The Night of the Hollow Sun

Milo and I had been riding our bikes past the Whitlock place for as long as I could remember. It sat at the end of a dirt road that branched off from the main highway, half-hidden by a wall of overgrown pines and brambles. The house itself was a sagging Victorian with a collapsed porch and shattered windows, most of them boarded up with rotting plywood. We’d peek through the cracks sometimes, just to see the dusty furniture and the faded wallpaper peeling like old skin. It was a game we played, daring each other to get closer, but we never went inside. The place felt watchful, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

That January, a total lunar eclipse was scheduled for the night. Milo and I were sixteen and seventeen, old enough to stay out late, and we figured the field beside the Whitlock place would be perfect. It was open, secluded, and far from the town’s streetlights. We packed a thermos of hot chocolate and a couple of blankets, and we rode out as the sun set, the sky turning a bruised purple. The air was cold and still, the kind of cold that bites through layers. When we got there, the moon was already rising, full and pale, but the field was empty, just dry grass and a few scattered stones.

We spread our blankets on a slight rise and sat down, sipping the hot chocolate and talking about school and the stupid things we’d done over the years. As the eclipse began, the moon’s edge started to darken, and a strange quiet settled over the field. I shivered, but not from the cold. There was a heaviness in the air, a pressure like just before a storm. Milo noticed it too. He stopped mid-sentence and looked around, his breath fogging. ‘You feel that?’ he asked. I nodded. It was as if something was watching us from the direction of the house.

We turned to look at the house, its dark silhouette against the dimming sky. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, from inside, we heard a sound. It was faint, like footsteps on old wood. Light, careful steps, as if someone was trying not to be heard. Milo grabbed my arm. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered. I held my breath and listened. The footsteps continued, slow and deliberate, crossing the floor above the porch. Then they stopped. A few seconds later, they started again, but closer to the window. I could see the boarded-up window on the second floor, and for a split second, I thought I saw a glimmer of something behind the cracks, a pale shape.

We convinced ourselves it was just an animal—a raccoon or a squirrel that had gotten in. But the footsteps were too rhythmic, too human. Milo suggested we leave, and I was about to agree when the moon, now nearly fully covered, cast an eerie red light over the field. In that light, we saw a figure standing at the edge of the porch, just beyond the broken steps. It was tall and gaunt, wearing what looked like an old-fashioned coat, and it was facing us. We couldn’t see its face—it was hooded—but we could feel its gaze.

We scrambled to our feet, grabbing our stuff, and jumped on our bikes. As we pedaled away, I glanced back. The figure hadn’t moved, but the porch door behind it slowly swung open, as if inviting us in. We didn’t stop until we reached the highway, our hearts pounding. We didn’t talk about it, but we both knew we’d never go back.

For weeks, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I started having nightmares—dreams of walking up those creaky steps, the door closing behind me, and a voice whispering my name. Milo became distant, too. He stopped answering my texts, and when I finally saw him at school, his eyes were hollow. He told me he’d gone back alone, just to prove we’d imagined it. He said he’d gone inside, walked through the dusty rooms, and found nothing. But as he said that, he looked past me, and I saw a flicker of something in his pupils—a tiny, red reflection, like the moon during the eclipse.

A month later, Milo disappeared. His bike was found leaning against the porch of the Whitlock place, his jacket folded neatly on the seat. The police searched the house, but it was empty, just the same old broken furniture and cobwebs. They concluded he’d run away. But I knew better. Sometimes, on clear nights, I ride my bike down that road, and I see a light in the second-floor window. And I hear those footsteps, crossing the floor, waiting. I never go near the house anymore, but I feel it watching, wanting me to join Milo. And the moon, even when full, reminds me of that night—the night the sun went hollow, and something in the dark took notice.