The Hollow Watchman

I’ve been meaning to write this down for years, but it wasn’t until I found my grandmother’s old diary that I finally understood what I saw. This is my story, and it starts in the autumn of my thirteenth year, when we moved to my grandfather’s farmhouse in the countryside of eastern Slovenia, not far from the Mura River. The house was old, with thick stone walls and a slate roof that sagged in the middle. There was a separate summer kitchen across the cobblestone yard, connected to the main house by a narrow path lined with wild roses. I always felt uneasy there, like something was waiting just beyond the treeline. But my mother said it was just my imagination, that the house was full of character. She didn’t know that I had inherited her gift—the ability to see what others couldn’t.

It happened on a Tuesday, late October. I was fourteen. The leaves had turned brown and the air smelled of woodsmoke. I had stayed in the summer kitchen after school, sketching in my notebook while listening to the crackling radio. The kitchen was my sanctuary, with its big black stove and a wooden table scarred by generations of knives. My cat, a grey tabby named Mica, was curled up on the windowsill, her tail twitching in her sleep. As the clock on the wall ticked past nine, I decided to go inside to watch TV before bed. I scooped up Mica, who protested with a soft mew, and pushed open the heavy oak door.

That’s when I felt it. A presence, massive and cold, standing to my right, just at the edge of my vision. It was like someone had poured ice water down my spine. My breath hitched, and my hand tightened on the door frame. Mica let out a low, guttural growl, her fur standing on end. I turned my head slowly, but there was nothing there—just the empty yard, the bare branches of the old walnut tree, and the shadowy shape of the well in the corner. Yet I knew, with a certainty that made my heart pound, that something was watching me. It was tall, taller than any man, and it had no face. Just a blank, smooth oval where a face should be, and two hollows where eyes might have been, filled with a darkness that seemed to drink in the pale moonlight.

I didn’t run. I couldn’t. My legs were frozen. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the feeling lessened. The creature—if it was a creature—stepped back into the shadows, and I felt its attention shift away. I let out a shaky breath, clutched Mica close, and ran across the yard without looking back. I didn’t tell my mother that night, but she must have seen the terror in my eyes. She asked if I had seen ‘the watcher.’ When I nodded, she said, ‘It’s been around for as long as I can remember. My grandmother used to say it was a guardian, the spirit of the house. It only shows itself to those it considers family.’ I wanted to believe her, but something felt wrong. The watcher didn’t feel protective; it felt hungry.

Over the next few weeks, I began to notice things. The watcher would appear at odd moments—sometimes in the reflection of the kitchen window, sometimes as a shadow at the edge of the yard. It never moved, but it was always there, always watching. My cat refused to go near the summer kitchen after dusk. The animals in the barn would low and stamp their hooves when I passed. And then, one night, I woke to find my bedroom door ajar, and the hallway was filled with a thick, oily darkness. I could hear a sound like dry leaves rustling, but there was no wind. I pulled the covers over my head and whispered a prayer, and eventually the sound faded.

My mother, who had endured similar things in her youth, tried to ease my fears. She told me stories of her own encounters—of seeing the watcher as a child, of it standing at the foot of her bed. She said that it had never harmed anyone, but that it had a purpose. ‘It’s a guardian,’ she insisted, ‘of this land, of our family. You must never show it fear, or it will feed on you.’ I didn’t know what she meant by ‘feed,’ but the word stuck in my mind like a burr.

One evening, in early November, I decided to face it. I armed myself with a flashlight and my grandmother’s old rosary, and I went to the summer kitchen at midnight. The door creaked open, and the air inside was cold, colder than it should have been. The radio, which I had turned off that afternoon, was hissing with static. And there, in the corner by the stove, stood the watcher. In the beam of my flashlight, I saw it fully for the first time. It was tall and thin, like a scarecrow made of shadow. Its head was featureless, but its body had long, spindly arms that hung past its knees, ending in claws that glinted like black glass. Small, dark holes dotted its chest, and when it turned its head slightly, I saw that the hollows of its eyes were not empty—they were filled with tiny, pinprick lights, like distant stars.

It did not move, but I felt it watching me, probing my mind. I thought of my mother, of the stories, of all the nights I had felt its presence. And then, for reasons I cannot fully explain, I spoke to it. ‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice shaking. The watcher tilted its head, and a voice that was not a voice but a feeling answered me. It was like the vibration of a struck bell, resonating in my chest. ‘I watch,’ it seemed to say. ‘I have always watched. The hollow ones fear the light, but they also fear the dark. I keep them at bay.’ I understood then, in a way that made my blood run cold—the watcher was not a guardian of this house, but a sentinel against something worse.

I never told my mother what I learned. I kept it to myself, a burden I still carry. The watcher still appears to me, but I no longer feel fear. Sometimes, when I sit alone at night, I feel a cold presence beside me, and I know it is there, watching the darkness for the hollow ones. And in the quiet, I sometimes hear that bell-like vibration, and I wonder if it is guarding me, or if I am part of its watch. I am twenty now, and I still see it every autumn, when the leaves turn brown and the air smells of woodsmoke. It stands by the old walnut tree, and it nods to me—a slow, deliberate tilt of its featureless head. And I nod back, because we are both keepers of a vigil that will never end.