The Damp Hollow

The rain had stopped two days prior, but the ground still squelched underfoot. At 2:47 AM, my cat, Barnaby, began to hiss and claw at the bedroom door. I groggily rose, thinking a raccoon prowled the yard. I unlatched the door, and Barnaby bolted past me into the dark, heading not for the litter box but straight across the flagstone patio, toward the line of ancient, gnarled willows that bordered the fen behind our farmhouse.

I stepped onto the cold slate, and my breath caught. The willows, their trailing branches still dripping with last week’s storm, were swaying violently—not with the wind, for there was none—but as if something had landed on them. I moved to the edge of the light cast by the porch lamp, and that’s when I saw it: a pale, almost translucent form, roughly the size of a large man, leaping from the ground to the lowest branch of the nearest willow. It didn’t climb; it launched itself, and the branch bowed under its weight, spraying water like a shaken umbrella. Then it swung, or perhaps stepped, to the next willow, three feet away, and that one bent in a groan.

I froze, my heart hammering. The creature was vaguely simian, its limbs long and spindly, but its outline was sharp and luminous, like a lightning strike in reverse. Through its chest, I could see the wet bark of the willow behind it. It paused on the second tree, its head cocking toward me—or so I imagined. Then it dropped to the ground with a soft, sodden thud and began to walk, not run, toward the deeper part of the fen, where the cattails stood like sentinels and the mist clung to the mud.

Barnaby had vanished. I called for him, my voice a hoarse whisper that felt too loud in the silence. The creature stopped at the edge of the marsh, turned its head—the outline of a skull visible, as if it were wearing a mask made of nothing—and then it crouched, plunging its hands into the black water. It stayed that way for a long moment, not moving, as if listening to something beneath the surface. Then it rose, a dripping, shape-shifting mass, and began to wade deeper, until the cattails swallowed it.

I did not sleep that night. I sat in the kitchen, Barnaby’s empty bowl before me, and watched the clock tick. At dawn, I walked to the fen. The water was still, the only ripples coming from a water strider. There were no footprints, no broken reeds—nothing to mark the creature’s passage. But I noticed something odd: a small, smooth stone at the water’s edge, perfectly round, that hadn’t been there before. It was warm to the touch, even in the chill morning air. I pocketed it, telling myself it was just a pebble.

That night, I dreamed of the fen. I stood in the water, the mud sucking at my boots, and the creature rose from the depths, not translucent but solid, its fur matted with algae. It opened its mouth, and a sound came out—not a roar, but a low, rhythmic hum, like a distant engine. I woke with the stone in my hand, humming in resonance, vibrating against my palm. I dropped it, and the hum stopped.

For a week, I avoided the fen. But the stone called to me, or perhaps it was Barnaby’s absence. I found him on the seventh day, at the edge of the marsh, soaking wet, but unharmed. He was staring at the water, and when I picked him up, he was trembling. I looked out at the cattails, and I saw it again—the translucent form, standing perfectly still, watching us. This time, I did not flee. I stood my ground, and I whispered, ‘What do you want?’

The creature raised one long arm and pointed, not at me, but at the spot where I had found the stone. Then it vanished. I never returned to the fen. I sold the farmhouse, moved to the city, and pawned the stone at a shop that dealt in oddities. The shopkeeper, a man with rheumy eyes, held it up to the light and said, ‘This is from a hollow place. Best not to keep it.’ He bought it for a pittance. I left, but I still hear the hum sometimes, late at night, when the city is quiet. It comes from under the bed, or from inside the walls, and I know, with a certainty that chills me, that it’s not the stone calling—it’s the hollow place, waiting for me to return.