The Hollow Grounds

I was a summer counselor at Camp Cedarwood, tucked in the rolling hills of Vermont. One drizzly staff weekend, after the campers had gone home, we sat around the fire pit, trading tales. One of the senior counselors, a quiet guy named Sam, spoke of a place called Hollow Grounds, an abandoned mining town a mile down the old logging road. He said it wasn’t just a ghost story; it was a blight. The town had been built on land the local Abenaki had warned against, and when the mine collapsed in 1889, nearly everyone died in the ensuing chaos. The survivors burned the town to the ground, hoping to cleanse it, but the scorched foundations and a lone chapel remained. Now, the locals avoided it, but thrill-seekers came to visit the old cemetery, where the victims were buried in unmarked graves. Sam claimed that some people who went there never came back the same, or at all. He mentioned an annual gathering called the Witness Circle, where those who had encountered the ‘Hollow Men’—the restless spirits—met to share their stories. We were skeptical, but the fire flickered, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp night.

A few of us, the newbies—myself, a guy named Mike, and a girl named Jen—decided to check it out. We took the camp’s rickety golf cart, its headlights weak against the encroaching woods. The drive was short, but the gravel road turned to dirt, then to overgrown ruts. We left the cart at the edge of a clearing and walked. The town was nothing but blackened stumps and collapsed stone foundations. The chapel stood, a skeletal hulk with a crooked steeple. The cemetery was a tangle of brambles and leaning headstones, many marked only with initials and dates. The air was thick with the smell of wet ash and rotting leaves.

We split up to explore, laughing nervously. I wandered towards the chapel. Inside, the floorboards groaned, and the remnants of wooden pews were covered in moss. I saw a faint symbol carved into the wall—a spiral within a circle—and beneath it, the word ‘REMEMBER.’ I touched it, and felt a cold static run up my arm. From the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow move, but when I turned, it was gone. I heard a whisper, like dry leaves skittering: ‘Stay…’

I backed out, heart pounding. The others were quiet, their earlier bravado gone. Mike walked past the chapel, towards the collapsed mine shaft. He called out to us, his voice tinny. ‘There’s something down here,’ he said. We gathered at the edge of a black hole in the earth, the wooden supports rotted. A cold draft rose, carrying a smell of iron and decay. Jen took a step too close, and the ground gave way. She screamed as she fell, and Mike lunged to grab her, but he also tumbled in. I stood there, frozen, as their cries echoed up, then stopped. I knelt, calling their names. A faint, distorted voice answered, not theirs: ‘Join them.’

Terrified, I ran back to the cart, but the engine wouldn’t start. The battery light flickered, and the golf cart seemed to be drained. I was alone, the darkness pressing in. The trees seemed to lean closer, and I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind me. I turned, expecting to see Mike and Jen, but instead, there was a figure—tall, gaunt, with hollow eyes and a black mouth. It pointed a long finger toward the chapel. I got the cart moving, stuttering, and raced back to camp, leaving my friends behind.

Back at camp, I told the others. They were pale, but Sam looked at me with grim recognition. ‘You’ve seen them,’ he said. ‘The Hollow Men. They take those who trespass, leaving a new one in their place.’ I didn’t sleep that night. In the mirror, I saw a flicker of something behind my eyes—a second self, watching. The next day, the camp was closed for the season, and I drove home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. I still see them in my peripheral vision, standing in doorways, waiting. Sometimes, I hear Mike and Jen calling my name from far away, and I know that the Hollow Grounds isn’t just a place; it’s a hunger that feeds on souls, and it’s not satisfied yet.