter of ’97, when I took a job mapping the old mining town of Cinder Ridge, up in the Sierra Nevadas. The town had been abandoned for decades, but the county wanted a proper survey before they auctioned the land. I figured a few weeks of solitude in the mountains would be a nice change of pace.

I set up base camp in the town’s old hotel, the only building with a solid roof. The place was a skeleton of its former self—cobwebs like dusty curtains, floorboards that groaned with every step, and a smell of rot that clung to everything. But I didn’t mind. I had my work, my whiskey, and a good dog named Ranger. The first few days were uneventful. I’d measure the old structures, take notes, and hike the surrounding ridges. The silence was almost oppressive, but I welcomed it.

Then, on the fourth night, I noticed something odd. Ranger started growling at the wall, his fur bristling. I put it down to mice, but the next morning, I found strange scratch marks on the wallpaper—deep grooves, like claws, forming a rough circle. I laughed it off, but Ranger wouldn’t go near that room again. That night, I heard a scraping sound coming from the hallway, rhythmic, like something dragging. I grabbed my flashlight and swung the door open. Nothing. The hallway was empty, dust hanging in the beam. But the scraping continued, seeming to come from inside the walls. I didn’t sleep well after that.

As the days passed, the occurrences escalated. Tools went missing, then reappeared in strange places—my compass in the bathtub, my notebook on the roof. The scratching grew louder, and I began to see a figure in my peripheral vision—a tall, gaunt shape that vanished when I turned to look. I tried to rationalize it: exhaustion, isolation, the wind. But Ranger was a nervous wreck, and I found myself checking over my shoulder constantly.

One evening, I decided to investigate the old mine entrance at the edge of town. Maybe there was something there, some animal, that explained the noises. The entrance was boarded up, but the boards had rotted away enough to squeeze through. I crawled inside with a lantern, and that’s when I saw the paintings. The walls were covered in crude charcoal drawings—stick figures with long arms, surrounding a circle with a figure in the middle. The figures seemed to be dancing, or worshiping. The central figure was different—taller, with hollow eyes. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I hurried back out.

That night, I had a dream. I was standing in the center of town, and the figure from the paintings was watching me from the porch of the hotel. It had no face, just a featureless black void where a face should be. It raised a long arm and pointed to the mine. I woke with a start, covered in sweat. Ranger was whimpering at the foot of the bed. I knew I had to leave the next morning.

But when I went to pack my truck, the engine was dead. The battery was drained, and the tires were slashed. I was stranded. I went back into the hotel, my heart pounding, and barricaded the door. The scratching started almost immediately, coming from all directions—walls, ceiling, floor. It grew into a cacophony, like a thousand claws. And then, the voice. A low, gravelly whisper that seemed to come from inside my own head: ‘You will stay. You will become the hollow man.’

I remember screaming. I remember swinging a hammer at the walls, trying to break through to whatever was tormenting me. And then, nothing. When I came to, it was morning. My truck was fixed, the tires were whole, and Ranger was wagging his tail at the door as if nothing had happened. I left immediately, never looking back.

I thought that was the end of it. I moved to a small town in Oregon, tried to put the whole ordeal behind me. But three years later, I received a letter with no return address. Inside was a single photograph—a picture of me, standing in front of the hotel, with a dark, tall figure looming behind me. On the back, written in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘You left without completing the ritual. The hollow man requires a new form.’ Since then, I’ve felt eyes on me. Sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I catch a glimpse of a tall, dark shape for just a second. And at night, I hear the scratching. It’s always there, always waiting. I’m not a believer in the paranormal, but I know one thing for certain: you don’t leave Cinder Ridge. Not completely. It leaves with you.