The Town That Only Wakes at Night

The Town That Only Wakes at Night

By; Abdullah

When I first arrived in Black Hollow, I didn’t think much of the silence.

It was tucked between mountains, a dot on the map I’d never heard of, with no cellphone reception and a single, creaky bus that ran twice a week. I was there for a photography project—documenting forgotten places for a magazine series. Black Hollow seemed perfect. Picturesque, eerie, and quiet.

Too quiet.

I arrived just before noon. The bus driver, a gray-haired man with an eye that didn’t blink, dropped me at the only stop in town and drove off without a word. I stood with my backpack and camera bag, waiting for someone to appear. No one did.

Shutters were closed. No cars moved. No doors opened. A breeze blew through dry leaves on the ground, but there wasn’t even the chirp of a bird. It felt... paused.

I checked my phone again. Still no signal.

The inn was easy to find—it was the only building with a sign out front: Black Hollow Guest House. The door creaked open as I stepped in.

“Hello?”

No answer.

I walked through the lobby, calling out again. Dust floated in shafts of light from the stained windows. The guestbook sat on the counter, open to a page signed months ago.

That’s when I heard it. A soft tapping from upstairs.

I froze. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap-tap.

I climbed the stairs slowly, gripping my camera like it could protect me. At the end of the hall, a door creaked open.

An elderly woman stood there. Her face was pale, lips thin, and her eyes—milky but somehow alert—fixed on me like she’d been expecting me.

“You should sleep now,” she said softly. “It’s not safe to be tired after sunset.”

“Sorry, I—I just got here,” I stammered. “Is there a room?”

She nodded, turning back into the shadows. “Second door. Right side. Lock it. From the inside.”

---

I didn’t sleep. I sat by the window, staring at the street.

At 7:16 PM, the town exhaled.

Shutters opened. Lights blinked on. Doors creaked, and people—dozens of them—stepped outside. Old men in suspenders, children in pajamas, women in nightgowns. Silent, but active. They swept porches, walked dogs, whispered to one another. Some stood beneath the dim streetlights, heads tilted to the sky.

It wasn’t normal night activity. It was... ritualistic.

At 8:03 PM, a bell rang from the church on the hill, though the doors never opened.

At 8:15, I saw something I will never forget.

A man crawled out from under the general store’s floorboards. He was naked, covered in what looked like ash. His limbs moved like a puppet's. No one looked at him.

I lifted my camera.

Click.

Every head in the street turned to my window.

I ducked. Heart racing.

There was a knock at the door. Then another. Then scratching.

I bolted it shut and backed away.

“You’re not supposed to see,” came a whisper from the hallway. “You’re not one of us.”

At midnight, silence returned.

By morning, the town was dead again. The streets empty, lights off, shutters closed.

I stumbled downstairs and found a plate of toast and tea waiting for me at the counter.

No one in sight.

I left Black Hollow that day, catching the bus as it reappeared like clockwork at noon.

The driver didn’t speak, but he glanced at me through the mirror.

“You’re lucky,” he said finally. “Some don’t make it out.”

That should’ve been the end. But when I developed the photos back home, something was wrong.

In every shot, the people had no faces. Just smooth, blank skin.

Even the man under the store. Even the woman at the inn.

Just one photo was clear: a window reflection of me.

Behind me, someone stood with a hand on my shoulder. Not the old woman.

Someone else.

A shadow with eyes that glowed.