The Hollow Night

We had left our daughters, Mia and Chloe, and our son, Ethan, with my brother-in-law, Paul, and his wife, Sandra, for the night. We were off to a late party and thought it best for them to sleep over and be picked up in the morning. However, that night changed everything.

Sandra later told us that the kids were playing in the attic playroom when suddenly all three of ours came down, pale and trembling. They insisted on going home, saying they were scared. Sandra, puzzled, asked why, but they couldn’t articulate it, just saying they felt ‘wrong’ in the house. She managed to get Mia to sleep with their daughter, Lily, but Chloe and Ethan refused to stay in their designated bedroom. They said the closet door was open and something was watching from inside. Sandra, trying to be accommodating, set up sleeping bags in the living room, thinking they’d be comforted by the presence of the family.

That night, Sandra heard a strange sound from the living room—a low, rhythmic humming, like a lullaby sung in a foreign tongue. She peeked in and saw Chloe and Ethan sitting up, their eyes wide open, staring at the far corner of the room. When she followed their gaze, there was nothing there. But as she approached, the humming stopped abruptly, and the children turned to her in unison, their faces blank, and said, ‘We are not your children.’ Sandra froze, a chill running down her spine.

Then, as quickly as it happened, Chloe and Ethan blinked, looking confused, and asked what was wrong. Sandra tried to brush it off, but she felt a presence in the house, heavy and oppressive. She went to check on Mia and Lily in the bedroom. They were asleep, but Mia’s face was taut with fear, and she was muttering in her sleep, ‘Don’t let it in.’ Sandra shook her awake, and Mia screamed, pointing at the window. Sandra saw a faint, ghostly hand pressed against the glass from outside, but when she looked closer, it was gone.

Sandra called us immediately, but our phones had no signal at the party. She decided to drive the kids to a nearby motel, hoping to escape whatever was in the house. But as she was bundling them into the car, she noticed the house’s shadow stretching impossibly long across the lawn, even though the moon was full. And in the shadow, she could make out the shape of a thin, tall figure with arms outstretched, reaching for the car. She slammed the doors and drove off, but for the rest of the night, that figure seemed to follow them at a distance, always keeping pace.

At the motel, they all huddled in one room, the lights on. The children were restless, and Sandra kept hearing a faint scratching at the door. She finally summoned the courage to open it, expecting the worst, but there was nothing. When she closed it, she saw the shadow under the door shift, and a whisper came through the gap: ‘You left the door open.’ That was when she noticed all the children were standing behind her, their faces pale, and they said in perfect unison, ‘It followed us here.’

We finally arrived home at 3 a.m., frantic after receiving Sandra’s frantic messages. We drove straight to the motel, and the moment we walked in, the children ran to us, sobbing. They wouldn’t stay in that room a minute longer. We took them home, but we never spoke of that night again.

Later, we learned from neighbors that the previous owner of Sandra and Paul’s house had been a recluse who had died in the attic, and that his last words to a home nurse were, ‘I made a deal so I never have to leave.’ Since that night, the children have never been the same. They speak in whispers about a ‘man with no face’ who stands in corners, and they refuse to sleep in any room unless the closet doors are locked and the windows are covered. We moved away eventually, but I still wake some nights to a humming outside my window, and I know it’s not a lullaby.