The Hollow Men

The Hollow Men

In the quiet, fog-shrouded village of Greywick, nestled between jagged cliffs and a restless sea, there was a legend that no one spoke of after dark. It was the tale of the Hollow Men—faceless entities that roamed the moors, their forms shifting like smoke, their presence heralded by the sound of hollow footsteps echoing in the mist.

The villagers believed the Hollow Men were the restless spirits of those who had drowned at sea, their bodies lost to the depths, their souls condemned to wander the land in search of faces to steal. To speak of them was to invite their attention, and so the legend was passed down in hushed tones, a warning to children and strangers alike.

But one man, a writer named Thomas Grayson, came to Greywick seeking inspiration. He had heard whispers of the Hollow Men during his travels and was determined to uncover the truth behind the myth. The villagers, wary of outsiders, refused to speak of it, but Thomas was undeterred. He rented a small cottage on the edge of the moors, where the fog was thickest and the sea's roar was a constant, haunting companion.

The first night, Thomas sat by the fire, his notebook open, waiting for inspiration to strike. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, and the fog pressed against the glass like a living thing. As the hours passed, he began to hear it—a faint, rhythmic sound, like footsteps on the damp earth. At first, he dismissed it as the wind, but the sound grew louder, more deliberate.

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

Thomas rose from his chair, his heart pounding. He peered out the window, but the fog was impenetrable, swallowing the light from his lantern. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, a soft knock at the door.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. The knock came again, louder this time, more insistent. Against his better judgment, Thomas approached the door and opened it a crack.

The fog swirled in, cold and damp, but there was no one there. Just as he was about to close the door, he saw it—a figure standing at the edge of the moors, its form indistinct, its face a blank, featureless void. Thomas slammed the door shut and locked it, his hands trembling.

The next morning, he ventured into the village, hoping to find someone who could explain what he had seen. But the villagers avoided his gaze, their faces pale and drawn. Only an old fisherman, his eyes clouded with age and fear, agreed to speak with him.

"You saw one of them, didn't you?" the old man asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Hollow Men. They come for those who seek them, those who don't heed the warnings. They have no faces, but they want yours. They want to be whole again."

Thomas laughed nervously, dismissing the old man's words as superstition. But that night, as he sat by the fire, the footsteps returned. This time, they were closer, just outside the cottage. The knocking came again, louder and more frantic, and Thomas felt a cold dread settle in his chest.

He grabbed his lantern and stepped outside, determined to confront whatever was out there. The fog enveloped him, muffling his footsteps as he walked toward the moors. The sound of the sea grew louder, a relentless roar that seemed to echo in his skull.

And then he saw them—figures emerging from the fog, their forms shifting and indistinct, their faces smooth and blank. They moved toward him, their footsteps hollow and echoing, and Thomas realized with growing horror that they were not just faceless—they were incomplete, their bodies flickering like shadows.

He turned to run, but the fog closed in around him, disorienting him. The Hollow Men surrounded him, their featureless faces turning toward him, their presence suffocating. He felt a cold, bony hand grasp his shoulder, and then another, and another.

The last thing Thomas saw was his own face, reflected in the blank void of a Hollow Man's visage, before everything went dark.

The next morning, the villagers found Thomas's cottage empty, the door wide open, and his notebook lying on the table. The pages were filled with frantic scribbles, the same phrase repeated over and over:

*"They took my face. They took my face. They took my face."*

And on the moors, just beyond the cottage, the fog lingered, thicker and heavier than before. Those who dared to venture close swore they could hear footsteps, hollow and echoing, and the faint sound of whispers carried on the wind.

The Hollow Men had claimed another soul, and Greywick's legend grew darker still.