The Hollow Garden

Elena first noticed it when she moved into the old farmhouse—a sprawling Victorian with a wild, overgrown garden that seemed to breathe with its own rhythm. The previous owners had left in a hurry, abandoning furniture, books, and a child’s swing that creaked in the wind. She loved the house immediately, but something felt off from the first night.

It began with a chill that clung to her hands, even in summer. No matter how many blankets she wrapped around herself, her fingers stayed cold, as if they were dipped in ice water. Then came the anger—a sudden, volcanic rage that erupted without warning, usually when she stepped into the kitchen or the spare bedroom. She’d find herself clenching her fists, her jaw tight, her heart pounding with fury at nothing in particular. She’d tried to rationalize it: stress from her new job, the move, the isolation. But the feelings were too specific, too foreign.

Soon, she started seeing things from the corner of her eye—a figure in the garden, always just out of sight, among the towering sunflowers and tangled roses. At night, she’d hear soft sobbing, like a child crying, but when she’d go outside, the garden would be silent, the only sound the rustle of leaves. The cold in her hands intensified, aching, as if something was gripping them.

Desperate for answers, Elena began to research the house’s history. She found old newspapers in the attic, yellowed and fragile, mentioning the previous owners: a couple named Hawthorn, who had a daughter named Lily. The articles spoke of a tragedy—the girl had drowned in the small pond at the edge of the garden, and soon after, the Hawthorns had vanished, leaving everything behind.

Elena felt a pang of sorrow that wasn’t hers. That night, she dreamed of a little girl in a white dress, standing by the pond, her eyes dark and empty. The girl pointed at the water, and Elena saw a reflection that wasn’t her own—a woman with a twisted, mournful face. She woke with a gasp, her hands numb.

Over the following weeks, the anger and sorrow mixed into a toxic cocktail. She’d find herself weeping uncontrollably for no reason, then furious the next moment. She started avoiding the garden, but it seemed to call to her, its overgrown paths beckoning. One evening, she found herself standing at the pond’s edge, staring into the murky water. She saw a face looking back at her—not her own, but the woman from her dream. The woman’s lips moved silently, and Elena felt a strong urge to step forward.

She pulled back at the last second, stumbling. In her panic, she noticed the garden had changed. The flowers were all dying, their petals black and wilted. The trees seemed to lean toward her, branches like grasping fingers. She ran inside, locking the door, but the cold in her hands was unbearable now, as if she was holding ice.

She tried to leave, but her car wouldn’t start, the roads were flooded from a sudden storm, and the phone lines were dead. She was trapped. As the hours passed, the house grew colder, and the sounds grew louder—footsteps in the attic, whispers in the walls. She huddled in the living room, the only warm spot, but she knew it wouldn’t last.

Then she saw the little girl standing in the doorway. The girl’s white dress was wet, clinging to her ghostly form. She spoke, her voice like a rusted gate: ‘She wants you to join us.’ Elena backed away, but the cold in her hands flared, and she could feel something pulling at her, trying to drag her toward the garden.

In her last rational thought, Elena realized the truth: the woman in the pond wasn’t a ghost—she was something far older, something that had been trapped there for centuries, using the girl as a vessel. The house and garden were a trap, a spider’s web for the living. And now, it had her.

Elena woke up in her own body, but she wasn’t herself. She looked out the window at the pond and saw her own reflection, but she was smiling. A child’s laugh echoed in the house. She knew then that the garden had claimed another soul, and the cycle would continue.