The Hollow Frame

My aunt Rosalind used to tell me about the summer she spent at her great-grandmother’s farmhouse, a place called the Hollow because it sat in a dip between two hills where fog pooled like milk in a bowl. The house was a relic of another century, with walls of hand-hewn logs and a tin roof that rang with the sound of acorns dropping like gunshots. There were only four rooms: a kitchen with a woodstove, a parlor where the clock never kept time, and two bedrooms, one for the great-grandmother and one for the children.

That summer, Rosalind was twelve, and her five brothers—all elbows and loud voices—were packed into the same room with her, their cots lined up like coffins in a row. They were sent to keep her great-grandmother, whom everyone called Gammy, company while their parents took a trip to the coast. Gammy was a wisp of a woman, with skin like old paper and hair that she wore in a long braid down her back. She believed in the old ways: leaving milk out for the fairies, never whistling indoors, and burning sage at the new moon. The children thought she was quaint, harmless.

The first night, after the kerosene lamps were blown out and the boys fell into their rough, snoring sleep, Rosalind woke to a sound. It was a soft, rhythmic tapping, like a finger on glass. She sat up, her heart ticking like a cricket, and saw a sliver of light coming from the kitchen. Curious, she slipped out of bed and padded down the short hallway.

In the kitchen, Gammy sat at a small vanity table that had been pushed against the wall—an odd piece, with a mirror dark with age and a stool of carved oak. Gammy was brushing her hair, which was loose and fell to her waist. She didn’t notice Rosalind at first. Her movements were slow, mechanical, and her eyes were fixed on the mirror. But something was wrong. The mirror was too dark; it didn’t reflect the lamplight or Gammy’s face. It was like a pool of stagnant water.

Rosalind stepped closer, and Gammy froze. ‘Girl,’ she said, her voice thin and reedy, ‘don’t look into that glass.’ But Rosalind was already peering around her shoulder. In the mirror, she saw not Gammy’s reflection, but a figure—a woman with hollow eye sockets, her mouth open in a silent scream. The woman wore a dress of grey, and her hands were pressed against the glass from the other side, as if she were trying to push through.

Rosalind stumbled back, but Gammy didn’t turn. ‘It’s been in there since I was a girl,’ Gammy said, her voice calm. ‘My own grandmother sealed it in the mirror with a prayer and a bit of salt. It only comes out when the moon is full and the nights are quiet. But it’s curious tonight. It wants to see if you’ll let it out.’

Rosalind wanted to run, but her legs were like lead. The woman in the mirror began to move, pressing her face closer, the hollow sockets filling with a milky white. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ Gammy said, finally turning. Her eyes were tired, but there was no fear in them. ‘Go back to bed. It can’t leave the mirror. It’s bound.’

But that was not the end. The next night, Rosalind couldn’t sleep. She lay in the dark, listening to her brothers’ heavy breathing, and she swore she could hear the tapping again. This time, it was coming from the bedroom door. She looked across the room and saw the door ajar, and through the gap, a faint glow—the lamplight in the kitchen. She crept to the door and peered out.

Gammy was at the vanity again, but now she was talking to the mirror in whispers. The woman in the mirror was nodding, her grey hand pressed flat against the glass. Rosalind couldn’t hear the words, but she felt them in the air, a low hum that made her teeth ache. She stepped into the hallway, and Gammy turned. This time, her face was expressionless, and her eyes were the same milky white as the sockets of the woman.

‘I’m sorry, child,’ Gammy said, and her voice was not her own—it was a chorus, like many voices speaking at once. ‘But the mirror needs a new keeper.’ Rosalind’s blood turned to ice. She turned to run, but the door to the bedroom slammed shut, and the lights in the house flickered. She was alone in the hallway with Gammy, who advanced slowly, her hands reaching out. In the mirror, the woman was smiling, and she was reaching out too, her arms elongating, reaching through the glass like wisps of smoke.

Rosalind backed away, but the hallway seemed to stretch, the walls closing in. She could hear her brothers screaming, but their voices were muffled, as if from a great distance. The woman from the mirror emerged, a grey, silent figure, and wrapped its arms around Rosalind, cold as a deep well. Rosalind felt herself being pulled toward the mirror, which loomed now, large as a doorway.

She screamed, but no sound came. The last thing she saw was Gammy’s face, weeping, and the woman’s hollow eyes, and then she was through the glass, into a grey, silent world where the only sound was the ticking of a clock that never kept time.

When the sun rose, the children found Gammy in her bed, dead with a peaceful smile. Rosalind was gone. They searched for days, but never found her. The vanity was sold at auction, and the mirror ended up in an antique shop in the city. Years later, a young woman bought it, and that night, she looked into the mirror and saw a girl with hollow eyes, pressing her hands against the glass. She tried to destroy the mirror, but it would not break. She tried to bury it, but it always returned. And every night, the girl in the mirror whispers, ‘Let me out.’ Some say that if you listen closely, you can hear the clock ticking from inside the frame, and if you look deep into the mirror, you’ll see the hollow, waiting for a new keeper.