The Hollow Between Pines

The summer of 2011, I found myself packing my life into the rusty belly of a ’92 Buick LeSabre, the air conditioner wheezing like a dying man. My wife, Mara, had cried when we left the city, but I’d promised her the quiet of the countryside would heal the ache of losing her grandmother. Our destination was a dilapidated pinewood cabin on the edge of Gray Hollow, a name that felt more like a sigh than a place. The property belonged to an old friend of Mara’s family, a taciturn man named Elias who had let us stay ‘until we found our footing.’ The cabin was nestled between two hills that seemed to swallow the sun by four in the afternoon, and the nearest neighbor was a good two miles down a rutted dirt road.

Our first week was spent scrubbing years of dust and mildew from the walls, and I remember the way the wood grain seemed to shift when I looked at it from the corner of my eye. I chalked it up to exhaustion, but the unease settled in my gut like a cold stone. The nights were the worst. The forest pressed close, breathing through the single-paned windows, and the occasional cry of a fox would send Mara trembling into my arms. She swore she heard someone walking on the porch, soft footfalls that stopped when she turned on the light. I found scratches on the doorframe one morning, fresh and deep, as if a hand had clawed at it in frustration. I told her it was a raccoon, but the marks were too deliberate, too human.

The trouble began with the man in the blue coveralls. I first saw him from the kitchen window, standing at the edge of the pine line, just watching. He was gaunt, with skin the color of old newspapers, and his eyes were two black pits that seemed to drink the light. I grabbed my shotgun, but by the time I got outside, he was gone, leaving only a faint smell of damp earth and burnt sugar. Mara refused to speak of him, but I caught her staring at the same spot, her hands shaking as she clutched her mug of tea. That night, I heard a voice outside our bedroom window, low and rhythmic, like a chant in a language I almost recognized. Mara was asleep, or pretending to be, but I saw her fingers curl into claws on the blanket.

The next day, I decided to explore the woods behind the cabin. The pines grew so close together that the light barely touched the floor, and the ground was soft with decades of needles. I found a trail that had been recently cleared, the broken branches still oozing sap. I followed it for what felt like an hour, until I came upon a clearing where the trees had grown in a circle, their trunks twisted into grotesque shapes. In the center was a stone well, the top covered by a rotted wooden lid. I pried it open, and the smell that rose up was like nothing I’d ever encountered—a mixture of honey and rot. Peering in, I saw not water, but a dark, viscous liquid that swirled lazily, as if alive. I heard a voice call my name, whisper soft, from somewhere below. I slammed the lid shut and ran back to the cabin, my heart thrashing.

That evening, I tried to call Elias to ask about the well, but my phone had no signal. Mara was in the bedroom, humming a lullaby I didn’t recognize, her voice too high and sweet. I went to check on her, and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, her hands folded in her lap. She turned to me, and for a moment, her eyes looked wrong—too large, too dark, as if something was looking out through them. She smiled, and it was not her smile. Her lips stretched too wide, showing teeth that seemed too numerous. I blinked, and she was back to normal, asking if I wanted supper. I couldn’t eat.

That night, I had a dream. I was walking through the pines, and the sky was a bruise of purple and green. The well was open, and a figure rose from it, dripping with that black liquid. It had no face, just a smooth oval of skin, but I could feel it staring at me. It spoke in a voice that was not a voice, but a vibration in my bones: ‘You let her in. Now you must come.’ I woke up screaming, and Mara was sitting beside me, her hand on my chest, her eyes filled with a dreadful calm. She said, ‘It’s okay. He only wants what’s his.’ I asked who, but she just turned away.

Three days later, I found the photograph. It was in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under old receipts and rusty nails. It showed a family standing in front of the cabin—a man, a woman, and a child—all with the same black-pit eyes. The man wore blue coveralls. The back was dated 1978, and it read ‘The Hollow family, summer solstice.’ I felt the blood drain from my face. Elias had never mentioned anyone living here. I called his number, but it was dead. That’s when I found the gravestones, hidden under a tangle of ivy and brush behind the outhouse. There were three of them, carved with the names Thomas, Edith, and Jonah Hollow. The dates of death were all the same: June 21, 1978. The cause was not listed.

That evening, I confronted Mara. I demanded to know what she knew. She looked at me, and her face shifted, the skin rippling like water, and for a moment I saw the black-pit eyes staring back at me. Then she spoke, and her voice was layered, two voices at once: ‘He’s been waiting for company. This place is hungry, and we are the meal.’ I ran. I grabbed my keys and the shotgun, and I tore out of the cabin, leaving her standing in the doorway. I drove down the dirt road, but the road seemed to stretch, the pines closing in like a closing fist. And on the radio, even though it was a CD player, a song began to play—a lullaby, sung by a child, in a language I didn’t know.

I don’t remember stopping. But I found myself at the edge of the clearing, the well open, the black liquid bubbling. I couldn’t move. A figure emerged from the pines, the man in blue coveralls, his face now a mask of bark and moss, his eyes empty sockets. He walked past me, to the well, and began to lower himself in. The liquid swirled, and I heard Mara’s voice, as clear as a bell, coming from inside: ‘Come home, John. We’ve been waiting.’ And I knew that the cabin had claimed us, that the Hollow family had finally finished their ritual, and that I would soon be part of the earth, my face carved into the trees like theirs.

The last thing I remember is stepping forward, feeling the cold air of the well on my skin, and the whisper of the pines as they leaned in to watch. I no longer know if I’m alive or dead. I only know that I am here, in the hollow between pines, waiting for the next wanderer to find my name carved in the wood—a name I no longer recall, but a warning nonetheless.