The Hollow Glade

I moved to the outskirts of a small Finnish town, where the forest pressed close like a living thing. It was a place of mossy stones and ancient pines, and I took to walking there every day, finding solace in the silent trails. One afternoon, about a month after I arrived, I saw a child I didn’t recognize. He was maybe three, with hair the color of birch bark, and he wore overalls and a red striped shirt. He stood at the edge of a clearing, half-hidden behind a massive oak. Beyond the oak, I knew, was a deep, abandoned well, its wooden cover rotted and fallen in. I rushed over, shouting a warning, but when I reached the tree, he was gone. The clearing was empty, not even a footprint in the soft earth, and the well’s dark mouth gaped at me like a hungry throat. I ran home, my heart hammering, and told myself it was a trick of the light.

Three weeks later, I ventured deeper into the woods, following a path I’d never taken. The trees grew closer, the air cooler. I came to a small, still pond, its surface black as oil. There, crouched at the water’s edge, was the same child, still in the same clothes. He was staring into the depths, his small hand reaching out as if to touch his reflection. I called out, ‘Hey, little one, be careful! Where are your parents?’ He turned, his face pale and expressionless, and then he scurried into a thicket of ferns. I forced myself to follow, pushing through the greenery, but there was nothing—no sound, no movement, just the whisper of wind. I backed away, and as I did, I noticed the pond’s edge was lined with tiny, wet footprints that led nowhere, ending abruptly at the water.

I tried to forget, but the image of that child haunted me. I started asking around the village, but no one claimed to know him. An old woman, her face like crumpled paper, told me that a child had drowned in that pond decades ago, and his mother had thrown herself in the well in grief. They say his ghost searches for playmates, but only in the liminal spaces—where the water meets the land, where the light fades. I thought of the well, of the pond, and I knew I had to go back, to see if I could help him find peace. So I went to the forest at dusk, carrying a small wooden boat I’d carved, a token to send him across the water. I found the pond, and there he was, standing at the edge, his red shirt a wound against the gloom. I knelt, placed the boat on the water, and whispered, ‘This is for you, little one. Sail away.’

He looked at me, and for the first time, his lips moved. A rasping, wet sound came out, like water gurgling through a pipe. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Her.’ I turned, and behind me, the well was glowing with a sickly light. A woman in a tattered dress emerged from its mouth, her hair like seaweed, her eyes like dead fish. She reached for me with dripping fingers, and I stumbled back, falling into the black pond. The water closed over my head, cold and heavy, and as I sank, I saw the boy smile, a slow, terrible grin, and he waved as if bidding me goodbye. I woke on the shore, coughing, alone, but the pond was still as glass. I crawled home, and I’ve never returned. But sometimes, at night, I hear a child’s laughter outside my window, and I see two figures—a woman and a boy—standing at the edge of the forest, waiting for me to remember.