The Hollow Crown

Last February, the abandoned quarry outside of town had frozen over, forming a treacherous, glittering basin that rose into a jagged pinnacle at its center. My cousin, Maya, and I had been daring each other all week to climb it. Our friend, Derek, tagged along, though he kept muttering about how the ice looked wrong—too clear, too dark underneath.

We reached the base, and the sheer height of the frozen spire made my stomach drop. It must have been sixty feet, and the side we faced bulged outward like a swollen belly. But I had a point to prove. I was the oldest, and I wasn’t about to let a little ice scare me. So I started climbing, my boots crunching into the surface, my gloves gripping for any purchase. Maya and Derek stayed below, their voices calling up warnings I ignored.

About halfway up, the sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. The ice beneath my fingers turned slicker, almost greasy. I paused, my heart hammering against my ribs. I could see my reflection in the polished surface—a distorted, pale face staring back at me. It wasn’t mine. The reflection blinked a second too late.

I shook my head, convincing myself it was just the light. ‘Almost there,’ I yelled down, my voice cracking. I forced myself to continue, hand over hand, foot over foot, until I finally reached the summit. It was flat, barely big enough to stand on, and I felt a surge of triumph. ‘Look at me! I’m the queen of the mountain!’ I shouted, spreading my arms wide.

Then I heard a sound—a deep, resonant groan from beneath the ice. The pinnacle shuddered, and I lost my balance. I threw myself flat, my cheek pressing against the cold surface, and tried to grip the ice with my fingers. But there was nothing to hold onto. I began to slide, slow at first, then faster. I screamed, clawing at the ice, but it was like trying to grip glass. I tumbled, bounced, and rolled, my world a blur of white and pain until I slammed into a snowdrift at the bottom.

I lay there, gasping, my body aching. Maya and Derek rushed over, their faces pale with fear. ‘Are you okay?’ Maya asked, helping me sit up. I nodded, but when I looked at my hands, they were covered in a black, oily substance that smelled like rotting meat. I wiped it on my jacket, but the smell lingered.

We started to head home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us. I glanced back at the quarry. The pinnacle seemed to have shifted, its shadow stretching toward us even though the sun was still hidden. And I could have sworn I saw a figure standing at the top—wearing my face.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the distorted reflection, the faint smile that wasn’t mine. And I kept hearing that groan, like the ice was alive. By morning, I had a rash on my hands and a strange hum in my ears.

I didn’t want to go back, but Maya and Derek insisted we had to see if someone else was stuck there. When we returned, the pinnacle was gone. In its place was a smooth, dark pool, perfectly round, like a pupil. The water was so clear I could see the bottom, but there was nothing down there. Except, as I leaned over, I saw my reflection again. It waved at me.

I stumbled back, but Maya and Derek didn’t seem to notice. They were staring at the water, their eyes glazed. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Derek whispered. A cold wind blew, and I heard their voices join together in a whisper that wasn’t theirs: ‘Join us in the hollow.’

I turned to run, but my reflection was already at the edge of the pool, stepping out, wearing my clothes, my hair, my face. It smiled. ‘You left the crown,’ it said. ‘I’ve been wearing it ever since.’

Now, I’m writing this from my room, but I haven’t left the house in a week. My mom says I’m fine, but I know I’m not. Because when I look in the mirror, my reflection is always a half second behind, and it’s always smiling. And somewhere, out there, there’s a pool of black water, waiting for someone else to climb too high and wake the thing that lives beneath the ice.