The Hollow Call

The first time it happened, I blamed the cemetery. My group and I had spent the evening traipsing through the old burial ground behind Miller’s Ridge, our flashlights cutting through the fog that clung to the ground like a second skin. We’d been chasing rumors of a woman in white, but all we found was a broken headstone for a girl named Elsie, dead in 1893, and an odd stillness that made the hairs on my arms stand up. I chalked it up to overactive nerves.

That night, I lay in my bed in my tiny apartment on the edge of town, the hum of the refrigerator my only company. Sleep came heavy, the way it does after a long, tense night. But then, a voice cut through the dark. It wasn’t loud, not a shout, but it was clear as a bell. It called my name, Marlow. Not the way my friends do, not the way my mother does, but with a strange, hollow resonance, like someone calling from the bottom of a deep well. It sounded a little like my grandmother, but older, more tired. I sat up, my heart pounding a slow, stupid rhythm. I listened, but the only sound was the fridge again.

I told myself it was a dream, but curiosity gnawed at me. I slipped out of bed, my feet cold on the linoleum, and shuffled to the living room. The apartment was dark, the only light a sickly yellow from the streetlamp outside. I stood in the middle of the room, straining to see. From the corner near the door, the voice came again, closer this time. ‘Come on, Marlow, not much farther.’ It was a woman’s voice, but wrong. The words were right, but the melody of them was off, like a song played on a broken instrument. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. I wanted to respond, but my throat seized. Instead, I backed up, stumbled into my bedroom, and slammed the door. I didn’t sleep until dawn.

I convinced myself it was a fluke, a trick of the mind. I threw myself into my work, painting houses, and avoided the topic. But a few weeks later, it happened again. This time, I was on the verge of sleep, my body heavy and warm under the blanket, when the call came. ‘Marlow.’ This time, it was right outside my bedroom door. My name stretched out, ending in a sigh. I pulled the covers over my head, but the voice didn’t stop. ‘Marlow, I’m waiting.’ I could hear it through the blanket, muffled but insistent. I peeked out, expecting to see a figure in the doorway, but there was only darkness. The voice stopped, then started again, softer, like a whisper in my ear. ‘Don’t you remember?’ I clapped my hands over my ears, but it was inside my head now. It kept calling, patient, coaxing.

This went on for months. The calls came at random—sometimes twice a week, sometimes once a month. Every time, I’d freeze, my mind racing. I started to research local history, looking for any connection. I found a story about the Miller family, who settled the ridge in the 1800s. The youngest daughter, Elsie, had disappeared in the woods one winter, and her body was never found. The grieving mother, a woman named Gertrude, was said to have gone mad, wandering the forest, calling for her daughter. ‘Elsie, not much farther. Come to me.’ I thought about the cemetery, about the broken headstone. Could that be it? Was I hearing the ghost of a mother looking for her child? But why me? Why my name?

One night, the voice didn’t stop. It called and called, growing more desperate. ‘Marlow, please don’t leave me here.’ I couldn’t bear it anymore. I got up, my legs shaking, and opened the front door. The hallway outside was dim, the lights on a timer. The voice came from the stairwell at the end. ‘Come on, Marlow, not much farther.’ I stepped out, my bare feet on the cold carpet. I walked to the stairwell, the voice now coming from below. ‘That’s it, Marlow.’ I looked down the dark stairs, and saw a shape at the bottom—a woman in a tattered dress, her face in shadow. She held out a hand. ‘She’s waiting for you,’ she said. But her voice wasn’t the hollow one. It was gentler, almost familiar. I squinted, and the woman lifted her face. It was my grandmother, but younger, as I remembered her from old photos. But her eyes were wrong—black, like holes in the world. She smiled, and her mouth opened too wide, revealing rows of needle teeth.

I screamed and stumbled back, but my feet were heavy, as if rooted. The grandmother-thing laughed, a sound like dry leaves. ‘We’ve waited so long,’ it said, now in the hollow voice. ‘For you to come to us.’ It started to climb the stairs, its movements jerky, like a marionette. I turned and ran, back into my apartment, and threw the door shut. I locked every lock, and leaned against it, gasping. The voice came through the door, calm and patient. ‘You can’t hide forever, Marlow. We’re already inside.’ I looked at my hands, and they felt cold. I touched my face, and it was cold too. And then I realized—the voice hadn’t said my name. It had been saying something else, a name I’d never known, but a name that felt like my own: ‘Morrigan.’

I haven’t slept since. Every night, I sit in the corner of my living room, watching the door, and I hear the voice. But now, it’s not calling. It’s singing, a lullaby my grandmother used to hum. And in the lyrics, I hear the truth: ‘Come home, Morrigan, come to the hollow.’ I stay awake, staring at the shadows, because I know what happens when I close my eyes. I’ll open them, and I’ll be in the cemetery, following a whispering woman into the woods. And I’ll never come back. But tonight, the singing is softer, and I feel my eyelids drooping. I think I want to see her—the thing that wore my grandmother’s face. I want to ask her why she chose me. I want to know if I am the only one, or if there’s an Elsie waiting for me. The dark becomes warm, and I let go. I hear a final, clear whisper: ‘Marlow, not much farther.’ And I walk.