The Hollow in the Cat Tails

The town of Marrow’s Bend sat in the crook of a dead river, where the water had long since soured into a peat-dark marsh. I grew up on the north edge, where the pavement gave way to a gravel road that snaked through the reeds and hummocks, eventually dissolving into a boot-sucking bog. The locals called it the Cat Tails, and they had their reasons for avoiding it after dusk—reasons they never spoke of directly, only hinted at with a sideways glance and a ‘you don’t want to go out there, not when the light’s going.’

I was twenty-two, fresh out of a failed attempt at college, back home with my tail between my legs and a restless itch in my boots. The marsh had always called to me, not with a voice but with a stillness, a patience. I’d spent many an afternoon out there with a notepad, sketching the birds and the way the water moved, but I’d never stayed past sunset. Not until the night I found the hollow.

It was a devil of a thing to find, even in daylight. A break in the cattails so narrow you’d miss it if you blinked, leading to a pond no bigger than a living room, ringed by a collapsed ring of mossy stones. I’d stumbled on it by accident, chasing a heron that had lifted off from a hummock. The pond was perfectly still, so dark it looked like a hole in the ground, and at its center was a single dead tree, its roots exposed like gnarled fingers. Something about it made the hair on my arms stand up, but curiosity won. I marked the spot with a strip of orange tape and went back to town.

For a week, I told no one. I gathered supplies—a waterproof flashlight, a pair of waders, a coil of rope, and a notebook. The night I went back, the moon was three days from full, and the sky was so clear you could see the Milky Way, a faint scar across the black. The marsh was alive with sounds: frogs, insects, the occasional splash of something I hoped was a muskrat. I found the tape and pushed through the reeds, and the pond was there, waiting.

I stood at the water’s edge, and for a long while, nothing happened. I shone my light across the surface, and it was so clear that I could see the bottom—or at least a few feet down, where the murk took over. There was no sign of life, not even a water strider. The dead tree cast a shadow across the pond, and I noticed that the shadow didn’t move when I moved my light. It stayed fixed, pointing like a black finger toward the far bank.

I waded in. The water was cold despite the summer heat, and the muck sucked at my boots. The rope I’d brought, I tied around my waist and fixed to a sturdy root on the bank, just in case. Midway to the tree, I felt something brush against my leg—not a plant, but something with a surface, like cold leather. I froze, but nothing happened. I kept going until I reached the tree, and I put my hand on its bark. It was slick, as if oiled, and it gave under my fingers, soft as flesh.

That’s when I heard the sound. A low hum, almost subsonic, coming from beneath the water. It vibrated up through my legs and into my teeth. And then the tree moved. Not much, just a slow lean, as if it were reaching for me. I stumbled back, but the mud held my feet, and I fell into the water, soaking my chest. The hum grew louder, and the water began to churn, as if something were rising from the depths.

I clawed my way to the bank, spitting water, my heart thrashing. I didn’t look back until I was through the cattails and back on solid ground, and even then I only glanced over my shoulder. The pond was still, the tree motionless. But I knew I had disturbed something, and it had noticed me.

For days, I couldn’t sleep. I’d lie in bed, listening to the house creak, and see that tree leaning, see the dark water. I didn’t go back, but the marsh haunted me. I started having dreams—if you could call them that—of being underwater, of a hand closing around my ankle, pulling me down into a place where the water was thick as syrup and full of whispers. I woke up gasping, the taste of silt in my mouth.

A week later, I woke to find my boots caked in mud. I hadn’t been out of the house since the night, I was sure of it. But the mud was fresh, and it smelled of the marsh. And on the nightstand, there was a piece of bark, like the tree’s skin, soft and pulpy. I threw it in the trash, but I knew it was a message. The hollow wanted me to come back.

I didn’t. I packed a bag and drove south, toward the border, planning to lose myself in the city. But halfway there, the road ended. Not in a stop sign or a dead end, but in a blacktop that just gave way to dirt, and then to marsh reeds on both sides, and I was driving down a narrow track that I didn’t recognize, even though I’d grown up here. The sky turned gray, and the radio went to static, and I saw the orange tape.

I slammed the brakes, and the car stalled. The engine coughed and died, and there was a ringing silence. I looked in the rearview mirror, and the road was gone. Just reeds, closing in, and a path leading to the pond. The tree was there, not dead, but covered in glistening leaves that moved on their own, as if breathing. And the hum was back, so low it was in my bones. My hands were on the wheel, but I couldn’t move. I heard a voice, not out loud but inside my head, a terrible presence.

*You came.*

I tried to scream, but no sound came. The tree’s roots were lifting out of the water, reaching for me, and the water was alive with shapes, pale and writhing. The last thing I remember was the feeling of being pulled, of the world turning to water, and then nothing.

They found my car two days later, its doors open, my boots in the front seat. The marsh didn’t give me back. But sometimes, when the mist is low and the moon is full, you can see a figure standing by the dead tree, its outline wavering like a reflection. And if you listen, you can hear a hum, and the cattails whisper your name.