The Garden of Painted Stones

The house at 14 Elderberry Lane always felt like a skin stretched too tight over something restless. I’m Mira, seventeen, and we moved here two years ago when Dad got a job at the old textile mill. The town is quiet, full of retirees and overgrown gardens. But our house sits on the edge of a burial ground that the locals call the Garden of Painted Stones, because every spring, white and blue wildflowers cover the mounds. The real stones are still there, half sunk into the earth, their carvings worn smooth. When I first saw them, I thought they were just old fence posts. I was wrong.

Nighttime is when the house breathes. Not in a poetic way—actually breathes, like a giant chest expanding and contracting in the walls. The first night, I woke to the sound of dry scraping, like nails on slate, coming from the hallway. I froze, listening. It stopped when I turned on my lamp. But after that, I began to notice the sounds. In my room, even with my telly muted, I’d hear a low hum, like a distant crowd chanting, and sometimes a whistle, one note repeated, as if someone was trying to get my attention.

My best friend, Ana, came over last month. We were watching a film in the living room, and she suddenly grabbed my arm. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. I hadn’t heard anything, but then a low groan rolled through the room, so deep I felt it in my teeth. Ana’s face went pale. She swore something brushed her ankle. And later, sitting on the sofa, she yelped and slapped her own leg, saying something had pinched her. I tried to laugh it off, but I’d felt it too—a cold tug on my hair, as if ghostly fingers were testing its strength.

The scratches started after that. Not like cat scratches—deeper, with a pattern. Three long lines and a short one, always on my forehead or cheek, always appearing overnight. I lock my door; I have a deadbolt. My two cats, Jasper and Luna, are never allowed in my room. But every morning, there they are, red and raw, as if drawn with a needle. One time, I woke with my pillow soaked in blood and four fresh scratches, the middle one so deep it took two weeks to heal.

The worst is when I look in the mirror. I have a small, round mirror in my bedroom, and sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure behind me. It’s tall, thin, and featureless, like a silhouette of smoke. When I turn to look, there’s nothing. But the air grows cold, and the smell of damp earth fills my nose, along with something else—something metallic, like old pennies.

Last night, I decided to follow the sound. The whistle was coming from outside, from the Garden of Painted Stones. I crept out of bed, my heart thumping, and peered through my window. The moon was full, casting silver light on the mounds. A figure stood among the stones, motionless. It was the same silhouette from my mirror. And it was looking up at my window, right at me. Its face was a void, but I felt its gaze bore into me. Then it raised a hand and beckoned, one finger curling.

I stumbled back, my back hitting the wall. The whistle stopped. The silence that followed was worse. Then I heard a scratching at my door, like fingernails raking the wood. The deadbolt rattled. I screamed and flicked on every light. The scratching stopped, but the smell of earth was overpowering. I stayed awake until dawn, huddled under my covers, clutching a kitchen knife I’d grabbed from the drawer.

This morning, I walked to the Garden of Painted Stones. The grass was wet with dew, and the wildflowers were in bloom, but I barely noticed. I found the grave that matched the stones by my window. The headstone was cracked and mossy, but I could still read the name: ELIANA VANE, 1642-1661. Only nineteen years old. And just below the name, carved in crude letters, were the words: ‘She was taken by the Hollow Man.’ I don’t know what that means, but I think I know who the Hollow Man is. And I think he wants me to join him. Tonight, I’m going to dig up her grave. I have to know what’s buried there. Maybe that will stop the scratching. Or maybe it will only make it worse.