My 1st ever Podcast episode. The Hollow Man
So. As some on here may or may not know, I like to investigate Creepy scary things. Recently I was talking to someone on Reddit who shared a urban legend he claims is real but no proof to back it up. I would be very thankful if anyone who reads this and what he has said could clarity if you know of this or heard of this please leave a comment.
Below is what he sent me.
**URBAN LEGEND: THE HOLLOW MAN**
There’s a story whispered between the cracks of cities not in books or websites, but in drunk conversations at 3AM, on cigarette breaks in alleyways, or by kids who swear their cousin’s friend once tried it and never came back right.
It’s about **The Hollow Man**.
They say he’s not a demon, not a ghost. Something older. Not born of hell or heaven, but of *grief*. Of **the emptiness left behind** when someone you love dies so hard and so suddenly, it rips your soul open. That hole? That scream no one hears? That’s him. He *lives* in that space.
And he’s always listening.
HOW TO SUMMON HIM
There are **only two ways** to call the Hollow Man. But both require you’ve just lost someone you *truly* loved not a pet, not a distant relative, not someone you feel *obligated* to mourn someone whose death *unmade* you.
**Method 1: The Mirror Way**
1. Wait until exactly **3:33 AM** on the third night after their death.
2. Stand in front of a mirror in complete darkness no lights, no candles, no phone glow.
3. Hold something that belonged to the dead. Something they touched often.
4. Look into your own eyes and whisper:
*“Where you left me, I am hollow. Come fill the space.”*
Repeat it **seven times.**
5. If he hears you, the mirror will fog slightly, even if the room is cold. Don’t wipe it. Don’t look away.
6. Behind you, in the reflection, you’ll see him. But never turn around. Just speak your request. **Justice. Revenge. Closure. A message.**
7. Blow out a breath onto the mirror. If he accepts, your reflection will vanish for a moment.
**Method 2: The Soil Way**
1. Go to the place your loved one died or, if not possible, where their body was laid to rest.
2. Dig into the ground with your bare hands until your fingers bleed.
3. Bury a piece of yourself with something of theirs hair, a tooth, blood, anything.
4. Whisper their name, then yours, then say:
*“Take from me what you need. I offer it hollow.”*
5. Wait. If the ground trembles slightly, even if no wind blows, he is near.
6. You’ll hear footsteps behind you slow, deliberate. But you’ll never see him. Speak your request, then leave without looking back.
THE SEVEN RULES
1. **You can only summon him once per death.** No second chances. No do-overs.
2. **Never ask for resurrection.** That is the only request he will refuse. If you ask it, he will take something else instead your eyes, your voice, or worse.
3. **If you ask for revenge, be specific.** The Hollow Man is not kind, and his justice is **exact**.
4. **Never tell anyone you summoned him.** Not even in whispers. The more you speak his name, the more real he becomes. Real enough to stay.
5. **You must truly grieve.** If your pain is false, he will know. And he will feed on *you* instead.
6. **Once he answers your call, he may visit again.** Uninvited. Especially on the anniversary of the death. Leave an offering of salt by your door to keep him from crossing the threshold.
7. **Do not try to trick him.** Do not lie. Do not test him. He is older than language and feeds off broken promises.
### THOSE WHO CLAIM TO KNOW
* A girl in Detroit who called him after her sister was killed the murderer was found impaled on his own spine.
* A widow in London who begged for a sign from her husband. Three days later, she was found smiling in her sleep, dead, a letter in her own handwriting clutched in her hands.
* A boy in São Paulo who wanted to say goodbye to his dog. They found him a month later, curled in the dirt near the grave, eyes black, whispering in a voice that wasn’t his:
*“I let him in.”*
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t judge.
He doesn’t forget.
They call him the Hollow Man because he comes only when you are truly empty inside. But he never leaves without filling that space with something *else*.
Something that stays.
Forever.
Recently, I’ve found a cave near where I live. Tucked behind gnarled roots and jagged stone, almost like it didn’t want to be found or maybe like it chose to reveal itself to me. It's deep. Unnaturally so. The kind of place that eats light. The kind of place that hums low, like it’s breathing.
And cold. My god, the cold.
It wraps around me like a lover. I welcome it, honestly. I despise the heat sunlight crawling on my skin like a parasite, the way sweat makes you feel like you're melting. No, the cave is sanctuary. Down there, the warmth dies. The world forgets you. You forget yourself. You become something… quieter. Still. Hungrier.
I've spent more and more time down there. Hours at a time, sometimes whole nights. Sitting in the black, listening to the drip of water, to the groan of old stone shifting like a dying god in its sleep. I’ve written by candlelight, watched the flame shiver like it’s afraid of something I can't yet see.
But today… something changed.
Today I heard it.
Not the usual creaks. Not the wind faking footsteps. No. This was movement. Heavy. Deliberate. Echoing from deeper within. Something further down far beyond the point I’ve dared to go. Something dragging across rock. Like wet skin on limestone. A low, rattling exhale. And whispering.
Yes… whispering.
Not in English. Not even in a language I could mimic. It spoke inside my head, like it knew how to bypass my ears. Not words exactly, but intent. Curious. Hungry. Cold.
I didn’t go further. Not yet. But I will. I have to. It called me. Not someone else. Me. The cave has been waiting.
And now I’m wondering… why does it feel familiar?
Why do I dream of it when I sleep?
Why do I wake up with dirt under my nails and cold stones in my bed?
Why do I hear that whisper when I pass mirrors even when I’m not looking into them?
I think I was supposed to find this place. I think it’s waking up because I’m ready.
There’s something down there. Something ancient. Something that remembers when the world was nothing but ash and teeth.
And maybe… just maybe… it remembers me.
If I go missing, know I didn’t get lost.
I just went home.
Have you ever wondered what’s truly real?
I don’t mean the surface things not the taste of coffee in the morning, or the hiss of tires against wet asphalt. I’m talking about the gut-twisting, heart-splitting moments. The kind that come like whispers from behind the veil. The ones you see, but no one else believes. The ones you feel, and yet can’t describe without someone suggesting you’re unwell.
Reality is a fragile thing. Paper-thin. Laced with lies and riddled with cracks. We’re taught to trust our senses but what happens when your eyes betray you? When the voice in your head sounds more like a memory than a thought?
I’ve seen things. I’ve experienced moments that don’t obey the rules of this world. Shadows that moved against the grain of light. People who weren’t people at all. Faces I only knew in dreams appearing in alleyways, reflections, unfinished thoughts. It’s not madness. I would know. I’m not sick I’m aware.
Some say we’re in a simulation. That this is the Matrix. Others kneel and swear it’s God testing us, measuring our faith through pain. Me? I think something else is at play.
Something older. Something that doesn’t care about your science or your scripture. Something primal that dances just beyond our field of vision. It doesn’t need your worship it just needs you to see it. And when you do… when the veil is pulled back even for a second… you’re never the same again.
I think that’s what happened to me. Somewhere along the line, I stopped being normal. Maybe I never was. Maybe I was chosen or cursed to see the world as it truly is. A mask. A game. A shifting dream with blood at its seams.
I’ve walked streets that weren’t there the next night. Spoken to people who don’t appear on any record. I’ve followed voices into dark forests and emerged with memories that don’t belong to me. I’ve felt teeth that didn’t break skin, but left scars inside my mind.
I’ve looked in the mirror and seen something watching me.
And I ask myself, over and over again: What is real?
Is it pain? Love? Desire? The rush of blood in your mouth when you bite too deep into something forbidden? Or is it the ache of loneliness that sits in your chest like an altar to something long dead?
I don’t know. But I feel like I’m getting closer.
Not to answers. But to truth. And truth is a brutal thing. It doesn’t save you. It doesn’t free you. It only shows you the blade behind the smile. The cage behind the dream.
So if you feel it if you know something is off in this world you’re not alone.
We were never meant to fit here. Not completely.
We are the splinters in the illusion. The glitches in the program. The monsters who remember being men… or the men who were always monsters.
And maybe that’s the most honest thing I can give you.
Sleep lightly.
Dream carefully.
And never trust the light too much it’s always hiding something darker beneath.
It’s funny, isn’t it?
How the ones with rosaries clutched in hand and crosses branded on their skin don’t seem any more whole than those of us cloaked in shadow. How the sermons they swallow every Sunday, thick with guilt and salvation, don’t seem to patch the holes in their hearts any better than the bottle, the blade, or the blood. They speak of Heaven while dragging their feet through Hell, eyes glassy from all the pretending.
Let’s play devil’s advocate.
What if sin isn’t the sickness but the honesty? What if the so-called "sinner" is simply the one unafraid to admit they’re broken? That they want. That they hunger. That they feel rage, lust, grief, confusion. The "saint" smiles while rotting from the inside, but the sinner screams their agony into the void. Which one is truly closer to God? Or the Devil? Does it matter?
Because when you lay dying, does it really make a difference whether you kneeled in pews or in alleyways? Whether your prayers were whispered into stained glass or into a lover’s trembling mouth? Both are sacred in their own way. Both seek something higher.
I’ve seen people walk out of churches and spit venom at the homeless man on the corner. I’ve seen sinners who steal bread to feed their siblings and saints who molest behind closed doors. So tell me where is your line between holy and heinous?
They tell us God is love, but they twist that love into chains, leashes, muzzles. They claim purity is power, yet power itself corrupts especially the divine kind. Look into the eyes of those who claim righteousness, and you’ll find the same emptiness we sinners wrestle with. The same aching need to matter, to be forgiven, to be seen.
So, who is really better off?
The one who hides their demons behind prayers? Or the one who learns to dance with them beneath the moon?
I’ve watched them all. The believers. The blasphemers. The bleeding. And you know what I’ve found? Faith doesn't save you from pain. It just gives you prettier lies to cling to when the darkness sets in.
But maybe that’s all we ever wanted.
A beautiful lie.
A blood-washed fairytale to help us sleep.
Or maybe… we wanted the truth.
Ugly. Raw. Unholy.
And yet somehow, more divine than anything ever whispered from a pulpit.
COMMENTS
Yet no matter the cross or shadows it's belief that drives them to practice their beliefs, I do both sides of the coin and belief is driven to my life on what I feel I need. Not what others preach
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