Smoky Mountains, where mist clings to the trees like ancient spirits, there’s a tradition spoken by the locals. They call it “The Hollow Man,” a creature so ancient that its name has been forgotten by time, yet its presence persists like the shadows it calls home.
One autumn evening, a hiker called Rachel climbed deep into the mountains, lured by the beauty of the season. The air was crisp, and the leaves burned in tones of gold and crimson. She had heard the stories, of course—warnings from the old-timers about weird noises and sudden chills—but she dismissed them as mere folklore.
As she approached a distant track, the jungle grew unnervingly quiet. The birdsong vanished, and the wind appeared to hold its breath. A dense fog came in, obscuring the route ahead. Rachel felt an unpleasant cold crawl up her spine, but she pressed on, desperate to reach an overlook before nightfall.
Suddenly, the sound of shattering branches rang through the mist. Rachel froze, her pulse speeding. At first, she believed it was just a deer or a bear. But then she saw it—a tall, haggard man standing motionless between the trees, its silhouette just apparent through the cloud. Its limbs were unusually lengthy, and its head was cocked as though it were listening, waiting.
Her breath froze in her throat as the thing drew closer, its motions slow and methodical. The fog seemed to thicken around it, enveloping the world behind her. Rachel’s instincts shouted for her to go, but her legs refused to move. She could clearly make out its face—or rather, the absence of one. Where eyes, a nose, and a mouth should have been, there was only a smooth, pale surface, like a mask worn by some lost deity of the woods.
With a low, guttural moan, the Hollow Man raised one of its long, bony fingers, pointing squarely at her. The mist around them appeared to pulsate, and Rachel could feel a coldness creep into her bones, sapping her vitality. The trees surrounding her bent and twisted, as if reality itself was bending to the creature’s desire.
Summoning every ounce of her courage, Rachel turned and ran. The sound of heavy footfall followed, faster and faster, yet she dared not glance back. The trail was gone, covered by the fog, and the woods appeared to press in around her. She could hear her own heartbeat beating in her ears, but the Hollow Man’s footsteps were always right behind her.
Finally, after what felt like hours of racing, she burst into a clearing, where the mist instantly dissipated. She collapsed, gasping for oxygen, and glanced around in bewilderment. The trailhead was in sight. The Hollow Man was gone.
Rachel returned to town, terrified and silent. She never spoke of what she saw, but she wasn’t the first to come back from the Smoky Mountains with that same haunting look in her eyes. Locals still recount the story of the Hollow Man, urging hikers to stay on the main pathways and never, ever stray into the mist alone. Because once the Hollow Man finds you, he never fully leaves.
And sometimes, late at night, when the fog comes in and the woods go still, you may hear him. Waiting.
