The Cone Hollow Road

In the summer of 1982, my family and I were staying at my grandmother’s old farmhouse in the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania. The nearest neighbor was a good half-mile down the gravel road, and the woods behind the house seemed to swallow the sun by late afternoon. My cousin Carl, two years younger than me, and his older sister Marie, who was my age, had come up from Ohio with their folks for the weekend. We were all bored, craving something sweet, and the only place within walking distance was a little ice cream stand called Dairy Delight, about two miles down the road.

Our parents gave us each a dollar bill—a fortune back then—and told us to be back before dark. We set off down the gravel road, the heat shimmering off the tar patches, the scent of wild honeysuckle thick in the air. Carl kicked up dust with his sneakers, Marie hummed a song from the radio, and I tried to ignore the strange feeling that we were being watched. Every time I glanced over my shoulder, the only thing behind us was the farmhouse shrinking in the distance, its windows dark despite the sun.

About a mile in, we came to a stretch of road we’d never noticed before. It was lined with ancient oak trees, their branches intertwining overhead to form a canopy that blocked the sunlight, making the road feel cool and damp. The gravel here was darker, almost black, and there were odd stone markers—like small, crude headstones—placed at irregular intervals along the shoulder. Marie stopped and pointed at one. ‘Look at this,’ she said. Carved into the stone was the word ‘MOTHER’ in crooked letters. We all felt a chill despite the heat.

Carl suggested we turn back, but Marie laughed and said it was just an old cemetery plot. ‘We’re almost there,’ she insisted. ‘I can see the sign.’ Indeed, ahead, the trees thinned and a small, weathered building appeared. It had a bright red and white awning that seemed incongruously cheerful, and a big sign that said ‘DAIRY DELIGHT’ in peeling paint. The parking lot was empty, but a tarnished silver bell on the door jingled as we entered.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale sugar and something else—something metallic, like old blood. A woman stood behind the counter, her back to us, wiping a glass with a rag. She was tall and gaunt, with hair the color of straw that hung in limp strands. When she turned, her face was deeply lined, and her eyes were too pale, almost white. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked, her voice a dry rasp.

We ordered three chocolate dips, and she nodded slowly. As she worked, she kept glancing at the door, as if expecting someone else. Finally, she handed us our cones, but they seemed wrong. The ice cream was an odd gray-ish brown, and it didn’t melt. It just sat there, cold, like it wasn’t made of cream at all. We paid, and she said, ‘You be careful walking back. The road changes at night.’ We laughed nervously, but her expression didn’t change.

As we stepped outside, the sun had dipped lower, and the shadows from the oaks stretched long across the road. Carl took a bite of his cone and grimaced. ‘This tastes like dirt,’ he said. Marie tasted hers and spat it out. It was like chalk. I licked mine, and a wave of nausea hit me. We tossed the cones into the underbrush and started back.

We walked in silence, the only sound our feet crunching the dark gravel. After a few minutes, I noticed the stone markers were gone. In their place were small, circular patches of dead grass, as if something had been uprooted. Marie quickened her pace. ‘Let’s run,’ she said. We broke into a jog, then a full sprint, our hearts pounding. The canopy seemed to close in, blocking the last light, so it was almost dusk under the trees. We ran until we burst out into the open, breathing hard, the farmhouse in the distance.

We slowed to a walk, catching our breath. But something was wrong. The road ahead seemed too long. The farmhouse wasn’t getting any closer. In fact, it seemed farther away, a tiny silhouette on the horizon. We stopped and looked back the way we’d come. The road stretched straight ahead, but behind us, it curved sharply to the left, disappearing into a thicket. ‘That’s not right,’ Carl whispered. We started walking again, faster. The farmhouse grew slightly larger, but as we approached, I realized it wasn’t the same farmhouse. It was bigger, with a wrap-around porch and a cupola on the roof. The windows glowed with a warm, amber light, and we could see figures moving inside.

Marie grabbed our arms. ‘Don’t go there,’ she said. ‘That’s not grandma’s house.’ But Carl was already walking up the porch steps, his hand reaching for the door handle. Marie and I followed, unable to stop ourselves. The door swung open before Carl touched it, and a woman stood there. She looked like the woman from Dairy Delight, but younger, with the same pale eyes. ‘Welcome back,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have your cones ready.’ We looked past her into the house. Inside, at a long table, sat a group of people, motionless, their faces blank, and on the table were dozens of cones, all gray and unmelted, arranged in neat rows.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I woke up. I was lying on the side of the road, the gravel digging into my cheek. The sun was setting for real this time, and the farmhouse was just ahead, lights on, normal. Marie and Carl were beside me, moaning, rubbing their heads. We sat up, covered in dust, and stumbled home. Our parents scolded us for being late, but we didn’t tell them what happened. We never went back to Dairy Delight. The next day, we left, and I haven’t been back to that road since. But sometimes, I dream of that house, and I hear a tarnished bell jingling, and a dry voice whispering, ‘The road changes at night.’