The Call of the Pine Barrens

I was nine when we moved into the old farmhouse at the edge of the Pine Barrens. The move itself was unremarkable—a few miles from our cramped apartment in town to a place with more land than I knew what to do with. The house had been empty for years, and my parents saw it as a fixer-upper, a project to keep us busy. I didn’t mind; I had the woods to explore, and the nearest neighbor was a mile down the dirt road.

It started a few weeks after we settled in. I’d be in my room, building a fort out of blankets, or out back, kicking a soccer ball against the barn, and I’d hear my name—’Elias’—called in my father’s voice, clear and impatient. I’d drop everything and run to find him. But he’d be in the study, reading, or out in the garden, and he’d look up with a puzzled frown. ‘I didn’t call you,’ he’d say. ‘Maybe it was the wind.’ The first few times, I thought he was joking. He had a dry sense of humor, and he liked to get a rise out of me. But after a while, the look in his eyes was genuine confusion, and I began to doubt my own ears.

As I got older, the calls became more frequent, especially when I was home alone. My parents both worked long hours, and I was a latchkey kid from age eleven. The house would creak and settle, and then—there it was, my name, echoing up the stairs, from the direction of the living room. I’d go check, expecting no one, and the silence would press in around me. I told myself it was the floorboards, or a bird, but the sound was unmistakable. It had a quality to it—a sharpness, a familiarity—that made my skin prickle.

The dog knew something was off. She was a mutt, a collie mix named Boo, and she’d growl low in her throat whenever the call came. She’d stare at the hallway, ears flat, tail between her legs. Once, when I was fourteen and home sick from school, I heard my name called from the basement. Boo ran to the basement door and barked frantically, scratching at the wood. I stood at the top of the stairs, fear curdling in my stomach. I didn’t open that door. I called my dad, and he came home early. He searched the basement, found nothing, and chalked it up to the old pipes.

But I knew better. There was something in the house, something that used my father’s voice. I started recording the house with my phone, leaving it on a table in the hallway, hoping to catch the sound. I never did. The calls stopped whenever I was actively listening. It was as if it knew.

When I was seventeen, one weekend, my dad was away on a business trip, and my mom was at a conference. I was home alone with Boo. It was a Saturday evening, and I was in the den watching a movie, sprawled on the couch. Boo was asleep at my feet. Then I heard it—clear as day, from the kitchen: ‘Elias.’ It was my father’s voice, but there was a strange undertone, a wet, breathy quality that I’d never noticed before. I froze, my heart hammering. My dad wasn’t home. I knew that. But the call was so real, so urgent, that I found myself rising from the couch and walking toward the kitchen, my legs moving on their own.

I stepped into the kitchen. The light was off, but the moon cast a pale glow through the window. The room was empty. But the air was cold, colder than the rest of the house, and I could see my breath. Boo had followed me, and she was whining, pressing herself against my legs. Then I heard it again, this time from the basement door, which was slightly ajar. The basement stairs descended into darkness. ‘Elias,’ it called, and this time, it wasn’t my father’s voice. It was my own. It was my voice, calling my name, pleading, desperate.

I stood at the top of the basement stairs, my hand on the railing, and I felt a pull, a compulsion to go down. Boo barked, a sharp, terrified bark, and she tugged at my pant leg, trying to drag me back. I stumbled, grabbed the doorframe, and something cold brushed my ankle, like a wet hand. I screamed and yanked myself back, slamming the basement door shut. I ran to my room, slammed the door, and didn’t come out until morning.

The next day, I told my parents I wanted to move. They laughed, said it was just the house settling. But I saw the look in my father’s eyes—he’d heard it too. He just didn’t want to admit it. I started spending as much time away from the house as possible, but the calls followed me. I’d be at a friend’s house, and I’d hear my name in a crowd, but no one had spoken. It was always my imagination, I told myself. Always.

I’m twenty-three now. I still live in the same house, because it’s cheap, and I’ve taken over the mortgage from my parents. The calls still happen. Sometimes they’re my father’s, sometimes my mother’s, sometimes my own. The last time, a week ago, I was in the basement, doing laundry. I heard my name called from the far corner, where the furnace is. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a figure standing there—a tall, thin man, his face obscured, his shape like a charcoal sketch. He raised a hand, beckoning. I dropped the laundry and fled up the stairs, my heart pounding.

I haven’t gone back to the basement since. But I know I can’t avoid it forever. The house is old, and the call is patient. It’s been calling for years, and it will keep calling. I don’t know what it wants, but I know that one day, I’ll answer. I’ll walk down those stairs, and I won’t come back. And then, maybe, the call will finally be answered.