The Hollow Visitor

My name is Ellen Marsh, and I’ve never been one for the unexplained. I worked as a paramedic for over a decade, saw death in its ugliest forms, and always found a rational explanation for the chaos. But then my daughter, Lily, was born, and the rational world began to crack.

It started when she was just over a year old. She’d wake up screaming in the dead of night, her tiny body trembling, and no amount of rocking or shushing would calm her. But the worst part was the way she’d stare over my shoulder, her eyes wide with terror, as if something stood right behind me. I’d turn, expecting to see a shadow or a trick of the light, but there was nothing. My husband, Tom, thought it was just night terrors. I wanted to believe that too.

As Lily grew older, her tantrums turned into stories. One evening, while I was tucking her into bed, she asked, ‘Mommy, why does the boy with no face come to my room at night?’ I froze, my hand on the blanket. ‘What boy, sweetie?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. She described him as a little boy, about her size, but with nothing where his features should be—just smooth, pale skin. He would sit on the floor and play with her toys, and when she tried to talk to him, he never answered. She said he always left before the sun came up.

I told myself it was just a phase, an overactive imagination. But the nights grew worse. Lily would wake up crying, and I’d find her huddled in a corner, pointing at empty space. Tom started sleeping in the guest room because he couldn’t take the constant disruptions. I felt alone, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t explain.

One Saturday, I decided to set up a camera in Lily’s room, hoping to catch whatever was haunting her. That night, I watched the feed from my phone in our bedroom. At 2:17 AM, the camera’s night vision flickered, and a low hum filled the room. I saw Lily stir, her little face contorting in fear. The door to her closet slowly creaked open, though I knew it had a childproof lock. From the darkness, a figure emerged—a small, childlike shape. It moved with an unnatural grace, gliding across the floor, and I saw its face. It was a void, a smooth, blank surface where eyes, nose, and mouth should have been. It stopped at Lily’s bed and reached out a hand. I screamed and rushed to her room, but when I burst in, the closet was shut, and Lily was fast asleep. The recording showed nothing but static for those minutes.

I couldn’t shake that image. I started seeing things in my peripheral vision, a presence just out of sight. I began to feel a cold, crawling sensation, as if something was watching me. The house felt wrong, suffocating. I researched local legends and found an old case about a boy named Daniel who had disappeared from our town in the 1940s. He had a rare condition, a facial deformity, and his parents kept him hidden. One night, he vanished without a trace. The house where they lived was demolished, but the land was now our backyard.

I became obsessed. I dug into the history, found newspaper clippings and old photographs. In one faded picture, I saw a group of children playing, and in the corner, a blurred figure with a blank face. I showed it to Lily, and she pointed at it and said, ‘That’s him, Mommy.’ My blood ran cold.

One night, I woke to find Lily standing by my bedside, her eyes wide. ‘He’s here,’ she whispered. I sat up, and there, in the doorway, was the boy. His head tilted, and I swear I saw a ripple where his mouth should be, as if he was trying to speak. I grabbed Lily and ran, but the house felt endless. Every door led to the same hallway, every window showed the same pitch-black night. I tripped over a rug, and when I looked up, the boy was inches from my face. I could feel a cold breath, a whisper of something ancient and hungry. Then, the lights flickered, and he was gone.

Lily hasn’t had a dream since that night, but I have. I see him in my sleep, his featureless face looming over me, and I hear a faint, hollow sound, like knocking on a wall from the other side. I’ve become a believer, not in the supernatural as a comforting force, but in the idea that some doors should never be opened. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of a smooth, pale patch spreading across my own face, just beginning to erase the features I once knew.