The Damp Hollow

Maya and I had just moved back to our hometown, a place we’d sworn we’d never return to. It was a town of sprawling oak trees and cracked sidewalks, where everyone knew your name and your business. We’d reconnected with old friends, and they’d been spending a lot of time at this guy, Derek’s place. Derek was a newcomer, a quiet, unassuming man who lived in a sprawling Victorian house at the edge of town, near the old mill pond. I hadn’t met him yet, but stories were already circulating.

One evening, a group of our friends were at Derek’s, and our friend Sam suddenly went rigid. His eyes glazed over, and he began to act out something horrific. He was on his hands and knees, his face contorted in pain, his hands clutching his back as if he were being stabbed repeatedly. He even crawled behind the couch, pointing to a spot where the old floorboards were warped, whispering, ‘Here, it happened here.’ Everyone was terrified, and the story spread like wildfire. Maya was there, and she confirmed it, her face pale when she told me.

Of course, I was skeptical. I’ve always been the rational one, the one who debunks ghost stories. I decided to test it. I found an old Ouija board at my aunt’s house, and one evening, when the others were asleep, I set it up in our living room, just Maya and me. We asked aloud, ‘Is there anyone here who wants to speak?’ The planchette began to move, slowly at first, then with more purpose. It spelled out ‘E-L-I-Z-A-B-E-T-H.’

I asked if she was the little girl who had died in the house. The planchette moved to ‘YES.’ I asked how she died, and it spelled out ‘DAD.’ Then, a flood of images hit me: a dark hallway, the sound of crying, a man’s silhouette. Over the next few sessions, Elizabeth told us more. She said her father had killed her and her mother and her little brother, Matthew. She said he was a fisherman, and he’d gone mad after losing his job. She said he was buried under the floorboards behind the couch in Derek’s house.

The sessions grew more intense. Elizabeth became more agitated, her messages becoming fragmented: ‘He’s watching.’ ‘Don’t trust him.’ Then, one night, she said, ‘I can’t talk anymore. Mom says no. He’s coming.’ The planchette flew off the board, and the candles we’d lit flickered out.

I couldn’t shake it. I called Derek, who I’d finally met briefly at a barbecue, and asked if I could come over to check something. He was oddly welcoming. The house was musty, with that old smell of decay and dust. I made an excuse to look behind the couch. There, the floorboards were indeed warped, but they looked too new. I asked Derek if he’d done any renovations. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Just fixing a few things,’ he said.

I left, but I was determined. That night, I dreamed of a small girl with dark hair, standing in a puddle of water, whispering, ‘He’s not the one. He wears his skin.’ I woke up in a cold sweat. I knew then that the man who killed his family was still alive, and Derek might be in danger. Or worse, Derek was the killer.

Everything clicked. Derek’s too-new floorboards. His evasiveness. The way he always wore high-collared shirts, even in summer. I convinced Maya to come with me to the house that next night. We broke in through a back window. The house was dark, but we could hear dripping water. We went to the spot behind the couch. I pried up a board. Underneath, there was a shallow grave, and in it, skeletal remains, wrapped in a tarp. But there were also bones that were too small to be adult.

Suddenly, the front door slammed. We heard footsteps. Derek’s voice called out, ‘I know you’re in there.’ We hid in a closet, but the door opened. He stood there, a knife in his hand, his face twisted. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he said. ‘Elizabeth made a mistake talking to you.’

He advanced, but then we heard a child’s giggle behind him. He froze. The giggle turned into a wail, and the lights flickered. A figure appeared behind him, a small, wet girl, her hair dripping. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘you left me.’ Derek screamed as the ghost of Elizabeth lunged at him, her hands reaching for his throat. Maya and I ran, through the house, into the night, as Derek’s screams echoed behind us.

We didn’t stop until we were back in our apartment, gasping. We called the police, but by the time they arrived, the house was empty. Derek was gone. They found the remains and identified them as his family. The case remained unsolved, and Derek was never found. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a child’s giggle outside my window. And I know Elizabeth is still watching over us, making sure we never forget the truth.