The Awl in the Pine

The house on Hemlock Road wasn’t Victorian, but it was old, nearly a century, with a sagging porch and a square tower that looked like a mistake. We moved in after my mother remarried, into a town where the pines grew so close they scraped the windows at night. My stepfather, Elias, called it ‘rustic charm’; my sister, Marisol, called it ‘a fire hazard wrapped in insulation.’ I just wanted my own space, away from my nephew, Nico, who sleepwalked and once punched a hole in the drywall. So they gave me the attic, which they’d converted into a bedroom with a slanted ceiling and a single dormer window. The previous owners left a tin trunk up there, and I found it filled with old farming tools: a scythe, a rusted sickle, and a leather awl with a wooden handle, its point stained dark. I should have thrown it out, but I kept it on the windowsill, thinking it looked ‘antique.’

The trouble started with the dog. He was a border collie mix, not a sheltie, named Cooper. Every night, between five and six in the morning, he’d stand at the foot of my bed, hackles raised, and growl at the corner by the closet. The first time, I thought it was a rat. But Cooper would not be soothed, not with treats, not with commands. He’d just growl, low and continuous, until the sun rose. Then he’d whine and press his nose to the floor, as if sniffing something I couldn’t see. I started waking up with cold feet, even under the down comforter. I told Marisol, but she laughed and said it was the wind through the pine needles. Elias said nothing, just sipped his coffee with that stony silence he had.

I began to notice things. A scratching sound inside the walls, like an animal trying to get out. A cold draft that came from the attic stairs even when the door was closed. Once, I found the attic door ajar when I knew I’d shut it. And my sleep became restless; I’d wake with vivid dreams of a man in overalls, standing in a field of pines, driving an awl into the trunk of a tree, over and over, whispering, ‘It’s the only way to keep them out.’ I decided I needed answers. My friend, Lena, from school, was into the occult, and she convinced me to make a Ouija board out of a piece of cardboard and a shot glass. We were going to try it in the basement, but the basement door was locked, and Elias had the only key. So we used the attic instead, on a Saturday afternoon when everyone was out. Lena lit a candle, and we placed our fingers on the upside-down glass. The air turned cold, and Cooper, who was with us, started to growl before the planchette even moved. It spelled out a name: ‘MERCER.’ Then it spelled, ‘TURN THE AWL.’ We stopped. I didn’t tell Lena about the awl, but she saw it on the windowsill, and her face went pale. She said, ‘You need to bury that thing, deep, where the roots are.’ She left, and I never saw her again. Not long after, she moved away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I felt a presence in the attic, a heaviness, like someone was sitting on my chest. Cooper lay at the foot of my bed, but he wasn’t growling. He was whimpering, his eyes fixed on the closet door. I got up, my heart pounding, and opened the closet. Inside, the awl had fallen from the windowsill and was lying on the floor. I picked it up, and the wood felt warm, almost alive. I looked at the wall behind the closet, and I saw faint scratches in the plaster, as if something had tried to dig through. I knelt and saw a small hole, about awl-sized, near the floorboard. I don’t know what came over me, but I pressed the awl into the hole. It fit perfectly, and as I twisted it, the wall groaned, and a cold wind blew out, extinguishing my lamp. In the darkness, I heard a voice, not through my ears but inside my head: ‘You let him out.’

I dropped the awl and ran downstairs. My mother was in the kitchen, making tea, and I blurted out everything. She looked at me with a strange calm, as if she’d been waiting for this. She said, ‘This house belonged to the Mercer family. They were pine farmers. The father, Josiah Mercer, went mad after his wife died. He used to carve symbols into the trees, trying to keep the spirits out. But one night, he carved too deep, and something came through. He killed his children and then himself, driving an awl into his own chest. They say his ghost still walks the grove, looking for the one who opened the door.’ I felt a chill. I had opened the door. I had let something in. Cooper started barking from the attic, a frantic, desperate bark. We rushed up, and found him standing in the middle of the room, shaking, pointing with his nose at the window. Outside, among the pines, a figure stood, tall and gaunt, wearing overalls, a cracked leather belt, and a face that was not quite human. It raised its hand, and I saw it held an awl, gleaming like a star. It pointed at me, and I felt a sharp pain in my chest, as if something had pierced my heart. I fell to my knees, gasping, and the world went black.

I woke up in a hospital, three days later. They said I had a heart attack, but I was only seventeen. My mother was there, her eyes red. Elias stood by the window, silent. He stared out at the pines, and I saw him grip the windowsill until his knuckles whitened. I asked about Cooper, and my mother looked away. She said Cooper was found dead the next morning, at the edge of the property, with a hole in his chest, like an awl wound. I knew then that I had to finish this. I had to close the door I had opened. I asked for the awl, but my mother said they had buried it with Cooper, under the biggest pine. That night, I snuck out of the hospital, drove home (my mother had left my keys and wallet), and walked into the grove. The pines were tall and black, their branches like arms reaching for me. I found the freshly dug earth near a gnarled pine, and I dug with my bare hands until I felt the leather handle. I pulled out the awl, and I felt a pull, a hunger, from it. I walked to the house, went up to the attic, and knelt before the closet wall. I pushed the awl into the hole again, but this time, I didn’t turn it. I spoke, my voice trembling: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Please, go back.’ The wall shuddered, and the awl grew hot in my hand. I tried to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge. Then the closet door slammed shut, and the lights went out. I heard a sound like a heartbeat, slow and deep, from the wall. The floorboards under me began to moisten, and I smelled earth and pine resin. A voice, softer now, like a sigh, said, ‘Too late.’ I turned to run, but the door was gone. The walls were closing in, and the awl was now buried in the wall up to the hilt. The last thing I saw was the figure from the grove standing behind me, but now it was transparent, and it held the awl in its chest. It smiled, and then the darkness took me.

They found me the next morning, unconscious, on the attic floor, the awl lying beside me, clean as if it had never been used. I was taken to a mental ward for three months. When I came home, the house felt empty, light. Cooper was gone, but sometimes, at dawn, I hear a soft growl, and I know he’s still with me, guarding me. I never speak of what happened, but I still have the awl. It sits in a lockbox in my closet, wrapped in old cloth. And every now and then, at night, I hear the scratching inside the walls, but it’s faint, like it’s trying to get out, but can’t. I think I closed the door, but I didn’t lock it. And some doors, once opened, are never truly shut again. I keep the awl close, because I’m afraid that if I bury it, something worse will find it. I’m the keeper now, whether I like it or not.