The Hollow Coop

In the sweltering summer of 1987, my family and I lived in a modest farmhouse on the outskirts of a sun-scorched town in central Texas. Behind our home, separated by a stretch of yellowed grass that always felt longer than it was, stood the chicken coop—a weathered structure of wood and wire mesh that housed our small flock of Rhode Island Reds. I was nine, and my sister, Lena, was sixteen.

That particular night, the air was thick with the buzz of cicadas, and the heat clung to everything like a second skin. After dinner, my parents settled into the living room to watch a rerun of ‘Dallas’ on the small color TV, the blue flicker casting ghostly patterns on the walls. I was sprawled on the couch, half-watching, my eyes drifting to Lena at the kitchen sink. She stood with her back to us, arms elbow-deep in soapy water, facing the window that looked out over the backyard. Beyond the glass, the coop was a dark silhouette against the dimming sky.

Suddenly, Lena dropped a plate. It shattered with a sharp crack, and she screamed, a tearing sound that cut through the drone of the TV. My parents bolted upright, and I turned to see her pointing out the window, her face pale. ‘The coop! It’s on fire!’ she cried. We all rushed to the window, and sure enough, a flicker of orange danced in the direction of the coop, outlining its frame with a trembling glow. My dad grabbed his heavy-duty flashlight from the drawer, and we all sprinted outside, the screen door slamming behind us.

Our bare feet slapped against the hot concrete of the patio, then hit the prickly grass, and we ran the whole twenty meters to the coop. When we arrived, gasping, the coop stood silent and dark, dust motes floating in the beam of Dad’s flashlight. There was no fire, no smoke, no heat. Just the quiet clucking of the chickens, unsettled by our sudden arrival.

Dad swept the beam across the ceiling, searching for burns or bare wires. The wood was weathered but intact, cobwebs hanging undisturbed in the corners, a fine layer of dust coating every surface as it always had. There was no trace of anything out of the ordinary. He even ran his hand along the beams, feeling for warmth. Nothing. Lena stood at the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘I saw it,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I swear I did. The whole window was orange, like the sun.’ But there was no evidence, no scorch marks, no smell of smoke.

We walked back to the house in silence. My dad chalked it up to a trick of the light, maybe a reflection from a passing car, but the thought lingered. Still shaken, we returned to our evening, but none of us could focus on the TV. Lena went back to the dishes, and I watched her from the couch, unable to shake the image of her frantic face.

A week later, it happened again. This time, I was in the living room, and Lena was at the sink. Her scream was the same, but when we ran out, we found the flock in a frenzy, feathers strewn about, but no fire. The chickens were huddled in a corner, their eyes wild, and the air was cold—ice cold—despite the 95-degree evening. Dad swept the flashlight again, and this time he noticed something odd: on the floor of the coop, in a patch of dusty earth, there was a perfect circle, about a foot in diameter, with the dust blown away as if something had landed there. But there were no footprints, no marks.

It was then that I remembered being sent to the coop earlier that day to collect eggs. I had seen something strange, but I’d dismissed it as a shadow. In the corner, where the sunlight never reached, there was a spot that seemed darker than it should be, like a patch of darkness that was almost solid. I had reached out to touch it, but it moved, darting away, and I thought it was a rat. I never told anyone.

Now, with the circle on the floor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that that dark spot was still there, lurking in the corners. And that night, as I lay in bed, I heard a sound from the coop—a low, rhythmic scratching, like nails on wood. It went on for hours. In the morning, I went out and found the chickens standing still, not moving, their eyes fixed on the back wall. And on the wall, in the faded paint, there was a crude drawing of a stick figure with hollow eyes.

We tried to ignore it, but the incidents escalated. The third time, Dad was already in the backyard when Lena screamed. He didn’t see the fire, but he saw something else: a shadow that detached from the coop and slid across the ground, moving impossibly fast, then vanish into the field. He came back white-faced and told us to pack up. We left that house, the coop behind us, and never spoke of it again.

Years later, I learned that the land had been the site of an old poultry farm that burned down in the ’50s, killing dozens of chickens in a fire that was ruled an accident. But some said it was arson, set by the farmer’s wife, who had gone mad. And in the burned-out warren that remained, something had taken root—a hungry, hollow presence that fed on fear.

I still have nightmares of that coop. But the worst part is, sometimes, when I look out a window at dusk, I see the same flickering orange shape, and I know it’s not fire. It’s waiting, and it’s always hungry.