The Hollow Coop

Raymond had always been a dreamer, and his latest dream was to own a poultry farm. He convinced his cautious friend, Daniel, to join him in the venture. They leased a plot of land on the outskirts of a small town called Millbrook, far from the city’s noise. The land was bordered by a dense, ancient forest that seemed to swallow light, and the only structure was a dilapidated farmhouse with a rusted tin roof and a sagging porch. The previous owner had left abruptly, leaving behind a few torn feed sacks and a strange, lingering odor of decay.

They ordered their first batch of chicks—a hundred fluffy yellow balls of life—and housed them in a long, narrow coop that Daniel had built from scrap wood and wire mesh. The first weeks were a blur of constant attention: feeding, watering, checking the heat lamps, and cleaning the droppings. Raymond, ever the optimist, believed they were on the path to success, but Daniel noticed that the chicks huddled together more than usual, their tiny eyes darting toward the forest at the slightest sound.

One evening, as they sat on the porch after a long day, Daniel said, ‘Raymond, have you noticed how quiet it gets out here at night? Not even crickets.’ Raymond shrugged, ‘It’s the country, Daniel. Peaceful.’ But Daniel couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them from the treeline. He tried to ignore it, chalking it up to exhaustion.

A week later, the first chick died. It was found in the corner of the coop, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Raymond dismissed it as a freak accident, but then another died the next night, and another. The birds grew restless, their peeping turning into frantic squawks. They began to lose appetite, and their feathers became dull and ruffled. Raymond and Daniel tried every remedy they could think of—changing the feed, adding vitamins, and even burning sage—but the deaths continued.

Desperate, Raymond decided to stay up all night in the coop to see what was happening. He brought a flashlight and a notebook, determined to find a logical explanation. The hours dragged on, the only sounds being the frightened murmurs of the remaining birds and the whisper of wind through the forest leaves. At around 3 a.m., a deep silence fell. The birds went still, as if holding their breath. Then Raymond heard a soft rustling outside, followed by a gentle, almost human murmur that seemed to come from the trees. He shone his light into the darkness, but saw nothing except the gnarled branches that looked like skeletal fingers.

When morning came, Raymond was pale and trembling. He told Daniel that he must have dozed off, but the birds were all alive that night. Yet, that afternoon, a strange pattern appeared in the sawdust floor of the coop—a circle of irregular scratches, as if something had been dragged in a circular motion. Daniel felt a chill run down his spine. ‘We need to leave,’ he said. But Raymond, stubborn and proud, refused to abandon his investment.

That night, Daniel had a nightmare. He dreamed of a faceless figure in a tattered coat standing at the edge of the forest, beckoning him with a crooked finger. He awoke with a start, gasping for air. The room was cold, and the moonlight cast eerie shadows on the walls. He heard a faint, warbling coo from outside—a sound that was almost like a lullaby but wrong, too high-pitched and unnatural. He forced himself to look out the window and saw the coop door was wide open, swaying slightly.

He ran outside, his heart pounding. Inside the coop, the birds were gone. The floor was covered in feathers and a thin layer of something that looked like ash. On the back wall, written in what appeared to be dried blood, was the word: ‘Hollow.’ Raymond appeared behind him, his face ashen. ‘I didn’t do this,’ he whispered.

They searched the property, but there was no sign of the chickens. The forest, which had seemed merely dense before, now felt suffocating, as if the trees were closing in. They decided to leave that very night, but as they packed their bags, they heard a sound from the coop—a low, rhythmic scratching. They armed themselves with a rusty pitchfork and a flashlight and approached the coop. The door was shut again, and inside, they found all hundred chickens, but they were not alive. They were in various states of decay, arranged in a circle, their heads pointing inward, and in the center lay a single, perfectly formed egg, black as obsidian.

Raymond’s hands trembled as he reached for the egg. The moment his fingers touched its surface, a piercing shriek filled the air, and the chickens’ heads swiveled to face him, their eyes glowing with a sickly yellow light. Daniel grabbed Raymond’s arm and pulled him out of the coop. They fled to the truck, but the engine wouldn’t start. The trees seemed to groan, and from the depths of the forest, a shape emerged—tall, gaunt, with a coat that billowed despite the still air. Its face was a void, and it raised a hand, pointing directly at Raymond.

Raymond screamed and fell to his knees, clutching the black egg. Daniel finally managed to start the engine, and they sped away, leaving the farm behind. They didn’t stop until they reached the safety of the city. They never spoke of what happened, and they sold the property as quickly as possible. But Raymond kept the egg, hidden in a wooden box in his closet. He doesn’t know why he kept it; he feels a strange attachment to it, as if it holds a secret he must understand.

Years later, Daniel received a letter from Raymond. It contained a single photograph of the egg, now cracked open, revealing a tiny, malformed creature with feathers and scales. And at the bottom, in Raymond’s handwriting, were the words: ‘It hatched. And it wants me to return to the hollow.’ Daniel burned the letter and the photo, but he still wakes up at night, hearing that soft, warbling coo, and he knows that somewhere, in an old farmhouse on the edge of Millbrook, the hollow is waiting for him too.

The farm was never used again. Locals say that on moonless nights, strange lights flicker in the old coop, and a faint, sorrowful cooing drifts from the trees—a sound that promises not death, but something far worse: an invitation to join the hollow, where all that was once alive is remembered only as a hollow echo.

And so, if you ever find yourself on the outskirts of Millbrook, and you hear that sound, do not follow it. Do not look into the trees. And above all, never touch a strange black egg, for it may not be an egg at all, but the beginning of your own hollowing.