The Weight of the Hollow

The night of the autumnal equinox, the farm house settled into its familiar creaks and groans. I lay in the master bedroom, the one with the peeling floral wallpaper and the window that never quite closed, listening to the wind whistle through the gaps. My two daughters, Emma and Lily, were in their room across the hall. We had moved here a month ago, seeking peace from the city, but peace was a stranger to this place. I drifted off with the smell of damp earth and old wood in my nostrils, my hand loosely resting on the edge of the mattress, as if to anchor myself.

I awoke to a weight on my chest, like a sack of stones, pressing me flat against the bed. I tried to move, but my limbs were lead. My head was turned to the left, and I could see the faint outline of the closet door, ajar. The weight grew heavier, and I felt a cold breath on my cheek, though the air in the room was still. Then, from across the hall, I heard Emma cry out—a sharp, terrified sound that sliced through the silence. Lily began to scream, not a childish wail, but a guttural, desperate shriek. As suddenly as it had come, the weight lifted, and I could move. I sprang up, flicked on the light, and ran to them in my bare feet. They were huddled together, eyes wide, pointing at the corner of the ceiling. ‘It was there, Daddy, it was up there,’ Emma sobbed.

The next morning, I found scratches on Emma’s face, just below her left eye and on her left temple, thin red lines like they’d been made by a needle. Lily woke with a handprint of bruises on her back, five dark fingertips curving around her small shoulder blade. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I knew we couldn’t stay. By the end of the week, we were packing our bags. As we drove away, I caught a glimpse of the farmhouse in the rearview mirror. In an upstairs window, I saw a shadow shift, and I swore I saw a face—pale, featureless, watching us leave.

It took us three days to find a new place: a small apartment in the city, bright and modern. The first night, we all slept in one room, the kids in the bunk beds, me on a mattress on the floor. I didn’t sleep much. I kept looking at the ceiling, half expecting that weight to return. But nothing came. I thought we were safe.

A week later, I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of breathing next to my ear. I was on my side, facing the wall, but I could feel a pressure on my shoulder, as if a hand was resting there. I tried to move, but I was frozen. The breathing was steady, almost rhythmic, and it smelled of cold metal and rotten leaves. I could hear Emma’s voice, faint, as if from a distance, ‘Daddy, there’s something in the closet.’ I strained to turn my head, and for a moment, I saw a shadow slide across the wall. Then, the pressure vanished, and I could move again. I rushed to the girls’ beds. Emma was asleep, but Lily was wide awake, trembling, and she pointed at the closet door. ‘It’s in there,’ she whispered.

I didn’t open that closet until morning. When I did, it was empty. But on the inside of the door, scratched into the wood, was a single word: ‘HOLLOW.’ I knew then that we hadn’t left anything behind. We had brought it with us. And it was still hollowing us out, one night at a time.