The Laughing Hollow

Ever since I was twelve, I could slip out of my body and wander the night like a ghost. I’d float over the rooftops of my small Nebraska town, feeling the cool wind through my ethereal fingers. Over the years, I met all sorts of things in that half-world: flickering will-o’-the-wisps that danced on the edges of forgotten fields, a kindly old woman who once warned me of a sinkhole that would swallow my car decades later (she was right). Most were harmless, some were malevolent, but none of them ever paid me much mind. That all changed last month.

I now live alone in a converted attic above a used bookstore in a city that never sleeps. My studio is a cocoon of brick and timber, filled with the scent of old paper and rain. I’ve never felt anything sinister there; it was my sanctuary. But one night, I jolted from a dream of a vast, empty plain, and found myself paralyzed on my narrow bed. A darkness pressed against me, heavy and suffocating, but it wasn’t just on me. It was in me. I felt it as a cold, invasive weight trying to push through my belly, like a creature trying to burrow into a den.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out. My heart hammered. I focused every ounce of my will and finally forced a ragged yell: ‘HELL NO!’ The word erupted from my throat, raw and defiant.

To my astonishment, the pressure vanished. The darkness recoiled to the foot of my bed, condensing into a silhouetted shape against the faint streetlight. And then it laughed. Not a cackle, not a growl, but a deep, warm chuckle, like an old man enjoying a good joke. The sound was so unexpected that all my fear momentarily dissolved into confusion.

The entity tilted its head—if it had one. I could see nothing but an absence of light, a hole in the world. But I felt its amusement radiating like heat from a hearth. It spoke, not with words, but with vibrations that seemed to resonate in my bones: ‘You think that’s a refusal? You’ve been so open for so long, I thought you’d welcome me. But no matter. There are other doors.’

Before I could ask what it meant, it faded, dissolving like smoke in a breeze. I lay there, my body drenched in sweat, the words echoing in my mind. ‘Other doors.’ I had no idea what that meant, but the next night, I found out.

The next night, I didn’t dream. I was simply standing in a field of tall grass that shimmered silver under a moonless sky. The air was still, and I felt a presence behind me. I turned slowly, and there it was again: the hollow shape, but now it was larger, more defined, with long limbs and a head that seemed to sway like a cobra. ‘You come here often,’ it said, its voice now a low hum. ‘I’ve watched you for years. You’re bright. Many of us would like to taste that brightness.’ It gestured with a limb, and I saw other shapes in the distance—some faint, some more solid, all turned toward me.

I backed away, but the ground was uneven. I stumbled, and the hollow lunged. I felt it press against my chest, and this time, I was ready. I screamed ‘NO!’ with all my might, and the word carried a force I hadn’t known I possessed. The hollow recoiled, hissing, and then it laughed again—that same amused chuckle. ‘You’re stubborn. Good. Stubbornness makes the marrow sweeter.’ It vanished, and I woke with a gasp on my attic floor.

I’d fallen out of bed, tangled in my sheets. That was when I understood. This wasn’t about my body anymore. The hollow had been trying to enter me not as a possession, but as a merging. It wanted to share my ability to travel beyond the flesh, to use my ‘door’ as its own. And now it had a taste.

The following weeks were a nightmare. Every night, I’d slip into a lucid dream or an out-of-body state, and there the hollow would be, waiting. It would try different approaches: offering me visions of power, whispering promises of freedom from my lonely life, even posing as a friendly guide. But I knew its true intent. I’d wake each morning exhausted, my stomach aching where it had tried to burrow.

One night, I’d had enough. I didn’t try to wake. Instead, I faced it in a vast cathedral of my own making—a memory from a childhood trip. The hollow stood before the altar, a void against the stained glass. ‘Why me?’ I asked.

It laughed, a sound that echoed through the hall. ‘Because you’re a cut. A wound in the fabric. Others are sealed, but you’re open. You’ve been leaving your body for years, thinking it was freedom. But each time, you crack the door a little wider. I’m just the one who noticed.’

I felt a chill. All those years of astral wandering, and I’d never considered the consequences. ‘What do you want? To become me?’

‘No, no,’ it said, its tone almost playful. ‘I want to ride you. To feel the sun on a body that breathes, to taste food, to laugh with friends. I’ve been hollow for eons. I just want to be full.’

Something in its voice shifted from amusement to longing. And in that moment, I saw it not as a monster, but as a starving creature. But I also knew I couldn’t let it in. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I felt genuine pity. ‘But this is my body. My life.’

I concentrated, and the cathedral dissolved. I was back in my attic, my heart pounding, but for the first time, I felt a flicker of control. I had a boundary. And I would keep it.

Since that night, the hollow has visited less. Sometimes, I’ll feel a faint pressure on my belly, like a hand resting there. But I’ve learned to push back without waking. I’ve also learned to guard my exits. I no longer wander as freely; I keep my journeys short, and I always return to my body with a clear command.

Last night, I felt it again. It didn’t press; it just hovered at the edge of my perception, watching. And then, softly, it said, ‘You’re smarter than most. I’ll find another way.’

It hasn’t come back since. But sometimes, in the quiet of my attic, I’ll catch a whiff of amusement in the air—a ghostly chuckle that reminds me that even my sanctuary isn’t fully sealed. And I wonder if other doors have opened, not for the hollow, but for me. The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating.

I’ve come to understand that my gift has a price. The boundaries between worlds are thinner for those who walk them. And I’ve learned that some voids can laugh, and some laughs can leave cracks. I’m careful now, always reinforcing my boundaries. But I can’t help but feel that the hollow’s laughter was the first true test of my will. And I won, but the battle is far from over. The hollow will find another way, or perhaps another like me. And I wait, ready for the next knock on my door.