The Hollow Palm

I woke before dawn, my phone glowing on the nightstand like a single eye in the dark. I had to call the district office to see if my teacher was going to bother showing up; the rumors of a strike had been circulating for weeks. The automated voice told me to check the website. I sighed, hung up, and tried again, but the line was busy. Frustrated, I drove the forty-five minutes through the frost-bitten fields of Kellogg County, past the abandoned grain silo and the church with the cracked bell. I parked in the almost-empty lot—a miracle, really—and jogged up the three flights of stairs to my classroom, only to find a piece of paper taped to the door: ‘Class canceled. Check email.’ The ink was smudged, as if someone had written it in a hurry. I crumpled it in my fist and trudged back to my car, the heater struggling to chase the chill from my bones. By the time I got home, I was so tired I didn’t even bother with lunch. I slipped off my jeans and sweater, kept on my tank top and underwear, and crashed onto the bed, my right hand dangling off the edge, just under the pillow, as I always did to ground myself. I fell asleep almost instantly, my dreams a blur of gray hallways and empty desks. I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke to a pressure in my palm. Something was resting in my hand, something cold and dry, like sunbaked clay. Still half-asleep, I curled my fingers around it, exploring its shape. It felt like a hand, but wrong—only three fingers and a thumb, the middle finger missing, and the thumb too long, the joints knobby and crooked. My eyes flew open. The room was dark, but the streetlight outside cast a sickly orange glow through the curtains. I turned my head slowly, my heart hammering, but my hand was empty. I pulled it up, flexed my fingers, and saw nothing. I told myself it was a dream, a hypnagogic hallucination, and I forced myself to go back to sleep. But as I drifted off, I felt it again—a presence under the bed, a faint rasp of breath, and the faint, almost imperceptible sound of something scrabbling on the floorboards. I lay frozen, my hand dangling once more. And then I felt it: a hand sliding into mine, its skin like paper, its grip too strong. I tried to pull away, but it held fast, and a voice, dry as leaves, whispered from beneath the bed: ‘You have been chosen.’ I blacked out. When I came to, it was morning, and my hand was resting on the floor, palm up. But there was a mark on it, a pale circle the size of a coin, as if something had pressed its mouth to my skin. I tried to stand, but my legs were numb, and I fell. It was then that I saw the thing under the bed: a figure, crouched, its head tilted at a wrong angle, its arms stretched toward me, its left hand ending in a stump where the middle finger should have been. It smiled, a gaping hole, and I finally screamed. But no sound came out. I had lost my voice. And for the first time, I realized I was not alone in my home—and I never would be again.