The Hollow at Wolf Creek

The first time I saw the light, I thought it was a reflection off a piece of tin in the creek. We’d bought the old farmstead at the edge of the Nez Perce National Forest in ’89, forty acres of scrub and pine that hadn’t been worked since the ’30s. The cabin itself was a two-room log job with a tin roof that rattled in the wind, and a porch that sagged like a tired hound. I’d come up alone that October to bowhunt, same as I always did, chasing mule deer through the draws and ridges.

That morning, I was out before dawn, coffee gone, dressed in my camo, and I slipped down the slope toward the creek that cut through the property. The moon was down, and the stars were thick, but there was a light down by the water—a pale, greenish glow, low to the ground, moving slowly, like a deer’s eyeshine but wrong. I thought maybe it was a coyote, but it was too steady. I watched it for a minute, then it winked out. I chalked it up to exhaustion, or a trick of the dark, and set up my stand on a ridge overlooking a game trail.

No deer that morning. By noon, the sun had burned off the frost, and I decided to check the creek crossing for tracks. I found plenty—deer, raccoon, and a set of boot prints that weren’t mine. They were old, with a hobnail pattern I’d only seen in museum photos, and they led from the water up to a moss-covered slab of rock that looked out of place. The rock was about four foot square, flat, and set in the ground like it had been placed. I brushed away the leaves and found symbols carved into it—arrows, circles, and a pattern like a tangled knot. Something about it made my scalp prickle, so I backed off and went to the cabin.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the light in my mind, and the symbols. Around 2 AM, I heard a sound like breathing right outside the bedroom window. I froze, listening. It was slow, rhythmic, like a large animal asleep. I grabbed my flashlight and edged to the window, but when I shone the beam out, there was nothing but pine needles and dark. The sound stopped, and I told myself it was the wind in the stovepipe.

The next day, I went back to the rock with a notebook, tracing the symbols. I tried to match them to something in the books I had, but nothing fit. As the day wore on, I noticed the light again—this time from the corner of my eye, in the trees. It was following me, keeping its distance. It didn’t feel like an animal. It felt like it was watching, and waiting. I decided to head back to the cabin before dark, but I took a wrong turn on the ridge and ended up at a place I didn’t recognize. The land looked samey, but there was a dead pine split by lightning, and I knew I hadn’t seen it before.

I stood there, and the light appeared again, stronger this time, about forty yards away, hovering at chest height. It pulsed, like a heartbeat, and I felt a pulling in my chest, like a hook. I took a step toward it, not wanting to, but my legs moved on their own. I stopped myself, fighting the urge, and the light flickered. Then it stretched, elongated, and became a dark shape—tall, thin, with arms that hung too long. It had no face, just a smooth head, and it stood there, swaying. I heard a voice, soft as a mother’s whisper, saying, ‘Come on, now. Don’t you want to see?’

I ran. I broke every branch in my way, crashing through the brush, not looking back until I hit the creek. I splashed across, soaked, and scrambled up the bank to the cabin. Inside, I barred the door, sat against it, and shook until dawn. I didn’t sleep. Every creak was it coming. When the sun rose, I packed my truck and drove the six hours back to the city, leaving the cabin and its hollow behind.

I never went back. I sold the place a year later, sight unseen, to a logging company. I didn’t ask questions. Some things you don’t need to know. But every now and then, when I close my eyes, I see that light in the trees, pulsing, and I hear that voice calling me home. And I wonder if it’s still there, waiting, patient, and whether one day I won’t be strong enough to run.