The Hollow Branch

I was fifteen, living with my aunt and cousin in a cramped duplex at the edge of Blackwood County. Beyond our thin backyard fence stretched the Rookwood Reserve, a dense tangle of old pines and feral undergrowth that the locals called the ‘Hollow’ because of the way the wind moaned through its branches. My cousin, Marcus, and I would cut through it after school, racing to see who could reach the rusted swing set near the old quarry first. The swings were our hangout, a place to smoke stolen cigarettes and complain about homework.

One October evening, I was there alone with two friends, Lila and Tomas. The sky had turned a bruised purple, and the temperature dropped faster than we expected. I had promised Aunt Ruth I’d be home by dark, and I was already late. I told Lila and Tomas I had to run, and they waved me off, laughing about something I didn’t catch. I grabbed my jacket and started along the narrow dirt path that wound back toward the duplex.

About halfway home, I stopped. About twenty feet into the brush, half hidden by a massive oak, stood a figure. It was tall, too thin, wearing a long coat that hung motionless despite the breeze. At first, I thought it was Marcus coming to drag me back for a scolding. But as I squinted, I saw the shoulders were too stooped, and the head was tilted at an odd angle. I called out, ‘Marcus?’ The figure didn’t move. I took a step closer, and the details sharpened. The coat was dark, almost black, and there was a glint of something in its hand—a branch, maybe, or a tool. The face was obscured by shadow, but I had the disturbing impression that it was staring directly at me.

Fear prickled my neck. I remembered the stories the older kids told—about a drifter who’d vanished in the Hollow years ago, about the sound of snapping twigs at night. I backed away slowly, keeping my eyes on the figure until I reached the edge of the reserve. When I finally turned and ran, I didn’t stop until I slammed through the back door.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard branches scraping against my window, but I knew it was just the wind. In the morning, I told Marcus, expecting him to laugh. Instead, his face went pale. ‘You saw it too?’ he whispered. He told me he’d seen the same figure two weeks earlier, at dawn, standing at the edge of the quarry. He’d dismissed it as a early hiker, but now he wasn’t sure.

We decided to investigate. After school, we went back to the spot. There was no sign of the figure, but at the base of the oak we found a small pile of animal bones arranged in a neat circle. In the center lay a child’s toy—a plastic dinosaur, its paint worn by years of rain. I picked it up, and as I did, a cold gust swept through the trees, and I heard a voice, dry as dead leaves, say my name: ‘Ethan.’

I dropped the toy and ran. Marcus was already sprinting. We didn’t stop until we hit our street. What we didn’t tell each other until years later was that we both heard the same voice, and we both saw the figure that night at our bedroom windows, its face pressed against the glass, grinning with a mouth that was too wide.

The reserve was closed for a month after that. A search party found the remains of an old man who had gone missing in the 1970s, buried in a shallow grave near the quarry. The police ruled it accidental, but the locals whispered about a curse. I never went into the Hollow again. But sometimes, late at night, I’d wake to the sound of something tapping on my window—a rhythmic knock, like a finger on glass. I’d look out, and there would be nothing there. But I knew it was waiting. The hollow branch had grown roots, and they were reaching for me.