The Hollow Man of the Red Barn

When I was twelve, my family moved to a crumbling farmhouse in the heart of Iowa’s corn country. The previous owners had left in a hurry, abandoning furniture, a rusted tractor, and a red barn that leaned like a tired giant. My younger brother, Sam, and I shared a room in the attic, where the sloped ceiling made the space feel like a nest. We had bunk beds—I took the top, as always. The first week was uneventful, save for the wind that moaned through the cracks and the occasional creak of settling wood. But Sam started waking up with scratches on his arms, and he complained of a man watching him from the barn’s loft window.

I didn’t believe him at first. I was used to seeing things—shadows that moved without cause, flickers of light in the corner of my eye—but they never felt menacing. They were like echoes of people, going about their business. But Sam’s descriptions were specific: a tall figure in a tattered straw hat, with eyes like black holes, and a mouth stretched too wide. He said the man pointed at him, beckoning. One night, Sam refused to sleep in the lower bunk. I traded places with him to calm him down, and I fell asleep staring at the wooden slats above me.

I awoke to a pressure on my chest, like a cat sitting there, but heavier. I opened my eyes to find a figure hunched over me, its face inches from mine. It wore overalls and a dusty shirt, and its skin was the color of old parchment. Its breath smelled of withered corn and rot. It smiled, a slow, deliberate stretch of lips, revealing yellowed teeth. Then it spoke, not with a voice, but with a rasp that vibrated in my skull: ‘You can see me, boy. Good. You’ll do.’

I tried to scream, but my throat was locked. The thing reached out a clawed hand and pressed a finger to my forehead. A cold, searing sensation spread through me, and I felt something inside me—a warmth, a light—being drawn out. It laughed, a dry, rattling sound, then dissolved into the darkness. I sat up, gasping, and found Sam wide-eyed in the top bunk. He said, ‘He touched you. Now you’re marked.’

The next morning, I found a symbol carved into the barn door: a circle with a hollow center, and inside, a single eye. I began to see it everywhere—in the dust on the windowsill, in the pattern of cracks on the ceiling, even in the way the corn stalks leaned in the field. My parents dismissed it, but I knew something was wrong. I felt colder, and sometimes my reflection lagged a second behind my movements. Sam refused to go near the barn, and I didn’t blame him. That’s where the thing lived, I guessed, feeding on the fear of anyone who entered.

One night, a storm rolled in, and the power went out. I was alone in the room, Sam having gone to sleep in our parents’ bed. I lay awake, listening to the rain hammering the roof. Then I heard a scraping sound from the barn, like a door dragging against the ground. I looked out the window and saw a light flickering in the loft. It was him, holding a lantern, staring up at me. He raised his arm and beckoned. I knew I had to go.

I crept downstairs, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. I pulled on my boots and a coat, and stepped out into the storm. The mud sucked at my feet, and the wind tried to push me back. The barn loomed ahead, its red paint peeling in long strips, the door open like a hungry mouth. I stepped inside. The smell of hay and dust filled my nose, but underneath was the stench of something long dead. The lantern light from the loft cast dancing shadows. I climbed the ladder, my heart thudding.

At the top, I found a circle of old wooden crates. In the center, a small, rotting doll lay on a bed of straw. The doll had a porcelain face, cracked and missing an eye. The figure stood behind me, now wearing a mask of straw and burlap. He said, ‘This is what I was, before the hollow took me. You can stop it. You can free me.’ He handed me a rusted knife. ‘Cut the eye from the doll. Then I can move on.’

I took the knife, my hand shaking. But something in his voice felt wrong. Too eager, too smooth. I looked closer at the doll and saw that its hands were stained with what looked like dried blood. I remembered a story from the neighbors: a farmer who went mad and killed his family in that barn, then hanged himself from the rafters. His ghost was said to still be there, but not as a victim—as a predator, luring others to take his place. I realized that if I cut the eye, I would become the hollow man, trapped in the barn forever.

Instead, I threw the knife against the wall and grabbed the doll. I ran, the figure howling behind me, the barn shaking as if it would collapse. I burst out into the rain, the doll clutched to my chest. The figure’s screams faded, replaced by the sound of the storm. When I reached the house, I buried the doll in the garden, deep beneath the soil.

The next morning, the barn was gone—just a pile of wet lumber, as if it had never stood. But sometimes, at night, I hear a faint rustling in the corn, and the silhouette of a man in a straw hat appears at the edge of the field, watching. He never comes closer, but I know he waits for the day I forget to wear the protective charm I carved from the doll’s porcelain cheek. I keep it under my pillow, and I never look out the window at twilight. And if you ever drive past a red barn in Iowa, keep your eyes on the road, and don’t let him see you looking.

That’s the story. The doll is still buried there, I think. And if you ever see a hollow-eyed man in a straw hat, don’t listen to his words. He’s just waiting for someone to take his place.