Page 23 of Hollow

Slowly, I open the door, the hinges creaking, terribly loud, and look out into the darkness of the hallway.

My breath hitches. There is a long trail of what looks like blood leading down the hall, a slick path that dances dark red in the lantern light, and at the very end is a figure, an adult body on the floor, dragging themselves around the corner.

Jesus Christ.

I stand there, and I stare, and the fear is so overwhelming that I can’t even take a breath.

What if this isn’t in your head? I think. What if this isn’t a ghost? What if this is real? What if they need help?

I set my jaw and steady myself and step out into the hall, my lantern held like a shield against the dark. Ghosts exist, but so do horrible accidents that involve humans. What if this person was involved in one?

The person on the floor has disappeared around the corner now, leaving only the trail of blood. I take a moment and crouch down, my fingers brushing lightly over it. It’s thick like blood, and when I bring my hand to my nose, it smells like it too, sharp and metallic. All my senses are saying this is real, that this isn’t some transmission from the afterlife.

I straighten up and carefully make my way down the hallway. I want to call out after them, but I stop myself time and time again, as if there’s some hidden part of me that’s making me stay quiet. I suppose if the person is so grievously injured whomever committed the crime could still be on the floor, I don’t want their attention. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

The building that houses the staff is an old stone one closest to the lake, shaped like two Ls that come together in a grand circular staircase. The bottom floors are full of classrooms while the upper floor of one of the Ls houses the women while the other L houses the men. My room is at the end of the men’s L, so when I come around the corner, I expected the person to be gone for some reason, as if they wouldn’t dare venture into the other wing.

Instead, the trail of blood continues past the staircase mezzanine and across to the women’s quarters, rounding the corner.

My stomach twists. There is no possible instance that the body moving at the speed it was could have made it to the women’s quarters so fast.

The blood is wet, smells real, I tell myself, trying to keep myself in stride. The way it catches the lanterns’ glow, like red oil, that’s real. But the speed in which it moved, that couldn’t be real, couldn’t be…human.

I’m not usually a cowardly man. I’ve seen and done things in my life that would land people in jail, that would make others run. But here, with the lantern swinging in my hand, on a quiet night in this old building, I feel fear like I’ve never felt it before.

Something is strange here. Strange in a way that could be very, very dangerous if I’m not careful.

Taking in a deep breath, I manage to find my courage. And I keep walking.

I go quietly, sneaking past the staircase and into the women’s wing. I try and keep that bravery with me as I turn the corner, expecting to see the body down the other hall.

But there’s nothing. There’s no blood either. I look down at my feet and see the floor is just faded wood. The house feels like it’s sleeping.

I let out a long exhale, running my hand down my face for a moment. None of it was real. Not the blood, not the body. It was all in my head. All the pressures of the job and this need to create a new life are building up inside me. Not to mention the last time I had any drugs or alcohol in me.

I stand there for a moment, then realize a teacher could come out of her room and see me loitering in the halls. So I get my wits together and walk back the way I came, marveling at how dry the floor is as I go. I know I touched blood, I smelled it, but what if it was all an illusion? What if none of this is real, like a dream?

That’s it, I think to myself. I’m overstimulated and exhausted and dreaming. Once I get back to my bed, it will all be over. I’ll wake up, and the day will start again, and all of this will fade away into memory.

I round the corner to my hallway.

I see the body.

Right outside my open door, long arms in a pale, bloodstained nightgown pulling themselves inside my room.

There is no blood this time, but the body is there, slender grey feet disappearing through my door until the hall is empty again.

I feel sick, the lantern shaking in my hand again, bad enough that the flame of the candle flickers, threatening to go out.

“Fuck,” I swear, managing to keep the lantern away from my breath.

This isn’t real, I tell myself. Remember, there’s no blood this time. This doesn’t follow the laws of physics, the laws of science.

Yes, but neither does magic, and that’s very much a tangible thing. It governs my life. How can I be so bold as to assume all of this is in my head?

And yet I find myself walking down the hall back to my bedroom as if being compelled by the thing that’s waiting for me there. One step in front of another, the lights wavering on the stone walls, the building so quiet that my heartbeat is the only thing I hear. Even the thump of the woman is gone; the dragging sound of her soiled nightgown has vanished. It’s just me.

It’s just me.

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