Hollow Veil

They whisper of it first, long before anyone sees it. A figure draped in tattered veils, tall enough to brush the ceiling, thin enough to slip through cracks in walls. Windows fogged with condensation sometimes reveal a shape lingering behind glass, distorted and unreadable. Pets flee rooms, lights flicker inexplicably, and the air grows cold where it lingers. Children wake screaming, claiming shadows spoke to them. Adults laugh nervously, insisting it’s imagination—until the first person sees the shifting face. And then the laughter stops. That’s when the stories begin, whispered between neighbors, co-workers, and friends who suddenly speak in hushed tones.

Its face is not blank. It shifts, folds upon itself, like layers of translucent fabric hiding a mouth moving just beneath. People who glimpse it report seeing subtle movements, almost like breathing through the veil. Eyes—or what could be mistaken for eyes—appear and vanish without pattern. When you look too long, the veil seems to notice you. A prickle creeps down your spine. Whispers stir in the quiet of your room. A sound not heard with ears, but felt deep inside your skull, as though the walls themselves are speaking your name. Once it knows you, it never forgets.

It is said to linger in doorways just before nightfall, stretching impossibly tall to peer into rooms. It leans against windows, thin as smoke, observing silently. Travelers passing abandoned buildings claim a sense of weight in the air, like someone or something is studying them. People feel watched even when alone. They describe a presence that never moves closer, never chases—it does not need to. The Hollow Veil exists as an intrusion, a permanent observer. You sense it behind every corner, every shadow. A brush of consciousness against your mind leaves a residue you cannot shake, a dull echo of unease.

Those who have seen it describe an almost hypnotic horror. Its veils ripple as if caught in an unseen wind. It moves without footsteps, slipping through cracks and gaps, appearing in places no living being could reach. Your reflection may shift in a mirror, revealing something draped in veils behind you, though the room is empty. Night becomes restless. The longer it observes, the more vivid its presence becomes in dreams. It does not speak aloud, yet words form in your head, in your language, calling you by name. Reality begins to fray where its gaze lingers.

The first dream is subtle. Shadows bend unnaturally in your bedroom. A figure stands just out of reach, veiled in layers that seem to float above a form you cannot comprehend. You wake feeling as if your mind has been tugged by invisible fingers. Over time, the dreams grow longer. Veils stretch, revealing glimpses of shapes that should not exist. You feel the figure’s attention—watching, waiting. The whispers persist, now in waking hours, threading through thoughts like silk, insidious and persistent. Coffee cups tremble in your hands, light flickers overhead, and a cold draft seems to follow you through hallways you’ve walked a hundred times.

Neighbors begin to notice changes. Conversations lapse as eyes flick to shadows that aren’t there. Pets refuse to enter rooms, hissing at thin air. People start avoiding mirrors and reflective surfaces. The figure is said to appear even in photographs, captured only in strange distortions, stretched veils, or blurry outlines. Even technology fails to record it clearly, as if the world refuses to acknowledge its full form. Friends insist it’s imagination, stress, or coincidence—but those who see it cannot unsee it. The Hollow Veil leaves a residue, a memory implanted in the mind, haunting thoughts and dreams with patient persistence.

Some attempt to confront it, standing firm in rooms where it appears. They report a suffocating silence, a presence pressing at the edges of perception. Fear twists into something else: fascination, morbid curiosity, an irresistible pull to look closer. Yet no matter how boldly you confront it, it does not attack. It does not need to. Awareness is enough. Seeing it allows it access. The veil settles inside the mind, a seed of unease that blooms in waking hours and dreams alike. Attempts to ignore it fail. You carry it with you, a shadow tethered to your consciousness, waiting for nightfall to resume observation.

It does not move in straight lines. It does not follow patterns the human eye can detect. It is fluid, drifting, emerging from walls, ceilings, and floors, appearing at the periphery of vision. Those who describe it swear that rooms feel wrong when it is near, as if the geometry of space has shifted. Hallways elongate, doorways narrow, shadows deepen. Objects rearrange subtly, though no one touches them. Some claim to see the veil’s face pressed against the other side of glass, a mouth opening and closing beneath layers, silent, yet somehow speaking directly into the mind of the observer.

Dreams intensify with exposure. Veils begin to lift slowly, revealing shapes that should not exist. Limbs bend at impossible angles, faces blur into each other, eyes staring from impossible angles. You wake gasping, sweating, and certain that the figure watches even when the room is empty. Some attempt rituals, talismans, or prayers to repel it, but it is indifferent to pleas. The only constant is observation. It is patient, infinite in endurance. Even when unseen, it has access. Your mind becomes a corridor through which it can move freely. Avoiding it is impossible once recognized; it is memory made manifest.

Stories circulate of people disappearing after prolonged exposure, leaving only subtle traces—a chair tilted slightly, a veil of shadow in photographs, faint whispers captured in old audio recordings. Survivors describe psychological exhaustion, seeing the figure in peripheral vision hours after they’ve left the room. Some attempt isolation, staying in lighted rooms, avoiding windows, but the effect persists. Even phones and cameras cannot shield the mind from it. Sleep is a battleground. Dreams are a slow unveiling, showing shapes and forms that break sanity if stared at for too long. The Hollow Veil does not chase—it waits, accumulating knowledge, feeding on attention and fear.

A researcher documented incidents for months, noting patterns. The veil appears only in liminal spaces—doorways, windows, edges of vision—never fully entering occupied rooms. Those who glimpse it report distorted time perception: minutes stretch into hours, or the opposite. The figure seems to exist partly outside normal reality. Its whispers carry over distance, threading through minds without moving lips. Attempts to photograph or record it result in interference, static, or impossible blurs. Observers report the veil altering perception of the room itself: ceilings feel taller, hallways longer, angles wrong. It does not need to move—its presence warps reality, and minds cannot escape it.

The veil is not always malicious. It does not strike or harm physically. Its cruelty is psychological, a relentless probing of fear and curiosity. People who dwell too long on it report obsessive thoughts, sleepless nights, and creeping paranoia. Some claim to see it in reflections hours later, or feel its gaze even when outside of the building. Attempts to leave the city, move homes, or block doors and windows do not remove its influence. It is not bound by walls, floors, or doors. Recognition is a key; once you see it, you cannot unsee. It waits for nightfall, for liminal moments to return.

The first appearance is always subtle—a glimpse in a hallway, a shadow in the corner of a room. But it escalates. Veils stretch, and the face begins to form, whispering your name inside your skull. Friends notice the change: you become withdrawn, distracted, unable to sleep. Mental images linger in daylight, growing clearer with time. Mirrors become dangerous, reflecting impossible shapes. Even electronic devices begin to fail around its presence. The veil does not break the rules of physical reality; it bends perception. Minds are malleable, memories fluid, and the Hollow Veil exploits both with terrifying patience.

Legends speak of its origins. Some say it is a remnant of the collective fears of those who died violently, a consciousness drawn from terror itself. Others claim it is older, a being from beyond perception, indifferent to human life, thriving on the mind’s ability to imagine. No matter the truth, encounters follow a consistent pattern: initial recognition, lingering observation, infiltration of dreams, and obsession. Attempts to confront it directly fail; it retreats only to appear later, closer, its face slowly revealed. Curiosity is a trap. Observation is the key to its power. Once acknowledged, it never forgets.

The final stage is subtle and terrifying. Dreams are no longer safe; the veil intrudes, showing glimpses of impossible forms, of angles and shapes that make the mind reel. Shadows in the corner of the eye seem to move independently. Whispers become sentences, sentences become narratives, all recounting events that never occurred yet feel undeniable. Sleep is impossible to escape. Some report hearing its voice in traffic, in stores, in empty rooms. It travels in thought, in perception, a parasite of attention and recognition. The Hollow Veil exists because it is seen, and once seen, its presence is permanent.

Those who have survived describe lives transformed. Normal perception is fractured; the veil lingers behind eyelids, in reflections, in peripheral vision. Reality feels thin, fragile. Objects shift slightly, shadows lengthen, whispers echo in silence. Some leave homes, towns, entire cities, yet the influence remains. Dreams continue, each night lifting more of the veil, revealing what should never be seen. The Hollow Veil does not chase; it waits. And it knows. Once seen, it is inside your mind forever, a patient observer, a shifting face beneath translucent fabric. Every glimpse, every whisper, every memory reinforces its presence. You do not leave it—it leaves you.