The Hollow Between the Pines

The house stood at the edge of a pine forest in the high desert of New Mexico, a sprawling adobe that had belonged to my grandmother’s family for generations. Every summer, I’d come from the coast to stay, and every night, I’d lie awake in the east bedroom, my mother’s childhood room, staring at the open doorway to the guest room across the hall. My uncle, a reclusive man who lived alone in the house when we weren’t there, claimed he’d heard footsteps on the roof, tapping on the windows, and a low hum that seemed to come from the walls. I dismissed it as the wind or the old house settling, until the summer I turned thirteen.

That night, the desert heat was suffocating. I slept with the windows open, but the air was still. I drifted off to the sound of cicadas, and into a dream so vivid I could feel the grit of dust between my teeth. I was standing in the living room, but it was empty, the furniture gone. The floor was swept clean, and the windows were covered in a fine white powder. In the center of the room, the old rug was gone, revealing a trapdoor I had never seen. It was slightly ajar, and a faint light leaked from below.

I woke with the sensation of falling, my heart pounding. The clock read 3:13 AM. The house was silent, but the air felt thick, charged. I sat up, and that’s when I saw it—a thin line of light under the doorway to the guest room. That door was always closed, but now I couldn’t remember if I had closed it. I got up and walked to the doorway, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor. I pushed the door open, and the light vanished, leaving the room in darkness. The room was bare, with only a bed and a nightstand, as always. But on the nightstand, there was a small ceramic figurine of a deer, one I had never seen before.

I picked it up. It was warm, as if recently held. And on its base, there was an inscription: ‘For Elias, who listens.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. Elias was my uncle’s name. But why would a figurine be here for him? I put it back and returned to my room, but I couldn’t sleep. I heard a faint scratching from inside the walls, like something was moving. It stopped when I held my breath.

The next morning, I asked my grandmother about the figurine. She looked at me with worry in her eyes. ‘Don’t go into the guest room at night, mija,’ she said. ‘It’s not for you.’ When I pressed her, she told me that the house was built on land that had once been a burial ground for the pueblo people, and that sometimes, spirits linger. She gave me a bundle of sage to burn that night, and told me to stay in my room.

That night, I did as she said, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting. At 3:13 AM again, I woke to a sound—a low, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat. It came from the direction of the guest room. I watched the doorway, and this time, the door was open, and I saw a figure standing there, silhouetted against a dim light. It was tall, thin, with long arms that hung past its knees. It had no face, just a smooth, pale oval. It turned its head toward me, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Then it stepped back, and the door closed by itself.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I burned the sage, but the smell did little to calm me. The next day, I told my uncle. He turned pale, and his hands shook. ‘So it’s back,’ he whispered. He told me that when he was my age, he had seen the same thing, and that it had spoken to him. ‘It told me to listen,’ he said. ‘Listen to the earth. And I did, but I never understood. It wants something.’ He looked at the figurine, still on the nightstand. ‘It left that for me. I thought it had gone away, but it’s been getting stronger. It knows you’re here.’

That night, I decided to face it. I stayed awake, and at 3:13 AM, I heard the thumping again. I got up and walked to the guest room. The door was open. I stepped inside, and the room was different—the walls were covered in old photographs, all of the same woman, with dark hair and hollow eyes. I recognized her as my great-grandmother, whom I had only seen in sepia prints. One photograph showed her standing in front of this very house, and in her hands, she held a small box. In the corner of the room, on the floor, was the box.

I knelt and opened it. Inside was a journal, bound in leather, and a small, carved stone, shaped like a teardrop. I opened the journal, and the handwriting was my great-grandmother’s. She wrote that the house stood on a gateway, and that she had made a bargain to keep it closed. But the bargain required a guardian, someone to listen to the whispers of the earth and keep the balance. She had chosen my uncle, but he was failing. The journal’s last entry said, ‘If I fail, the gate will open, and the Hollow will take everything.’

I heard a sound behind me, and I turned. The faceless figure was there, closer now. It raised a hand, and I saw that it held a similar stone, but black as obsidian. It placed the stone on my forehead, and immediately, I was flooded with visions—of the desert, of the pines, of the souls buried beneath the house. I saw my uncle, older, standing in a circle of stones, trying to contain something. And I saw the gate, a crack in the earth, glowing with a malevolent light.

The figure spoke, a voice like the wind through dead branches. ‘You are the next guardian. You must take his place.’ I tried to scream, but no sound escaped. I felt the stone grow cold, and then it was gone. I was back in the room, alone.

I ran to my uncle’s room, but he was not there. I found him in the living room, on the floor, his body twisted, his eyes open and glassy. He had died in his sleep. In his hand, he clutched the ceramic deer, and his lips were formed into a final whisper: ‘Listen.’

I knew then that I was trapped. The house had chosen a new guardian, and it would never let me leave. I spent the rest of the summer in a daze, speaking to no one. When my parents came to pick me up, they found me in the guest room, staring at the wall. They asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t tell them. I simply said, ‘I have to stay.’

I live in that house now, alone, by my own choice. Every night, at 3:13, I go to the guest room and sit on the bed, listening. The walls hum, and sometimes, I swear I can hear my great-grandmother’s voice, telling me I’m doing well. But sometimes, I hear another voice, deeper, from beneath the floor. And it whispers a name—a name I’ve come to know as my own. The pines stand silent, and the desert stretches endless, and I know that the Hollow between the pines will never let me go.