The Man in the Hallway

I was eight, maybe nine, the summer we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of Cinder Creek. My younger sister, Lily, was four, and my brother, Jake, was twelve. The house was huge and drafty, with a long hallway that connected all the bedrooms. At night, my parents insisted on keeping the hall light on, but they turned it off when they went to bed. I always hated that moment when the light clicked off, leaving us in total darkness.

One night, I woke up with a start. The house was silent, but I felt a presence. I lay still, listening, my heart thumping. Then I saw it: a tall, thin figure standing in the doorway of our room, silhouetted against the faint glow from the kitchen window down the hall. I couldn’t see a face, but I knew it was watching us. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed it would leave. When I opened them, it was gone.

I didn’t tell anyone. I thought maybe it was a dream. But the next night, it was there again. This time, it took a step into our room. I felt the cold air rush in, and I heard a soft shuffle. I whispered to Lily, ‘Don’t move.’ She was already awake, her eyes wide. She nodded, and we both pulled the covers over our heads. After what felt like an hour, I peeked out. The figure was gone.

The next morning, I asked Lily if she had seen anything. She nodded, her face pale. ‘He was tall and had a hat,’ she said. ‘And his coat was long, like the one the scarecrow wears.’ That scared me even more, because the scarecrow in the field behind our house was enormous, with a tattered black coat and a wide-brimmed hat. But the man in the hallway didn’t look like a scarecrow; he was solid, and he moved with purpose.

I tried to tell my parents, but they dismissed it as nightmares. ‘You’re just not used to the new house,’ my mother said. ‘Try to sleep with the covers up.’ But I knew better. I started sleeping with a flashlight under my pillow. The next time the man appeared, I was ready. I flicked on the flashlight and shone it directly at him. For a second, I saw his face: pale, gaunt, with hollow eyes that seemed to look right through me. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long, dark coat. He smiled a thin, bloodless smile, and then he vanished.

That’s when Lily started talking to someone in her sleep. She would murmur, ‘Don’t worry, he’s just here to watch us.’ She told me his name was Mr. Holloway, and he lived in the attic. ‘He takes care of the house,’ she said. ‘He’s been here a long time.’ I didn’t want to believe her, but I started hearing soft footsteps in the attic at night.

One night, I decided to follow the sounds. I crept out of my room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. There was a door that led to the cellar, and another to the attic. The attic stairs were narrow and dusty. I climbed them, my flashlight trembling in my hand. At the top, I found a small room filled with old furniture and trunks. In the corner, a rocking chair was moving slowly, as if someone had just stood up. A cold draft made me shiver. I saw a portrait of a man on the wall. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. It was the same man. The nameplate read ‘Elias Holloway, 1889.’

I ran back to my room and hid under the covers. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was following me. The next day, I told my parents I had found the portrait in the attic. They seemed surprised and said they had never seen it before. ‘Maybe the previous owners left it,’ my father said. He took it down and put it in the barn. But that night, the man was back in our doorway. This time, he spoke. His voice was like dry leaves. ‘I lived here,’ he said. ‘I died here. You can’t send me away.’

I finally told my parents everything, and this time they listened. They called a priest to bless the house. The priest found the portrait in the barn and said it was of a man who had been the town’s first sheriff. He had been murdered in the house in 1902, and his spirit was said to stay. He reburied the portrait in the backyard and performed a ceremony. After that, the man never appeared again. But sometimes, at night, I hear a faint creak from the attic, and I know he’s still here, watching over the house, just as Lily said.

To this day, I can’t walk down a dim hallway without feeling eyes on me. And I always keep a light on at night, because I know the dark is not empty. It’s full of those who are still here, waiting for their stories to be told.