Behind the Hollow Eyes (REWRITE IN PROGRESS)

Chapter 6: The Shape Behind Him

I didn't go straight home. My feet moved without much input, following the back path behind the school, the one that cuts through the old field and curves into a line of trees like a secret.

Most people didn't bother with it. Too quiet. Too weird. But it felt right. The light was different there—muted, like the sun got filtered through something heavier than clouds. I told myself I liked it that way. I told myself I needed the stillness. Leaves crackled under my shoes. A single crow screamed overhead, then went silent. 

I kept thinking about what he said. Someone she can't control anymore. I didn't know if it was true. But I wanted it to be. By the time I reached the broken picnic table near the edge of the woods, I needed to sit. Not from exhaustion. From something else. A weight I couldn't name.

When I sat down at the old picnic table, the wood creaked beneath me like a warning.
It had moss growing on one leg and initials carved into the top, half-faded by time and weather.
I traced one with my finger—J + E inside a crooked heart—and wondered what happened to them.
If they made it out of here together. If anyone ever does.

I thought about what it meant to be seen. Really seen.
Maybe that's what scared me more than anything else.

Not the boy. Not the monster. But the idea that someone knew who I was under all of this.  

I pulled out my sketchbook. Let it rest in my lap. Then, without thinking too hard, I started drawing. His jawline first—sharp but not severe. The crease between his brows. The way his hands always looked like they were waiting to catch something. It came easier than I expected. Too easy. I added the collar of his jacket, the shadows under his eyes. That quiet stillness he always carried with him like armor. Then I paused. The background was blank. Just space. Empty, untouched.

I started to sketch the tree line behind him, slow pencil strokes building a suggestion of branches. Shadows. A clearing. Then I stopped. There was something in the drawing I didn't remember adding.

Tall. Pale. No face. Just standing there. Behind him.

My fingers went cold around the pencil. I stared at the page. I hadn't drawn that. At least—I didn't think I had.

The trees were close here, bent toward each other like they were whispering things I wasn't supposed to hear. Bark peeled like old paper. The air smelled like wet leaves and something sharp beneath it—metallic, maybe.
Not blood. But not far off.

I kept glancing over my shoulder, even though I knew he wasn't following me.
Even though part of me had kind of hoped he would.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Then I looked up. And he was there. Standing exactly where I'd drawn him. Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching me. He wasn't supposed to be there. Not that close. Not that quiet. 

My throat tightened. I opened my mouth to say something—anything— But then I saw it. Behind him. Not moving. Not breathing. Tall. Faceless. Wrong. Taller than the trees. Paler than bone. Limbs too long, too still. Just standing there. Watching. 

The air pressed in around me, thick and humming like it had teeth. The leaves didn't move. The world didn't move. Only my heart did. And it pounded like it was trying to outrun something. 

I blinked again. And they were gone. Both of them. The boy. And the thing behind him. Only the empty clearing remained. Only the sound of wind that wasn't there. Only the sketchbook in my lap, shaking in my hands. 

My legs moved before my brain did. The sketchbook snapped shut, nearly catching my fingers. I stuffed it into my bag, almost dropped it, didn't care. I just ran. Down the path. Across the field. Through the quiet that didn't feel empty anymore. I didn't look back. I couldn't. 

The wind picked up, or maybe it didn't—maybe that was just the sound in my ears, rushing, pulsing, trying to drown out the image still burned into the backs of my eyes. That shape. Behind him. No face. No name. Just there. By the time I got home, I was shaking. 

My key missed the lock twice. I slammed the door shut behind me and stood there, back pressed to the wood, heart still running. 

Then I did the only thing I could. I pulled the sketchbook from my bag. Opened it. The drawing was still there. Him. And it. I stared at it, breath caught in my throat. 

Then I ripped the page out. Tore it down the middle. Again. Again. The pieces trembled in my hands like they were alive. I turned on the sink. Lit a match. Dropped them in one by one and watched them curl and blacken, until all that was left was ash and steam.

 But even then—when I flipped back through the sketchbook—the drawing was still there. Same page. Same pencil lines. Same faceless shape behind him. Waiting. I stared at the page like it had betrayed me. Like maybe if I looked long enough, it would change. Erase itself. Undo what it showed me. But it didn't. It just sat there. Him. And the thing behind him. Watching. Waiting. Like it had always been there. Like it was never going to leave. 

I dropped the sketchbook on the floor and backed away, hands still smudged with ash. I sat down on the cold tiles of the bathroom, pulled my knees to my chest, and buried my face in my arms. And then I cried. Not loud. Not messy. Just soft and shaking, like something was breaking from the inside out and didn't know how to stop. Because I didn't know what I was supposed to be afraid of anymore. Him. It. Myself. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.