The Hollow in the Hill

Our house squatted in the crook of a gray ridge, hemmed by pines that creaked like old bones. You reached it by a dirt track that switchbacked through stands of birch and snarled blackberry, until the forest closed in and the sky became a rumor. The house itself was a timber pile, two stories, with a porch that sagged like a tired smile. Inside, the walls breathed. They were lath and plaster, and in winter they sweated cold beads that ran down the wallpaper. We moved in when I was six, and I remember the first night, lying in my new bed, listening to the house settle and groan, and something else—a rhythmic thud, like a fist hitting a wall from the inside. My father said it was the pipes. My mother said it was the wind. But I knew the sound came from the pantry, that dark little room off the kitchen, and it stopped when I walked near it.

Our land was a bowl of hills, and behind the house, up a slope choked with ferns, there was a dry well. It was old, older than the house, ringed with mossy stones and capped with a rotted wooden lid. My older brother, Leo, dared me to look inside. I remember the smell—damp earth and something sweet, like rotting fruit. I peered down and saw only blackness, and then I saw a pale shape moving, like a face turning up, and I screamed. Leo laughed and said it was a raccoon. But I saw a hand, small and white, reaching up before I ran. That night, I dreamed of a boy with no face, standing in the well, and he was singing a song I almost knew—a nursery rhyme, but the words were wrong.

Leo was twelve, and he loved to explore. He found a gap in the cellar wall, behind the furnace, that led to a crawlspace that ran under the whole house. He used to crawl back there with a flashlight, looking for old coins or jars. One day, he came back pale, and when I asked what was wrong, he said he found a room. A small room, walled off, with a dirt floor and a hole in the ground that went down, down, like a dry well. And in that room, on a shelf, he found a doll—a porcelain doll with cracked cheeks and a dress that had gone gray. He brought it upstairs and put it on the mantel. That night, I heard crying. It came from the mantel, and I saw the doll’s head turn to follow me as I walked past. I told my parents, but they said I had a wild imagination. The next morning, the doll was gone. Leo said he threw it back in the hole. But I saw it on the cellar stairs, watching me, and it was smiling.

Our mother was a gardener. She grew tomatoes and beans in a patch near the kitchen door, but she had a special bed by the front porch where she planted marigolds. She said they kept away the deer, but I think she wanted to hide something. I remember a day in late autumn, the leaves all fallen, and I saw her kneeling by the marigolds, digging with her hands. She was talking to herself, or to something, and I saw her place a small bundle in the hole—a cloth, folded, like a dress. She covered it and patted the earth. When she saw me watching, she smiled and said she was planting bulbs. But that night, from my window, I saw a pale figure standing on the porch, looking in, and it was wearing that cloth, like a shawl, and it had no face. I pulled the covers over my head and prayed, but I heard footsteps on the stairs, and the doorknob rattled, and a cold breath touched my neck.

Things changed after that. The house grew heavier, like it was pressing down. The walls started to bleed a dark stain near the baseboards, and no matter how many times we scrubbed, it came back, always in a shape like a hand. My parents argued more, in whispers, in the kitchen, and I heard my mother say, ‘We should have never come back.’ My father said, ‘It was the only place.’ They were talking about me, I think, or maybe my grandfather. I found a photo album in the attic, and in it, a picture of a little boy in a white dress, standing by a tree on the hill. He had the same face as me, the same eyes. I asked my mother who he was, and she turned white and took the album away. But I saw the back—it said ‘For the one who comes after.’

I started hearing the song again, the one from the well. It came at night, from the walls, and I’d find myself humming it during the day. It was a lullaby, and the words were, ‘Sleep, little one, in the hollow hill, where the roots grow deep and the water still.’ I followed the sound one evening, down to the cellar, into the crawlspace, and I found the room Leo had found. It was dark, and there was a hole in the floor, just as he said. And from that hole, I heard breathing, and I saw two pale eyes looking up at me. A voice, thin and high, like a child’s, said, ‘You came back. I’ve been waiting.’ And I felt a cold hand wrap around my ankle, and I screamed and ran.

I told my parents, and my father went down with a flashlight, and the hole was still there, but he said there was no bottom. He threw a rock and we never heard it land. My mother started crying, and she said, ‘We have to give it something.’ That night, they packed a small suitcase, and I thought we were leaving, but in the morning, they were still there, looking older, and my mother had scratches on her arms. She said she fell in the brambles. But I saw the marks were like little fingers, and they were on her face too.

Leo stopped talking. He spent hours in his room, and he wouldn’t let me in. But one night, I heard him crying, and he said, ‘She’s in the walls.’ When I asked who, he said, ‘The girl. The one who died. She wants a playmate.’ And he pointed to the closet, and I saw a shadow move behind the crack. We both ran to our parents’ room, but they were gone. Their bed was empty, the covers thrown back. We searched the house, and we found them in the cellar, standing by the crawlspace, with the flashlight off, staring into the dark. They were both as pale as flour, and they didn’t blink. I called their names, but they didn’t move. And from the hole, I heard a child’s laugh.

Now, I’m the only one who remembers. Leo is gone, and my parents won’t speak. They sit in the living room and stare at the wall. The house is cold, always, even in summer. And there is a new well in the back yard, where the marigolds used to be. I dug it myself, because something told me to. And at night, I sit by its edge and sing the lullaby, and I feel a cold hand reach up, but it’s gentle, and it holds mine. And I know that one day, I’ll climb down, and I’ll find the hollow in the hill, and I’ll be a playmate, and the house will finally be quiet. But for now, I wait, and the song grows in my throat, and the well breathes, and I am almost home.