The Man in the Hat

They say the night breathes different when he is near. Not the kind of breath you can catch. No, it's the kind that weighs heavy in your chest, stealing the air you thought you owned.

I saw him once. Or maybe twice? Does it matter? He wore a hat. A black one. Wide-brimmed, sharp like shadows that don't quite touch the ground. I don't know if I should tell you this, but when he tipped it to me, I felt my heart twist like a dirty rag.

And then... he was inside.

"In the dark, where whispers hum,

A black hat signals what will come.

A heart laid bare, a home laid still,

He digs a hole, he takes his fill."

He didn't knock. He didn't ask. No one would believe me if I said he came through the window, or was it the mirror? My memory is a trickster. Or maybe I'm just afraid to admit that he didn't need a door at all.

It starts small. Always small. A creak in the floorboards where no one walks. A draft that smells like rotting lilies. You laugh it off, call it old wood, bad plumbing, the wind. But he's already inside you by then. Somewhere between your ribs and your spine, where the feeling of dread nests like a vulture.

"In the hollow of your chest,

He plants his roots, he builds his nest.

Through the walls, through the floors,

He'll carve himself a thousand doors."

My neighbors didn't notice at first. How could they? He's a polite guest. Quiet, measured. A shadow that lingers in the corner of your eye. You tell yourself it's nothing. You tell yourself a lot of things. But the holes start appearing.

Holes in the walls. Holes in the ceiling. Holes in... me.

He doesn't just dig, you see. No, no. He takes. The first hole? That was my courage. Pfft, gone. Like a cigarette puffed into the cold. Then he took my dreams. Dug a deep one for that. Didn't even leave a scrap.

"The hat digs deep, it doesn't care,

What you've lost or what's still there.

With every hole, he plants despair,

Until you're nothing but empty air."

I tried to warn her—my wife. Did I have a wife? I think I did. Her laugh was like glass breaking. No, that's not right. Her smile broke me. No, she's not important now. She was just another hole.

He moved into her heart too. I told her to stop opening the windows at night, but she wouldn't listen. Or maybe she did. Maybe he told her to listen to him.

"Once he's in, you can't escape,

No holy book, no sealing tape.

Your walls will bleed, your love will rot,

Until you're left with what you're not."

And me? What's left of me? Not much. A husk, maybe. A body with holes so wide, you could blow the wind through me and hear a tune. A song, maybe. Something soft and sweet, like the dirge of a child's lullaby.

He doesn't leave, you know. He doesn't need to.

"The man in the hat, his work is never done,

He'll carve a thousand hearts before the sun.

And when the light tries to make him flee,

He tips his hat, and becomes part of thee."

I don't think I'm writing this for you. I don't think I'm writing this for anyone. I don't think there's anyone left. If you see him—if you feel him—don't open your heart. Don't let him in.

But you won't listen, will you?

No one ever does.

"In the dark, where shadows play,

The black hat man will find his way.

And when you think you're safe at last,

You'll feel the hole—the one he cast."

I feel him now. Tipping his hat. Smiling, though he doesn't have a face. This is where I stop. Or maybe where I start.

Either way, I'm already gone.