The Hollow Grove Cut

I was seventeen when my family packed up our coastal cottage and moved inland to the sprawling, gray city of Merrowfield. The house itself was a Victorian relic, crammed between identical rows of brick terraces, with a garden that overlooked a gnarled, overgrown wood we nicknamed the Hollow Grove. It wasn’t the house I hated—it was the entire geography. Every street felt like a corridor, every window a pair of unblinking eyes. I told myself it was just the shock of leaving the sea, the salt-scoured cliffs, the wide, open sky. But the feeling never quite settled.

For the first few weeks, nothing overtly wrong happened. Just a constant prickling at the back of my neck, as if someone were standing just out of sight. It would come and go, a wave of unease washing over me in the kitchen, in my bedroom, in the narrow hallway that smelled of damp plaster. My sister, Jenna, felt it too. We both knew it wasn’t just our imagination.

The worst was the shortcut to the main road—a crumbling alleyway between two houses that opened onto the Hollow Grove. The Grove was a dense knot of oak and elder, with a path that wound through it for a hundred yards before emerging onto the bus route. We had to take it to catch our bus. We always ran.

A few months in, I started noticing things. More specifically, I noticed that the grove seemed to change when I walked through it alone. The trees felt closer, the path longer, the light filtering through the leaves a sickly green. I’d hear a rustle that didn’t match the wind—a pause, a deliberate patience. I’d stop, hold my breath, and listen. Nothing but the distant hum of traffic. But the feeling of being watched was so intense that my skin would crawl, and I’d sprint the rest of the way.

One afternoon, I was stuck late at school. The buses had already run, and the sky was turning a bruised purple. I knew Jenna had gone home hours ago, but she hadn’t replied to my texts. I was halfway through the Grove, the path ahead twisted between thick trunks, when I felt it—a more concrete presence. A whisper, very close to my ear, soft as moth wings: ‘You’re not alone.’ I froze. The whisper had come from behind me, but when I spun around, there was only the silent, watchful wood.

I ran. I burst out onto the main road, gasping, and didn’t stop until I was at our front door. Jenna was in the kitchen, making tea, and she looked up with a frown. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I told her about the whisper. Her face went pale. ‘I felt it too,’ she said, ‘This morning on the way to school. Something touched my neck. But I thought I was imagining it.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house felt tighter, heavier. The wallpaper seemed to breathe. I got up for a glass of water and found Jenna standing in the hallway, staring at the back door, her hand on the handle. ‘I heard it again,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘It’s calling me.’ I grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t.’ She blinked, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’

After that, we both decided to never take the Grove alone again. But the house started to invade. We’d find our belongings moved—a toothbrush in the sink, a book lying open on the floor, the TV turning itself on at 3 AM to static. And then, the whispers. They only came when one of us was alone. They’d say our names, or small, intimate things we’d never told anyone. ‘You left the window open,’ ‘You cried on Tuesday.’ The words were barely there, like memory, but they were impossible to ignore.

I began to argue with myself: maybe it wasn’t the house, maybe it was us. Maybe we were both cracking under the pressure of a new city, a new school. But then, Dad found the hole in the garden. It was at the back, where the fence met the Grove. He’d been clearing ivy when the ground gave way. ‘Looks like an old well,’ he said, peering down. ‘Bloody deep.’

That night, I was in my room, trying to read, when the door crept open. There was no one there. The hallway light was on, but it flickered. I stepped out, and the floorboards groaned under my weight. The back door was ajar, swaying slightly. Against my better judgment, I walked toward it. Through the window, I saw the garden, and beyond the fence, the Grove—but it was wrong. The trees were too close, their branches intertwining into a solid wall of bark. And in the center of the garden, the hole was not a hole. It was a waiting mouth, a black nothing that seemed to breathe.

A figure stood at the edge of the hole. It was human-shaped, but too thin, too tall, its limbs at odd angles. It was turned away, but I could tell it was staring at me. It didn’t move. It just stood there, tilting its head as if listening. I watched it for a long, frozen moment. Then it reached down, and with an unnatural, fluid motion, it began to climb into the hole, descending as if the earth were swallowing it whole. It vanished, and the hole darkened, sealing shut.

I didn’t tell my parents. They’d think I was insane. But I told Jenna. She just whispered, ‘I’ve seen it too. It’s been there every time we take the shortcut. It watches us, but now it’s coming closer.’

We started sleeping in the same room, the door locked, the lights on. But the whispers came louder, more distinct, until one night, they were a chorus, and the walls seemed to press in. In the darkness, a handprint materialized on the window—small, like a child’s, but too many fingers. Then a second, a third, covering the glass, as if something pressed its faces against the pane from the outside. The voices became words, dozens of them, overlapping: ‘Let us in,’ ‘We see you,’ ‘We are hungry.’

In the morning, the handprints were gone, but the silence was worse. My parents were acting strangely—they’d stare at the wall, forgetting to eat, muttering to themselves. Jenna told me, ‘They’ve been down to the Grove. They’ve seen it too.’

One evening, I came home from my part-time job. The house was silent. Too silent. I called out for Jenna, but no answer. I ran upstairs. Her room was empty. The back door was wide open. I ran into the garden, and saw her standing at the edge of the hole—it had reopened, wider now, black and bottomless. She was holding a toy she’d had since childhood, a little cloth doll with button eyes. ‘It wants me,’ she said, her voice distant. ‘It wants to play.’

I grabbed her and pulled her back. She cried, not a scream, but a soft, resigned sob. ‘I saw them,’ she whispered. ‘All of them, under the ground. They’re waiting for us to join them.’

I managed to drag her inside, lock every door, every window. But the whispers are no longer confined to the Grove. They’re in the walls, under the floorboards. They’re a constant hum, a promise. I’m writing this now, in the last moments of light. I can see the door to the garden through the kitchen window. The hole is open again, and the thing is standing there, its face finally turned toward us. It has no eyes, only sockets like the holes in a mask, and a mouth stretched into a grin that is too wide.

It raises a hand, and in its palm is a small, smooth stone. It sets it down, and rolls it toward the house. The stone bounces on the path, and I hear it come to rest by the door. I know that if I pick it up, it will all be over. But I can’t stop myself. My hand is reaching for the handle. Behind me, Jenna is humming, a melody I’ve never heard, and the sound is hollow and deep, like it came from under the earth.

I think I understand now. This house isn’t a temporary stop. It’s a gateway, and the Grove has been waiting for new tenants for a very long time. I just hope that whoever finds this letter will be smarter than we were. Don’t take the shortcut. Don’t look into the hole. And for God’s sake, if you hear a whisper, don’t answer it. The voice is not yours. It never was.