The Hollow Peek

I was fourteen the summer my family moved to a crooked Victorian in the hills of Asheville, North Carolina. My father, a history professor, had taken a post at the university, and my mother had fallen in love with the house’s peeling wallpaper and moldering charm. I shared a room with my little sister, Mira, who was six and afraid of the dark. My brother, Samuel, had his own room at the end of the hall, and my parents occupied the master bedroom near the stairs. The hallway was a long, dim tunnel lined with faded portraits and a worn runner that muffled footsteps. Every night, my mother would kiss my forehead, pull the door half-closed, and say, ‘Keep an eye on Mira.’ But I never liked the door fully shut. It made the room feel like a coffin.

Mira would fall asleep quickly, clutching her stuffed rabbit, but I would lie awake, listening to the house groan and settle. I had a small portable TV with a built-in antenna, and I would watch late-night reruns of old sitcoms, the blue glow flickering against the floral wallpaper. The rest of the house would fall into a heavy silence, punctuated by the occasional creak of a stair or the whisper of a draft. I never felt truly alone, though. There was a presence in that hallway, a lingering chill that seemed to seep through the crack in the door.

One muggy August night, I was watching a marathon of ‘I Love Lucy,’ the laughter echoing hollowly in my ears. Mira was breathing softly beside me. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shape in the doorway. A tall, gaunt figure, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, peering into our room. My heart stuttered, but when I snapped my head to look, the doorway was empty. I told myself it was a shadow from the tree outside, a trick of the light. I turned back to the TV, but my eyes kept darting to the door. And then I saw it again—a pale face, almost featureless, peeking around the jamb. As soon as our eyes met, it jerked back, like a child playing hide-and-seek. I should have screamed, but I was frozen, a strange calm settling over me. This has happened every night for a week, and it didn’t feel threatening, just curious. So I forced a smile and whispered, ‘I see you.’ It didn’t come back that night.

The next evening, I decided to test my nerve. I left the door open a crack, as I always did, and waited. Sure enough, around 2 a.m., I saw the figure’s silhouette against the dim hall light. This time, I didn’t look directly. I kept my gaze fixed on the TV, but I whispered, ‘Why do you peek like that?’ The figure paused, then tilted its head. It took a step into the room, and I got a clearer view: a man in a tattered suit, his face pale as milk, with dark hollows where his eyes should have been. He stopped at the foot of the bed, and I felt a sudden cold, like a block of ice pressed to my chest. Mira stirred, and the figure vanished. My breath fogged in the air, and I realized I hadn’t been breathing.

It became a ritual. Every night, I would wait for the Hollow Man, as I called him. He would peek, and I would acknowledge him, and he would retreat. But I never spoke of it to my family. Mira began to complain of bad dreams, of a man watching her. My mother dismissed it as night terrors. Samuel, who was seventeen and a skeptic, laughed when I hinted at something in the hallway. ‘It’s just the house settling,’ he said. But I knew. The hollow man was not a spirit of the dead; he was a tear in the fabric of the house, a memory of something that never happened.

One night, Samuel fell ill with a fever, and my parents spent the night in his room. I was alone with Mira, and she woke up screaming, ‘He’s in the closet!’ I rushed to comfort her, but when I turned on the light, the closet door was slightly open. I saw a dark shape retreat into the shadows. That’s when I realized he wasn’t just peeking at me; he was watching us, all of us. The next day, I found an old photograph in the attic, hidden under a loose floorboard. It was a family portrait from the 1920s, but the father’s face had been scratched out, leaving only an empty oval. On the back, in faint pencil, it read: ‘The Hollow Peek.’

I started to feel his presence even during the day. I would turn a corner and catch a glimpse of his tattered sleeve. I would feel a cold breath on my neck when I brushed my teeth. I knew I had to do something. That night, armed with a flashlight and a tape recorder, I crept into the hallway. The portraits on the wall seemed to watch me, their painted eyes following my every move. I called out, ‘I know you’re here. Why do you hide?’ There was a long silence, then a low, hollow voice, like wind through a dry cornfield, said, ‘Because I am looking for my face.’

I shone the flashlight toward the sound, and there he stood, full in the light. He was more human than I had imagined, but his face was a void, a perfect absence. He raised a hand, and I saw it was transparent, like smoke. ‘I have been here since the fire,’ he said. ‘I lost my face in the flames, and now I cannot see myself. I only peek to remember what it was like to look.’ I stared at him, my fear melting into pity. I lifted my hand, and he mimicked me. ‘I don’t know how to help you,’ I whispered. He tilted his head, and I thought I saw a twitch of a smile. ‘You already have,’ he said. ‘You looked at me. No one has looked at me for seventy years.’

He faded, and I felt a warmth spread through the hallway. The house seemed to sigh, and the chill lifted. In the morning, I found the scratch marks on the portrait had healed, and the father’s face was restored, though it looked like a stranger. I never saw him again, but sometimes, late at night, I catch a flicker in the corner of my eye, and I know he’s still there, just peeking to remember.