The Hollow of the Falling Fig

It was the December of 2012, and my family had made the annual pilgrimage to the cool hills of Haputale, a quiet town in the central highlands of Sri Lanka, far from the heat of Colombo. My uncle had arranged for us to stay in an old colonial-era rest house that his company, a tea exporter, maintained for visiting executives. The rest house was perched on a ridge overlooking a valley filled with tea bushes that rolled like green waves into the mist. It was called ‘The Falling Fig’, named after a massive, ancient fig tree that stood near the entrance, its roots crawling over the ground like gnarled fingers.

We had visited the previous year, and the place had been charming, with creaky wooden floors and fireplaces that smelled of eucalyptus. But this time, something felt different. The air was heavier, and the constant drip of condensation from the roof seemed louder. My younger sister, Meera, my cousin, Lihini, and I chose the largest room at the end of the upstairs corridor. It had three single beds arranged in a U-shape, and a window that looked out onto the fig tree. We unpacked, laughing at how our breath formed tiny clouds in the chill.

On the first night, the adults decided to drive down to the town to stock up on provisions and maybe find a decent meal. They left my aunt, her five-year-old daughter, Amaya, and our grandmother in the room next to ours. Meera, Lihini, and I were sprawled on our beds, watching a horror film on a laptop. The movie was cheap and silly, and we were more interested in the snacks we had smuggled in. Then, at about 8:30 PM, a loud knock echoed from the main door downstairs. It was rhythmic: three heavy thuds, then a pause, then three more. We froze. The adults had keys, so why would they knock? My grandmother called out from the next room, asking if we heard it too. I went to the window and peered down. A figure was standing just beyond the porch light, a tall, thin silhouette with its face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. It wasn’t moving, just standing there, as if waiting.

I called out, ‘Who is it?’ but the figure did not respond. A few moments later, the knocking came again, louder. My grandmother, who was quite brave for her age, decided to go down and see. My aunt tried to stop her, but my grandmother had already shuffled to the stairs. We all huddled at the top of the staircase, peering down as she unlatched the heavy door. The figure didn’t move. My grandmother asked, ‘Can I help you?’ But when the figure slowly raised its head, we saw that it had no face. Where its features should have been, there was only a smooth, pale void, like a freshly peeled egg. My grandmother let out a sharp gasp and slammed the door shut, but not before the thing let out a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

My grandmother came back up, her face ashen. She said, ‘It’s the hollow man. I’ve heard stories. He comes to those who are not supposed to be here. This rest house is built on an old burial ground, you know.’ We didn’t know what to believe, but the uneasy feeling in the pit of our stomachs wouldn’t go away. We locked our doors and tried to sleep, but the knocking continued, now from inside the walls. It followed us as we moved from room to room, as if the entire building was a drum.

Later that night, Lihini woke me up. She was trembling. She said she had seen a shadowy figure standing at the foot of our bed, but when she screamed, it vanished. Meera was still asleep, but I could hear a faint scratching sound coming from underneath our floorboards. I wanted to wake the adults, but they hadn’t returned yet. We called them, but their phones were unreachable.

The scratching grew louder, and then a voice joined it, a low, mournful hum that seemed to be singing a lullaby. It was coming from the direction of my grandmother’s room. I crept out to check, and through the keyhole, I saw my grandmother sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking back and forth, humming the same tune. My aunt was asleep next to her, and little Amaya was still, but her eyes were open, fixed on the window. When I knocked, my grandmother snapped her head toward the door, and her eyes were completely black.

Terrified, I ran back to our room and locked the door. Then, from the other side, a voice that sounded exactly like my mother’s said, ‘Let me in, sweetheart. It’s cold out here.’ But my mother was with the other adults, who had been gone for over two hours. The voice persisted, becoming more frantic, then turned into a guttural snarl. The door shuddered as if something heavy was leaning against it.

The next morning, we found the main door wide open. The adults had returned at midnight, claiming that the road was blocked by a fallen tree and they had to wait. They said they had tried to call, but there was no signal. My grandmother seemed fine, and Amaya was playing as if nothing had happened. We were all shaken, but we tried to convince ourselves it was a shared nightmare. However, when we packed to leave, I noticed that the massive fig tree had a single branch that was shaped like a human arm, pointing toward our room. And on the ground beneath it, there was a pile of what looked like old bones, arranged in a circle. We didn’t stay to investigate. As we drove away, I looked back at the rest house, and I saw a figure standing at the upstairs window, its face still smooth and blank. I never told the others, but I knew then that we had been marked. Every year, when December comes, I hear that three-knock rhythm on my bedroom door, no matter where I am. And I know that the hollow man will keep coming, until he finds me.