The Hollow Between the Pines

My friend Theo and I had taken shelter from the drizzle under the old bandstand in Pelican Park, our usual spot for nothing in particular. The park had a sprawling field, a few rusted swings, and a dense grove of pines on the eastern edge that everyone avoided. The locals called it the Needle Woods, whispering tales of a woman who’d vanished there in the ’70s, her body never found. We’d laughed at those stories, but as the sky darkened and Theo’s face grew pale, he admitted he needed a bathroom badly. The nearest public restroom was on the other side of the grove, and walking around would take twenty minutes. We could cut through the pines in five. I hesitated, but the urgency in Theo’s eyes won me over.

We stepped into the grove, the air immediately cooler and thicker with the smell of damp earth and resin. The trees were so close their branches interlocked overhead, blotting out the gray sky. The ground was a carpet of needles, muffling our footsteps. We walked in silence, our breath visible despite the mild evening, and I noticed a strange quiet—no birdsong, no rustle of small animals, just the soft crunch of our own progress. I was about to make a joke about the stories when a sharp snap echoed to our left. We both froze. I squinted into the gloom, but saw nothing. ‘Probably a squirrel,’ I said, though my voice cracked.

We quickened our pace. The needle path curved, and the trees seemed to press closer. Suddenly, another snap, closer this time, from behind a thicket of ferns. I turned fully, scanning the undergrowth. Nothing. When I spun back, Theo was gone. It was as if the air had swallowed him. My heart hammered. I called his name, but the grove was silent, almost expectant. I spun in a circle, panic rising, when I felt a lurching drop in my stomach and the temperature plummeted—a pocket of cold so sharp it stole my breath. I blinked, and there was Theo, standing a few feet away, but something was off. His face was ashen, his eyes wide and fixed beyond my shoulder. I followed his gaze to the right.

It stood among the pine trunks, half-formed, a shifting silhouette of gray and black, like a tear in the world. Its face was a blur, but I could see a hollow where its mouth should be, and its arms hung too long, ending in ragged fingers that twitched. It didn’t move toward us; it just watched, and the emptiness around it seemed to drink all sound. We backed away slowly, then broke into a run. The cold chased us, pressing at our backs, but we burst out onto the football field, gasping, the floodlights washing us in artificial yellow. We didn’t stop until we collapsed on my front porch, and when we finally looked at each other, we both knew we’d never speak of it again. But sometimes, on quiet nights, I hear a snap behind me, and I don’t turn around. I just run, because I know that if I look, I’ll see the hollow waiting to swallow me whole.