The Hollow Glade

I have always been sensitive to the unseen, a fact I’ve tried to bury beneath logic and routine. For years, these episodes were mere flickers—a cold spot in a warm room, a whisper of movement at the edge of sight. I managed to dismiss them as tricks of the mind. But last week, something shifted, and I can no longer pretend.

My current residence sits beside an ancient monastery, now deconsecrated and half-ruined, nestled in a valley so deep that sunlight barely kisses the forest floor before noon. The only life I expected was the occasional deer or fox, and the air was thick with the scent of damp moss and old stone. I had taken to exploring the grounds, finding solace in the overgrown cloister and the wildflowers that grew in defiant patches. There was a particular clearing, a small glade behind the monastery, where the grass grew in a perfect, unnatural circle, and the flowers there bloomed in hues I had never seen elsewhere—deep indigo and blood red. It was peaceful, in a way, and I often sat there with a book, enjoying the hum of bees and the dart of hummingbirds.

On that night, the silence was different. It was a heavy, expectant silence, as if the very air was holding its breath. I lay in my narrow bed in the refurbished monk’s cell, listening to the occasional creak of the old building. The window was open, letting in the cool night air, and I could see the shimmer of moonlight on the dewy grass. I tried to read, but the words swam before my eyes. I put the book aside and turned off the lamp, letting the darkness embrace me. I was just drifting off when I heard it: a soft, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat, but too slow and too deep. It seemed to come from the glade.

I told myself it was a drumming grouse or a distant engine, but the sound was too regular, too deliberate. It pulsed through the floorboards, through the very stone, vibrating in my chest. I got up and went to the window, peering into the night. The glade was visible, a darker circle in the gloom, and in its center, something glittered. The flowers, I realized, were glowing with a faint, sickly luminescence, like captured fireflies, but their light was cold. And within that light, I saw a figure—tall, impossibly thin, with limbs that bent at wrong angles. It was motionless, facing me, and though I could not see its eyes, I felt them fixed upon me.

My blood turned to ice. I stumbled back from the window, my heart hammering. The heartbeat sound grew louder, faster, matching my own panic. I pulled the curtains shut, but the light seeped through, casting strange, wavering shadows on the walls. I could hear a scrabbling sound now, like claws on stone, coming from the direction of the glade. It was moving closer. I pressed my back against the wall, clutching a small crucifix that had hung above the door, though I had never been particularly religious. The scrabbling stopped just outside my window.

I do not know how long I stood there, frozen, waiting for something to happen. The heartbeat sound subsided, replaced by a low, guttural hum that vibrated in my teeth. The glow outside faded, and the darkness became absolute. I dared to peek through the curtain, and the glade was empty, the flowers dull and ordinary. But there, pressed against the glass, was a handprint—small, with long, slender fingers, far too delicate to be human. It was wet, and a thin trail of dark liquid dripped down the pane.

The next morning, I went to the glade, my legs weak. The flowers were wilted, their petals curled and black. In the center of the circle, the grass was flattened, as if something heavy had lain there. And among the decay, I found a small, porcelain doll, dressed in a tattered Victorian gown. Its face was cracked, and its eyes, though glass, seemed to follow me. I brought it back to the house, feeling an inexplicable need to not leave it outside. That was my mistake.

Since then, the heartbeat has returned every night, growing stronger, more insistent. The doll sits on my windowsill, and I swear, sometimes, it turns its head to look at me. And last night, I woke to find the window open, the doll gone. In its place, there was a note, written in an old, spidery hand: ‘You took what was mine. Now I will take what is yours.’ I have not slept since. I have tried to leave, but every road leads back to the monastery, no matter which direction I take. The glade is waiting, and I hear a child’s laughter coming from the trees. I am not alone, and I fear I never will be again.