The Cadence of the Hollow

The first time I noticed it, I was in the basement of the old farmhouse my family had just moved into. My drum kit was set up in the corner, between a water heater and a stack of dusty boxes. I was sixteen, and the only thing that made the move bearable was the promise that I could play as loud as I wanted without neighbors complaining. So I did, almost every day after school, losing myself in the rhythm until my wrists ached.

It was on the third day that I saw it. A flicker, just at the edge of my vision, near the doorframe that led to the stairs. I spun around, but there was nothing. I shrugged it off, blaming the strange shadows cast by the single bare bulb overhead. But it kept happening, every time I played. A shape, white and indistinct, like a person wrapped in a sheet, but smaller, hunched. It would peek around the corner, then vanish when I turned my head. I told myself it was my imagination, a trick of the light and my tired eyes.

Months passed, and I got used to it. I never mentioned it to anyone, not even my parents, because I knew they’d think I was crazy. But then my friend Leo came over. He played guitar and wanted to try my drums. I was happy to let him, and I sat on an old crate, watching him. He was good, a bit rough, but he found a groove. After about ten seconds, he stopped abruptly, his hands hovering over the snare. He turned to me, his face pale. ‘Dude,’ he said, ‘what was that?’ I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, trying to sound calm. He described it perfectly: a small, white figure, peeking from behind the water heater, its head tilted as if listening. My heart sank. ‘I’ve seen it too,’ I admitted. ‘I thought I was hallucinating.’ Leo shook his head. ‘No, man, it’s real. It’s like… something’s drawn to the sound.’

We tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a reflection from a passing car, anything. But we both knew we’d seen something. After Leo left, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I started experimenting. I played my guitar, which I’d brought from the old house. Nothing. I blasted music from my phone. Nothing. But the moment I sat at the drums and struck the first beat, I saw it again, more distinct this time. It was small, maybe the size of a child, but hunched and twisted, its skin a sickly white. It had no face, just a smooth oval where features should have been, but I could feel it watching me, its head bobbing slightly with the rhythm.

I stopped playing drums for a while. I couldn’t bear the thought of that thing appearing every time. But the silence was worse. The house felt heavy, oppressive, and I found myself drawn to the basement anyway, standing before the dusty kit, my hands itching to hold the sticks. Finally, I gave in. I sat down, took a deep breath, and played the heaviest, most aggressive pattern I knew. The thing appeared immediately, this time closer, right at the edge of the drum kit. It reached out a thin, bony hand, as if trying to touch the cymbals. I froze, and it stopped, pulling back, its head tilting in confusion.

I realized something. It only moved when I played. It was like a parasite feeding on the sound, on the vibrations, on the energy I was putting out. And it was getting bolder. I decided to test a theory. I had read somewhere that some old cultures used drumming to enter altered states and communicate with spirits. Maybe this thing was attracted to that frequency. I spoke to a woman at the local library, Mrs. Harbinger, who was into occult stuff. She told me stories of entities that fed on sound, that were trapped between worlds and could only be summoned by specific rhythms. She warned me not to engage, but I was curious, maybe even obsessed.

One night, I decided to confront it. I set up my drum kit in the center of the basement, facing the corner where it usually appeared. I played a slow, deliberate beat, like a heartbeat. The white figure materialized slowly, starting as a shimmer in the air, then solidifying. It stood before me, just a few feet away. I kept playing, staring at it. It was smaller than me, but it radiated a cold that made my breath mist. It didn’t move, just stood there, as if waiting. I stopped drumming. The instant I did, it started to fade. But then, for the first time, it spoke. Not with a mouth, but I heard a voice in my head, dry and rustling like old leaves. ‘More,’ it said. ‘Give me more.’

I was terrified, but also thrilled. I had tapped into something real. I started playing for it regularly, calling it forth with my rhythms. It would grow more solid, more defined, and sometimes it would move, taking shapes that almost looked like a dancing figure. But as I fed it, I began to feel drained. I had headaches, nightmares, and my drums sounded hollow, like an empty well. I knew I had to stop, but it wouldn’t leave me alone. It would appear even when I wasn’t playing, sometimes just a flicker, sometimes more solid, always watching, always waiting.

Leo came over one last time. He saw me, haggard and pale, and demanded to know what was happening. I told him everything. He was horrified. ‘You have to get rid of it,’ he said. ‘It’s feeding on you.’ He had an idea. He said we could use a different rhythm, one that might banish it, like a frequency that shatters glass. We went down to the basement. I was shaking, but I sat at the kit. Leo stood behind me, holding a camera to record. ‘Play something chaotic, something that waves everything,’ he said.

I started a wild, syncopated beat, full of off-beats and dissonant accents. The white figure appeared, but it was different. It was agitated, growing and shrinking, its body flickering. It let out a high-pitched wail, not in the air but in my mind, like a thousand needles. I felt my nose bleed. But I kept playing. The figure started to twist, its limbs elongating grotesquely. I could see its face now, a gaping mouth that opened impossibly wide. It lunged at me. I fell backward, the drums crashing around me. Leo screamed. The figure was on top of me, its weight like a heavy blanket, its cold breath on my face. It was absorbing the sound, the rhythm, my very life force.

Just as I thought I would pass out, Leo grabbed a broom and swung it blindly. The figure dissipated, but not before I heard its voice again: ‘You cannot stop the music.’ I lay there, gasping, Leo helping me up. The camera was still recording, but when we played it back, all we saw was static, and at the end, a single frame of a white face, eyes wide with hunger. We never spoke of it again, and I sold the drums. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a faint, distant drumbeat, and I know it’s still out there, waiting for someone else to play its favorite song.