The Hollow at the Edge of the Woods

The summer I turned six, we lived in a house that leaned against the forest like a tired traveler against a tree. The porch steps groaned under my weight, and the screen door sang a rusty lullaby whenever it swung shut. My father called it ‘the old Millbrook place,’ and my mother said the landlord didn’t care about the peeling paint or the crooked chimney, as long as we paid on time. We were grateful for the roof, even if it leaked when it rained, and for the warmth of the wood stove that my brother Martin stoked every evening.

Beyond our yard, the forest began—a tangled wall of oak and pine that the landlord, Mr. Hargrove, had warned us to stay out of. ‘Nothing but ticks and poison ivy,’ he’d said, but his eyes flicked nervously to the treeline when he spoke. My father, a man of few words, just nodded. But Martin and I often peered into the green gloom, watching the light shift between the leaves, and I could swear I heard something moving just out of sight.

The yard itself sloped down to the Hendersons’ trailer, a small blue box that looked like it had been dropped from the sky. Mrs. Henderson did laundry for extra money, and my mother helped her on Tuesdays and Fridays. Marty and I sometimes played with their son, Tommy, whose laugh was as bright as the porch light that flickered on at dusk.

One afternoon, the air grew thick and heavy, like the sky was holding its breath. My mother had just left to help Mrs. Henderson fold sheets, leaving me alone on the porch with a bowl of snap peas. Martin was down at the creek, skipping stones, and my father was at work. The silence felt different that day—not peaceful, but watchful. I set down the bowl and walked to the edge of the yard, where the grass gave way to ferns and fallen branches.

That’s when I saw it: a glint of metal half-buried in the duff, near the base of a gnarled oak. Curiosity pulled me forward, despite the prickle at the back of my neck. I knelt and brushed away the leaf litter, revealing a small tin box, no bigger than a shoebox, rusted and dented. The lid was stuck, but I pried it open with my fingernails, and inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a child’s drawing. It was crude, but I could make out a house on a hill, a trailer below, and a stick figure with a wide smile. Written in shaky letters across the bottom was: ‘DON’T GO INTO THE WOODS.’

I laughed, thinking it was a prank, but when I looked up, the forest seemed darker, the trees closer. I should have gone inside, but instead I heard a faint humming, like a lullaby, coming from deeper in the woods. It was a woman’s voice, soft and low, and it made me feel sleepy and safe. I took a step into the shade, then another, following the sound.

The undergrowth was thick, and the branches snagged at my clothes, but the humming never stopped. It led me to a clearing I’d never seen before, where an old well stood, its wooden cover rotted through. The humming stopped, and a cold breeze rushed up from the hole, carrying a smell like wet earth and decay. I peered over the edge, expecting darkness, but instead I saw a pale face looking back at me, mirrored in a pool of water far below. The face wasn’t mine. It was a woman’s, with hollow eyes and a mouth open in a silent scream.

I stumbled back, crashing through the brush, and ran all the way home. My mother found me on the porch, shaking, and when she asked what was wrong, I could only point to the woods. She went pale, and without a word, she took me to the neighbors’ trailer. Mrs. Henderson looked at me with knowing eyes and said, ‘You found the well, didn’t you? We all did, as children.’ She told me that the house had been built near a skirmish site from the war, and that many had died in the woods, their bodies never found. ‘They say the well is a doorway,’ she whispered, ‘and sometimes the lost ones sing to bring others home.’

That night, I lay awake, listening to the wind rattle the windows. Just before dawn, I heard the humming again, but this time it came from inside the house, from the hallway outside my door. My brother’s bed was empty; he’d gone to the outhouse. I pulled the covers over my head, and the humming stopped. But I felt a presence at the foot of my bed, a weight pressing down. I peeked out, and there was a shape—a child, no taller than me, with the same hollow eyes as the woman in the well. It raised a hand and pointed out the window, toward the woods.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. In the morning, I told my parents we had to move, but my mother dismissed it as a nightmare. Yet over the next week, things changed. Our dog, Rusty, refused to go near the woods, whimpering when we dragged him outside. Tommy Henderson stopped coming to play, and his mother said he’d become sickly, sleepwalking and talking to someone named ‘Lucy.’ And one night, Martin disappeared from his bed. We found him at dawn, sitting by the well in the forest, humming that same tune, covered in scratches. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

After that, my father finally agreed to leave. We packed our few belongings and drove away, but as we turned onto the main road, I looked back and saw a figure at the edge of the woods—a woman in a long dress, with a child at her side. They were watching us, and I knew that no matter where we went, the well would find us in our dreams, calling us home. Even now, years later, I sometimes wake to the sound of humming, and I feel a pull toward the nearest patch of trees. I’ve never gone back, but I know the door is still open, waiting.