"The Hollow Guest"

It began with a knock at 3:17 AM.

Evelyn Baxter jolted awake in her creaky farmhouse nestled at the edge of Ashmoor Woods. Her old clock ticked loudly in the silence, and her dog, Murphy, growled low at the foot of the bed. The knock came again. Three deliberate raps. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Measured.

She lived alone.

Evelyn slid from her bed, the floorboards groaning beneath her feet. She wrapped herself in a wool shawl and padded to the front door. No one ever came out this far—not without calling first. Through the peephole: nothing. No car in the drive, no person on the porch.

She unlocked the door and cracked it open. Cold night air slipped in. A note was nailed to the wooden frame.

In shaky handwriting:

“Don’t let him in. Even if he looks like someone you know.”

The breath caught in her throat.

Murphy whimpered behind her.

She slammed the door shut, bolted it, and stepped back. Her fingers trembled as she held the note. The paper was yellowed and slightly damp. It smelled faintly of soil and decay.

Who was he?

Suddenly, the power flickered. The lights died. The furnace gave a shudder, then silence.

In the darkness, Evelyn’s reflection stared back at her from the mirror across the hall. But something was wrong.

Her reflection blinked—twice. Evelyn had only blinked once.

She stepped forward cautiously. Her reflection didn’t mimic her. It stood still. Watching. Breathing.

Evelyn backed away, her heart slamming in her chest. Murphy growled louder now, his eyes fixed on the mirror. Then he barked and bolted down the hallway.

Evelyn turned—but there was no time.

The mirror shattered from the inside.

Glass exploded outward, slicing her arm. She screamed and fell to the floor. The thing that crawled out of the frame was her. Same brown hair. Same blue eyes. Same face.

But its mouth was too wide. Its smile too deep. And its eyes were hollow.

No irises. No pupils. Just swirling darkness.

The hollow Evelyn stood over her and cocked its head. Then it whispered in her voice:

“You opened the door.”

Murphy lunged. The creature shrieked and swatted the dog aside with unnatural strength. Evelyn scrambled to her feet and ran to the kitchen. She yanked open a drawer, searching for anything—scissors, a knife, something—

The kitchen window burst inward. Another hand reached through. Another Evelyn, grinning wide.

“Let me in.”

Evelyn screamed and stabbed the hand with the scissors. The creature didn’t react. It vanished like smoke.

The front door rattled violently now, as if fists were slamming against it. She heard her voice again, from outside.

“Evelyn, it’s me—open up. Please. It’s cold.”

She ran to the upstairs bedroom and locked herself in, sobbing. Murphy limped behind her, his paw bloodied. She wrapped him in a blanket and leaned against the door.

There was a scratching at the wall behind her.

From inside the house.

The scratching became tapping. Then knocking. Then—

“I’m already in.”

The voice came from beneath the bed.

She turned her head slowly, every nerve frozen. Then, she dropped to her knees and lifted the blanket.

Two white eyes stared back at her from the dark. The creature twisted its body and crawled out—limbs too long, face stretching into hers.

Murphy barked again and lunged at the monster. The two tumbled into the hallway in a blur. Evelyn didn’t wait. She jumped to her feet, threw open the bedroom window, and climbed out onto the slanted roof.

She leapt.

Pain exploded in her leg as she landed in the overgrown bushes. She limped through the trees, heart pounding, eyes darting in every direction. The cold bit into her lungs as she ran deeper into Ashmoor Woods.

Behind her, she heard branches snapping. Leaves rustling. Her own voice calling through the night:

“Evelyn, wait. Come back. Don’t leave me out here alone.”

She ran until she collapsed near the dried-up well at the edge of the forest.

Then, silence.

She lay there, staring up at the moon, breath hitching.

Until a shadow passed over her.

Standing above her was a figure in a long black coat and wide-brimmed hat. His face was obscured, but Evelyn could feel his gaze pierce through her.

He crouched and extended a gloved hand.

“Do you see them now?” he asked. His voice was like dead leaves crumbling. “The ones that slip through cracks in mirrors, in minds, in dreams?”

Evelyn couldn’t speak.

“They are Hollow Guests,” he said. “Reflections that want to replace the original. Echoes that remember the voice, the smile, but not the soul.”

“Why me?” she whispered.

“Because you looked too long.”

With that, he vanished into the trees.

Dawn came slowly. Evelyn returned to the house just as the sun crested the hills. The front door hung open, the interior wrecked, mirrors shattered, furniture overturned.

But no sign of it.

Murphy was lying in the corner, breathing shallow, but alive.

She moved carefully, closing the doors, drawing the blinds, smashing every remaining mirror. She boarded up the windows and covered the television with a sheet.

She found a journal in the attic. It belonged to the previous owner.

Its final page read:

“The hollow one comes at 3:17 AM. Don’t answer the knock. Don’t believe the face. And never, ever trust your reflection.”

To this day, Evelyn lives alone in the darkened house.

No mirrors. No screens. No glass.

Just the ticking of the old clock and the quiet, careful wait for the night.

Because sometimes, when the hour is right… the knocking starts again.

And sometimes…