The Hollow Tap

I’m Mira, and I’m fourteen. The things I’ve seen in the last seven years would make most adults call me a liar, but I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. It started when I was seven, in the summer, in that old house on Bramble Lane—the one with the peeling paint and the crooked porch that everyone said was haunted.

It was late July, and the heat was unbearable. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, my throat so dry it felt like sandpaper. One night, I crept downstairs to the kitchen, my bare feet sticking to the linoleum. The moon cast a pale light through the window, and the faucet dripped like a slow heartbeat. I filled a glass with cold water and drank greedily.

Halfway through, the air changed. It wasn’t a sound or a sight, but a weight—a presence that pressed against my back. I was frozen, too scared to turn around, but at the same time, a strange calm washed over me. It felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket after a nightmare. I slowly turned, but there was nothing. Just the empty kitchen and the dripping tap. I shrugged it off, refilled my glass, and went back to bed.

Weeks passed. The presence became a regular visitor. I’d feel it in the hallway, in my room, sometimes even in the backyard. It never scared me—not really. It felt more like a guardian, a silent watcher that kept me safe. But then, the dreams started.

I dreamed of a man with hollow eyes, standing at the foot of my bed. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, and his hands reached for me, clawing at my sheets. I’d wake up screaming, my heart pounding, but always alone. My mother would rush in, her face tight with worry, and I’d lie about having headaches just to make her leave. I didn’t want her to know about the dreams, or the presence, because I was afraid that if I spoke of it, it would stop coming.

A year went by. The dreams grew worse. The man with hollow eyes would chase me through endless corridors, his footsteps echoing like thunder. I’d run until my legs gave out, and just as he was about to touch me, the presence would appear—a warm, protective shield that pushed him away. I never saw the presence, but I felt its love. It was the only thing that got me through those nights.

Then, one autumn evening, my mother didn’t come home. She’d gone to the store and never returned. The police searched for days, but they found nothing—not her car, not a trace. I was sent to live with my aunt in a small town across the state. I left the old house behind, and for a while, I thought the presence had stayed there too.

But it hadn’t. It followed me. I’d feel it in my new room, a familiar warmth in the cold hours before dawn. The dream man came less often, but when he did, he seemed weaker, as if the presence was draining him. I began to understand that the presence was feeding on something—on my fear, or my hope, or maybe just my attention. And that scared me more than the hollow-eyed man.

On my thirteenth birthday, I found an old journal in the attic, hidden behind a loose board. It belonged to a girl named Elara, who had lived in the house before us. The last entry was dated July 1998. She wrote about a presence too, about dreams of a man with hollow eyes, about feeling watched. And then, in shaky handwriting: ‘I know what it wants now. It wants me to see. It wants me to remember. But I won’t. I’ll burn it all.’

The journal ended there. I searched for more, but the rest was just blank pages. That night, I had the dream again, but different. The man with hollow eyes was crying, and he spoke for the first time. ‘Help me,’ he whispered. ‘I’m trapped.’ And the presence that had been with me for so long—it wasn’t warm anymore. It was cold, and it whispered back, ‘No. You’re mine.’

I woke up gasping, and I realized that the presence wasn’t a guardian. It was the prison. It had been feeding on the fear of girls for decades, keeping their souls trapped in that house, in my dreams. And I was the next one. The only way to break free was to face it, to see it for what it really was.

Now, I’m fourteen, and I still live with my aunt. But I’ve learned to see through the presence. It shows itself as a shadow in the corner of my eye, a whisper in the static of my old radio. And I know that if I ever let it consume me, I’ll become like the hollow-eyed man—a prisoner of the dark. So I write this journal, not for anyone else, but for me. To remind myself that the presence is a lie, and the only way to survive is to never forget that the coldness inside me is not my own. It’s the echo of all the girls who came before me, and I will be the one to end it.

I’ve started leaving small offerings—a glass of water, a piece of bread—on the windowsill at night. Not out of fear, but out of defiance. The presence may want to break me, but I’m learning its patterns. I will not burn the journal. I will not forget. And one day, I’ll find a way to open the cage and let them all out, even if it means I have to stay behind. The tap in the old house still drips, but I’ve stopped listening. I have my own voice now, and it’s louder than any phantom’s plea.