The Hollowing

The first night we spent at Tarnwell Cottage, I chalked it up to the country silence. The creaks and groans of a building older than my great-grandmother, the wind combing through the thatch, the distant baaing of sheep—all of it felt like a living thing, breathing around us. But by the third night, I understood that silence wasn’t the only thing hollowing out that place.

I’m a light sleeper, always have been. The bedroom I shared with my cousin Mia was at the end of a crooked hallway, its walls crying with old damp. On that third night, I woke to a pressure in the room, a sense that I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t afraid at first. I thought it was the moon playing tricks, but the moon was hidden behind thick cloud. When I turned to the foot of my bed, I saw her. A girl, maybe nine or ten, standing perfectly still, her hair hanging in front of her face like wet rope. She wore a thin nightdress that clung to her frame, and I could see the outline of her ribs through the fabric. She didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at me from that dark curtain of hair.

I remember thinking: this is a dream. I’m dreaming. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the duvet over my head, my heart hammering against my ribs. I counted to a hundred, then two hundred. When I finally peeked out, she was gone. The room was empty, and Mia was still snoring softly, her arm draped over the edge of her bed. I chalked it up to my imagination, a trick of the light, a lingering nightmare. I forced myself to sleep, and in the morning, I forgot.

The next night, I woke to shouting. It was Uncle Mark, his voice cracking with panic: ‘She’s bleeding! Call an ambulance! Get her to the hospital!’ I sat bolt upright, already halfway out of bed, ready to run to my cousin Lily’s room. Then I turned to Mia’s bed. She was there, fast asleep, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. I blinked, confused. The shouting continued, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. I crept to the doorway and looked down the hall. The rest of the family was gathered outside Lily’s room, their faces pale in the dim light of a phone screen. Lily was on the floor, her head split open, blood pooling on the worn rug. But Mia was still in bed. And I was still in bed. Was I dreaming? The shouting grew louder, and then it stopped. Dead silent. The hallway was empty again. I stood there, my feet cold on the wooden floor, and I could hear my own breathing.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat in the window seat, watching the moon finally break through the clouds, casting a silver path across the fields. I told myself it was a shared hallucination, some kind of mass hysteria. But when morning came, Lily had a bandage on her head, and my aunt looked exhausted. She said Lily had tripped on the stairs in the dark. Mia said nothing, and neither did I.

The next night, I decided to stay awake. I wanted to catch whatever was haunting us. I drank strong tea, read a book, anything to keep my eyes open. But somewhere past two in the morning, my eyelids grew heavy. I dreamed of the girl in the nightdress, her hair clearing from her face just enough for me to see that she had no eyes—just smooth, white skin where her eyes should have been. She was standing at the foot of my bed, her head tilted, and she was whispering something. I couldn’t hear the words, but they made my teeth ache.

I woke with a gasp. The room was dark, and Mia was gone. I called her name, but there was no answer. I stumbled into the hallway, my heart pounding. Every door was closed except the one to the attic. I’d never seen it open before; we’d been told it was locked. But now it stood ajar, a black rectangle in the gloom. I climbed the narrow stairs, my hands shaking. The attic was cold, and it smelled of dust and mothballs. In the center, under a single bare bulb swinging gently, stood Mia. She was facing the corner, her back to me, her shoulders shaking. ‘Mia?’ I said. She didn’t turn. When I touched her shoulder, she spun around, but her face wasn’t hers anymore. It was the girl’s face, eyeless, and yet it seemed to see me. ‘You’re not real,’ I whispered. ‘I’m dreaming.’

The girl’s mouth stretched into a smile that was too wide. ‘You’re the dream,’ she said, her voice like static. Then she lunged.

I woke in my bed, soaked in sweat, the morning light filtering through the curtains. Mia was already dressed, sitting on her bed, watching me with a strange, flat expression. ‘You were screaming,’ she said. I couldn’t tell her why. I couldn’t tell her that I’d seen her face replaced, that the girl had spoken, that I still felt the cold of that attic on my skin. We left Tarnwell Cottage two days later, and I never told anyone the whole truth. But sometimes, in the quiet hours, I still see her standing at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to look. And I know that she’s not done with me yet.