The Hollow Creek Repayment

It has been twelve years since I turned nine, but the memory of that autumn weekend remains as sharp as the broken glass we found by the water. I grew up in the outskirts of a mid-sized town in Ohio, in a subdivision called Maple Hollow, where the backyards dissolved into a thicket of oaks and maples that eventually opened onto a muddy creek. A friend from school, a boy named Danny, and his older brother had shown me the path one summer afternoon. The trail wound past a fallen log, skirted a patch of wild raspberries, and finally ended at a concrete culvert that jutted from the bank like a square mouth. The pipe was wide enough to stand in, and the water trickled out of it into a shallow pool. I loved that place. It felt secret, like a cathedral of rust and moss.

That particular weekend, my mother had invited a boy from my class named Marcus to stay with us. He was quiet, with glasses too big for his face, and he had a habit of humming under his breath when he was nervous. I didn’t know him well, but my mother insisted that having a friend over would be good for me, since I was the new kid and had been coming home with scabs on my knees from solitary bike rides. On Saturday morning, I convinced Marcus to explore the creek with me. He was hesitant, glancing at the dark tree line as if it might reach out, but I promised it was cool. We rode our bikes until the path became too narrow, then walked the rest of the way, our footsteps crunching over dead leaves.

We reached the clearing and I felt a surge of pride. The water was higher than usual, brown and sluggish, but the pipe stood dry and dark. I stepped closer and peered inside. A faint, sweet smell drifted out, like rotting fruit and wet cardboard. Marcus hung back, and I laughed at him. I grabbed a stick and poked at the mouth of the pipe, and that’s when I heard a voice. It was low, almost a growl, but it formed words: ‘Come in.’ I froze. Marcus looked at me with wide eyes. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered. I shook my head, but I had. The voice came again, clearer this time: ‘Come in, and I will give you what you lost.’ I didn’t know what I had lost. But a sudden, inexplicable grief tightened my chest, like I had forgotten something precious. I stepped closer, and the pipe seemed to yawn wider, the darkness inside becoming more solid.

I was about to duck inside when Marcus grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘There’s something in there.’ I turned to argue, but then I saw movement in the shadows. Two pinpoints of pale yellow light blinked, and then a shape shifted, something low and wet, like a heap of mud. It coughed, and a spray of black water shot out. I stumbled backward, and Marcus was already running. I followed, not daring to look back. The sound of scraping followed us, like something dragging itself across concrete.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at my ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, and I could still smell that sweetness. At around 2 AM, I heard a tapping at my window. I lived on the ground floor, and the window faced the backyard, which led to the woods. I pulled back the curtain. There was nothing there, but on the glass were wet smudges, like fingerprints made of mud. The next morning, Marcus was pale and refused to speak about it. He went home early, and my mother was annoyed at me for ‘scaring him off.’ I tried to forget, but I kept feeling like I was forgetting something, a memory just out of reach.

A week later, I returned to the creek alone, against my better judgment. The clearing was the same, but the pipe seemed smaller, and the water was clear. I noticed a small object glinting near the mouth: a silver locket, tarnished and crusted with dirt. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of a girl who looked like me, but older, and the background was the very same pipe. I turned the locket over. On the back were initials: ‘E.M.’ My initials. But I had never owned such a thing. A cold certainty settled over me: that thing in the pipe had taken something from me, and now it was returning it piece by piece, but at a cost. Since then, every year on that day, I find something new that I had never lost, but that feels like mine: a child’s drawing, a denim jacket, a handwritten note. And every time, the sweetness in my nose returns, and I hear that voice, not a growl now but almost kind: ‘Come in. There is more to claim.’ I have never gone back, but I know I will. Because the pipe has a way of collecting debts, and I am deep in arrears.