The estate agent arrives at Ballycumber House on
a grey morning in 1872, its stone walls
weathered by decades of neglect. She is tasked
with assessing the property for sale, but the
air hums with an unspoken tension. A local
priest warns her not to linger after dusk,
though he offers no reason.
Inside, she finds a hidden room beneath the
library, its floorboards warped and stained. A
faded ledger lies open, detailing a contract
signed in 1834 between the landowner and a
figure described as “the Hollow Man.” The terms:
prosperity in exchange for a life bound to the
estate. The name of the first signer is her
greatgrandmother’s.
That night, the house shifts. Doors unlock
themselves. The wallpaper peels away to reveal
symbols etched in blood. She hears a voice in
the walls, whispering her name. The rules are
clear: the pact cannot be broken without a price.
The Hollow Man demands a life in return for the
estate’s continued existence.
She tries to leave, but the gates of the estate
vanish. The roads twist into loops. A local
farmer claims she has been seen wandering the
grounds at dawn, muttering to herself. Her own
reflection in the mirror moves when she does not.
On the third night, she finds the contract again.
This time, it is filled out with her name. The
Hollow Man appears, his face a void. He offers
her a choice: stay and inherit the estate, or
leave and lose everything she knows. The price
is her firstborn child.
She refuses. The house collapses around her. The
ground splits, revealing a deep well. She falls,
landing in a field where the estate no longer
stands. The land is wild, overgrown. A new house
rises in the distance, but it is not hers.
The priest finds her days later, halfmad,
speaking of a bargain she never made. She is
never seen again in the village. The land
remains empty, but the old contracts are found
in the soil, waiting for the next one to sign.
