The Hollow Man

The first time I saw him, I assumed it was a trick of the light.

It was late—too late to be walking home alone—but I’d stayed after class to finish a project, and the bus had long ago stopped running. The streets were vacant, the kind of empty that makes you feel like you’re the last person on earth. The only sound was the crunch of my boots on the frost-covered sidewalk and the distant hum of a streetlight flickering on and off.

That’s when I noticed him.

He was standing under the light, his form tall and slim, almost impossibly so. His face was in shadow, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting. I told myself it was only my imagination, that the long day and lack of sleep were playing tricks on me. But as I walked past, I heard it—a low, guttural murmur that sent a shudder down my spine.

“You’ll do.”

I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. I just walked faster, my heart pounding in my chest, until I reached my apartment and locked the door behind me.

The second time I saw him, I was sure it wasn’t my imagination.

It was a week later, and I was at the grocery store, picking up a few things for dinner. The store was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I turned down the cereal aisle, and there he was, standing at the far end, his long fingers trailing over the boxes like he was searching for something.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. He turned his head slowly, and for the first time, I saw his face.

It was hollow.

Not in the metaphorical sense, but literally. His face was a sunken, empty void, like someone had carved out his features and left nothing but darkness. I dropped my basket and ran, not stopping until I was back in my car, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the steering wheel.

The third time I saw him, I couldn’t run.

It was late again, and I was walking home from the library. The streets were quiet, the air thick with the promise of rain. I was halfway home when I felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I turned, and there he was, standing at the edge of the park, his hollow face turned toward me.

“You’ll do,” he muttered again, his voice like nails on a chalkboard.

I attempted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. It seemed like I was rooted to the spot, my body no longer my own. He drew closer, his motions oddly fluid, like he was gliding rather than walking. I wanted to scream, but no voice came out.

He put out a hand, his fingers long and skeleton, and stroked my face. His touch was frigid, so cold it burned, and I felt something inside me change, like he was pulling at my very soul.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. He was gone, and I was alone on the street, my legs trembling so badly I could barely stand.

The fourth time I saw him, I wasn’t surprised.

It had been a month since the last encounter, and I’d almost convinced myself it was all in my head. Almost. But deep down, I knew he was still out there, watching, waiting.

I was at home, sitting on the couch with a book, when I felt it—the same cold, creeping sensation I’d felt that night on the street. I looked up, and there he was, standing in the corner of the room, his hollow face turned toward me.

“You’ll do,” he whispered.

This time, I didn’t freeze. This time, I fought back. I grabbed the nearest thing—a heavy glass ashtray—and hurled it at him. It passed right through him, shattering against the wall, and he laughed, a sound that made my blood run cold.

“You can’t stop it,” he said, his voice echoing in my mind. “You’ll do.”

The fifth time I saw him, I wasn’t me anymore.

It had been weeks since the last encounter, and I’d started to notice changes. My reflection in the mirror looked… off, like someone had taken an eraser to my features and smudged them out. My voice sounded different, hollow and distant, like it was coming from somewhere far away.

I tried to ignore it, tried to convince myself it was just stress, but deep down, I knew the truth. He was stealing me, piece by piece, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

The final encounter happened in my fantasies. I was standing in a dark, infinite void, the air dense with the smell of rotting. He was there, his hollow face inches from mine, his chilly fingers tracing the pattern of my features.

“You’ll do,” he whispered, and this time, I understood.

He wasn’t just taking me. He was replacing me.

When I woke up, I knew it was over. My reflection in the mirror was gone, replaced by a hollow, empty void. My voice was gone too, replaced by a low, guttural whisper.

I am the Hollow Man now.

And I’m looking for someone to take my place.