The Hollow Hum

The first thing I noticed was the quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but a heavy, expectant silence that seemed to press against my eardrums. My husband, Mark, had dragged me to Blackwood Gorge State Park for our anniversary, a place he’d been raving about since we moved to Missouri. I’d seen the pictures online—the cascading waterfalls, the moss-covered cliffs, the narrow stone bridge arching over the gorge. It looked pretty, in a postcard sort of way, but I’d never been one for hiking, and my new boots were already rubbing blisters.

We parked in a crowded lot and joined the stream of tourists making their way toward the gorge entrance. A group of teenagers was posing for photos on the ancient stone bridge, their laughter echoing off the rock walls, but it felt hollow, like the gorge itself was swallowing the sound. I clutched Mark’s arm as we waited, my heels sinking into the soft dirt. He was recounting the history of the place, his voice enthusiastic, but I was distracted by a strange, low humming that seemed to emanate from the rock itself. Mark dismissed it as the echo of the nearby waterfall.

As we descended the worn stone steps, the sunlight glinted off the water below, and I found myself staring, hypnotized by the shimmer. My foot slipped on a patch of moss, and Mark grabbed my elbow, pulling me back. ‘Careful,’ he said, his voice echoing oddly. But as I looked up, I realized the other hikers had vanished. The laughter, the footsteps, the chattering—all gone. The only sound was that humming, deeper now, vibrating in my chest.

The path we were on was not the one from the photos. It was narrower, bordered by gnarled roots that looked like clawed hands, and the air grew colder with each step. Mark didn’t seem to notice. He kept rambling about the cave formations, but his voice sounded disjointed, as if he were repeating a memorized guide. I pulled at his sleeve. ‘Let’s go back,’ I said, but he just smiled, his eyes fixed ahead.

We came to a clearing where the walls of the gorge rose high above us, and in the center was a pool of water so dark it looked like oil. At its edge, a small, birdlike creature stirred. I froze. It wasn’t avoiding us—it was watching. Its head tilted, and it began to mimic the humming, its tone sharp and out of tune. Mark didn’t seem to see it. He was looking at the cave entrance beyond, his face slack.

I wanted to run, but my legs felt heavy. The humming intensified, and I felt an irresistible pull toward the water. The pool’s surface rippled, and shapes began to form beneath—faces, twisted and hollow-eyed, pressing against an invisible membrane. I knew with sudden clarity that this wasn’t the real gorge anymore; we had crossed into a place that existed under it, a place that had always been there, waiting.

The bird, if that’s what it was, spread its wings and let out a sound that was almost human. It was my mother’s voice, calling my name as if from a great distance. I spun around, but Mark was gone. The cave mouth was a gaping throat, and from within, the humming swelled into a chorus. I backed toward the pool, my heel catching on a root, and I fell.

The water was not cold. It was warm and thick, like blood. I thrashed, but the pool pulled me under, and I saw the faces up close, their mouths opening in silent screams. I tried to claw my way back, but the humming filled my skull, and a voice, clear and calm, whispered: ‘You should have watched your step.’

I woke on the stone bridge, the sun glinting off the water, Mark shaking my shoulder. ‘Hey, you zoned out,’ he said. The tourists were gone, but the park was closing. I looked at the bridge, at the moss on the steps, and I knew. That wasn’t a dream. Somewhere down there, in the hollow hum of the gorge, another version of me was still sinking, and the faces in the water were waiting for someone else to take my place.

We drove home in silence, and I haven’t been able to shake it. The humming follows me now, faint in my ears. And at night, when I close my eyes, I see the cave and the pool, and I hear that bird-like creature calling my name. I don’t think it’s done with me. I don’t think it ever will be.