The Hollow Man of Route 23

My father, Harold, has always been a man of the earth, a farmer turned mechanic, with calloused hands and a skepticism that bordered on stubbornness. He never believed in the supernatural, not even after my own encounter with those fading footprints in my grandmother’s attic. So when he called me last Tuesday, his voice low and shaky, I knew something had truly rattled him. He said, ‘You remember that old stretch of Route 23, past the Burnside Mill?’ I did, a lonely two-lane road cutting through abandoned farmland and overgrown fields, where the only light comes from the moon and the occasional flicker of a distant porch lamp.

He told me he’d been driving home from a late job, a tractor repair for old man Greeley. It was near midnight, and a thick fog had rolled in from the river, reducing visibility to a few feet. He was creeping along, the radio humming static, when he saw something in the middle of the road. At first, he thought it was a deer, but as he slowed, the shape elongated, rose up, and stood on two legs. It was tall, maybe seven feet, with skin that looked slick and grey like river mud, and it had no face—just a smooth, featureless expanse where eyes and mouth should have been. But what struck him most were its arms. They hung down past its knees, and at the ends, instead of hands, were long, thin fingers that twitched like antennae.

Harold slammed the brakes, his truck skidding to a halt about twenty feet from the creature. It didn’t move, but it seemed to lean toward the truck, and he felt a deep, resonant hum in his chest, like the bass from a subwoofer. The radio died, and the dashboard lights flickered. Then, the creature raised one of those hand-things, and from the tips of its fingers, a faint, silvery light pulsed, casting strange, twisting shadows on the road. Harold said it felt like the light was pulling at his thoughts, trying to pry open his mind. He sat there, frozen, for what seemed like minutes, until the hum grew so loud he thought his eardrums would burst. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the creature turned and walked into the fog, and the road was empty.

When he got home, he didn’t wake Mom, just sat at the kitchen table, staring at his hands. He didn’t tell anyone until I called. I asked him if it had wings, if it had red eyes, anything like the Mothman stories, but he shook his head. ‘No. It wasn’t a winged thing. It was something else, something older. It was like it was hunting for something in my head, feeding on the fear.’

I didn’t know what to make of it. I’d heard tales of strange creatures in that area, of lights in the sky and cattle mutilations, but nothing like this. I told him to call the police, to report it, but he scoffed. ‘Who would believe me?’ He said he just wanted to forget it.

But then, last night, my mother called, frantic. Harold hadn’t come home from work, and his phone was going straight to voicemail. I drove over, the drive feeling longer than usual, the fog rolling in as if on cue. When I reached the house, Mom was pacing, wringing her hands. I convinced her to stay, and I took my truck out along his usual route, my heart hammering.

I found his truck on Route 23, just past the mill, idling in the middle of the road, the driver’s door open. The lights were still on, and the radio was playing a soft, almost hypnotic tone. I approached cautiously, calling his name. No answer. The truck was empty, but on the seat was his work glove, placed neatly as if left intentionally. On the dashboard, written in the dust, was a single word: ‘LISTEN.’

I stood there, in the fog, and I listened. At first, there was nothing but the gentle hum of the engine and the distant chirp of crickets. Then, I heard it—a low, resonant hum, coming from the field to my right. It grew louder, pulsing, and I felt that same tug at my thoughts that Harold had described. I turned, and there, at the edge of the field, stood the creature. It was just as he’d said, tall and faceless, with those long arms and twitching fingers. But now, it was not alone. Behind it, in the deeper fog, I could see other shapes, shorter but just as unnerving, with heads that tilted in unison.

The creature raised its hand, and again that silvery light pulsed, and I saw, for a split second, a vision: Harold, standing in a vast, empty warehouse, his eyes vacant, his mouth moving as if trying to speak. Then it was gone. The hum stopped, and the creature turned and walked away, the smaller shapes following, and they dissolved into the mist.

I ran back to my truck, my hands shaking, and drove home. I haven’t told Mom everything. I told her Harold must have had an accident and we’ll find him. But I know the truth. That thing took him, not into the physical world, but into a place where it could feed on his memories, his fears, his very self. And I can’t help but think that my earlier tale of ghostly footprints, of something lingering between worlds, had somehow summoned it, or at least made it aware of our family.

The police have no leads. The search has turned up nothing. But I’ve spent the last two nights on that stretch of road, parked with my engine off, listening. The hum returns, always from a different direction, always just out of sight. And I’ve come to a chilling realization: that creature is not just a monster; it’s a shepherd, gathering the lost and the broken, those who have glimpsed the veil between worlds. And I’ve seen too much. Last night, as I sat in the dark, I felt a presence behind me, and a hand, cold and long-fingered, rested on my shoulder. A voice, not from outside but from inside my own skull, whispered, ‘You hear us.’ I don’t know how much longer I can resist.

This is my final entry. I’m driving out to the mill now, not to search, but to surrender. Mom thinks I’m going to the store. But I know what I have to do. If you ever find this, whoever you are, stay away from Route 23. Don’t listen to the hum. And if you ever see a man with no face, and he reaches out to you, don’t let him touch you. Because he’ll take you to a place where you’ll be forever two things at once: a memory and a mystery, trapped in that hollow space between your own thoughts, with nothing left but the echo of his silent roar.