The Hollow Below the Ridge

August 7, 2017

by Kaleb

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (549 words)

"When I was twelve, my cousin Margo and our aunt Ruth took me on an afternoon hike along the old logging trail behind Uncle Pete’s farm. The summer air hung thick with the smell of pine and dry earth, and the trail dipped into a narrow valley where the sun barely broke through the canopy. […]"

When I was twelve, my cousin Margo and our aunt Ruth took me on an afternoon hike along the old logging trail behind Uncle Pete’s farm. The summer air hung thick with the smell of pine and dry earth, and the trail dipped into a narrow valley where the sun barely broke through the canopy. I was a restless kid, always straying from the path, and something pulled me off the trail and down the slope on the far side of the ridge. The ground was sandy, scattered with scrubby bushes and thin, ash-gray trees that looked like they’d been stripped of their bark. The valley floor was flat and open, with no real cover, and I could see all the way to the opposite hill.

I wandered maybe fifty yards down, kicking at stones, when I heard my cousin’s voice call out, ‘Lena, come look at this!’ It was Margo’s voice, clear and close, off to my right. I turned, but there was no one there. The whole slope was visible, and the only movement was a hawk circling high above. I frowned and took a few steps toward where the voice came from, but it seemed to shift, like it had come from a little farther down the hill. Again, it called, ‘Hurry up, you’re going to miss it!’ and this time it was definitely further down, near a cluster of thorny bushes.

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I knew Margo was still up on the road with Aunt Ruth, and I hadn’t seen anyone else on the trail all day. The voice was too real, too exact, and it made my skin prickle. I shouted for Aunt Ruth, my voice cracking. Within seconds, both Margo and Ruth appeared at the edge of the road above me, looking down. Margo yelled, ‘What’s wrong?’ I tried to explain, but the words came out jumbled. I pointed down the hill, but there was nothing there. Aunt Ruth’s face went pale, and she told me in a low, urgent tone to climb back up. I scrambled up the slope, my heart pounding, and when I reached them, Ruth took my arm and said we were leaving.

As we walked back to the farm, I looked over my shoulder once. The valley below the ridge was empty, but I saw a thin wisp of mist curling between the trees, even though it was a hot, dry day. I never asked about it, and Ruth never mentioned it. But that night, I woke to the sound of my own name whispered from the window, soft and insistent, like Margo’s voice but wrong. I didn’t sleep again until dawn. Years later, when I learned that the old logging trail had been built over a place where a family had vanished in the 1800s, I understood that the hollow below the ridge had a hunger, and it remembered how to call.

Even now, when I close my eyes, I can hear that voice, perfectly pitched, perfectly innocent, but with something patient behind it. And I know that if I ever go back, it won’t be Margo’s voice I’ll hear. It’ll be my own, coming from deeper in the woods, and I won’t be able to stop myself from following.

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