The Hollow Lullaby

The last thing I remembered was the low hum of the ceiling fan and the weight of sleep pressing down on my eyelids. My name is Rhea, and I had ridden two hundred kilometers on the back of a borrowed motorcycle to reach my grandmother’s village for my cousin’s first communion. My father and sister had left a day earlier; I’d stayed behind with my mother, and we’d made the trip in one long, exhausting stretch. By the time we arrived, the sun was already sinking behind the hills, casting long shadows across the dusty courtyard. The house was a sprawling, old structure with thick walls and a tin roof, and it was filled with the chatter of a dozen relatives I hadn’t seen in months. I nodded through the greetings, my legs aching, my mind foggy. After a dinner of rich, oily food that I barely tasted, I excused myself and stumbled to the room I’d been assigned.

The room was at the back of the house, away from the main hall. It was a small, musty space with a single bed, a wooden cupboard, and a window that overlooked a narrow alley. I didn’t bother to unpack. I just lay down on the thin mattress, hearing the muffled laughter and loud conversations from the front yard. The voices were familiar, but they seemed distant, like echoes from another world. I closed my eyes, and the noise faded into a soft blur. Sleep came quickly, a heavy, dreamless blanket.

But then, the silence was broken. Not by a sound, but by a feeling. I was jolted awake by a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread. My heart was pounding, and my skin was slick with sweat. I tried to move, but my limbs felt like lead. The room was dark, save for a sliver of moonlight that crept through the gap in the curtains. I could hear my own breathing, and beneath it, another sound: a faint, rhythmic hum. It was a melody, soft and lilting, like a lullaby. But it was wrong—off-key, with pauses in strange places. It seemed to come from the wall behind my head.

I forced myself to sit up, my head throbbing. The humming stopped. The room was still. I convinced myself it was just the wind, or my tired mind playing tricks. I lay back down, closing my eyes. But the moment I did, the humming returned, now louder, more insistent. It seemed to be coming from inside my head, a melody that I did not recognize but somehow felt ancient. I sat up again, this time turning on a small bedside lamp. The light revealed nothing unusual—just bare walls, a cracked mirror, and a faint, damp stain on the ceiling. I put my hands over my ears, but the sound persisted, as if it were resonating in my bones.

I decided to go find my aunt, thinking she might have a remedy for a sleepless night. I pulled on a cardigan and opened the door. The hallway was dark, lit only by a single flickering bulb at the far end. I walked toward it, my bare feet cold on the stone floor. As I passed the kitchen, I noticed the back door was ajar, and a cool breeze drifted in. I paused, listening. The chatter from the front yard had ceased. In fact, the entire house was silent, except for that humming, which followed me, now sounding like a voice with no words, singing a wordless tune.

I reached the main hall, expecting to see my relatives still gathered. But the room was empty. The chairs were askew, and tea cups sat half-drank. The oil lamp on the center table was still burning, its flame flickering as if disturbed. I called out, ‘Hello?’ No answer. I walked to the front door, which was normally always open, but it was closed and bolted from the outside. Panic began to rise. I went back to the kitchen, and the humming grew louder. It was coming from the cellar door, which was partially hidden by a worn rug. I had never been down there, though I knew it was used for storage. The door was slightly open, and a sliver of darkness beckoned.

I should have run. But something compelled me to move closer. I knelt and pulled the door open. The humming swelled, now clearly coming from below. I could hear words, distorted and slurred, like a tape played at the wrong speed. ‘Come down,’ it seemed to say. ‘Come join us.’ My breath caught. I knew I was not alone. There was a presence, something malevolent, waiting in the dark. I backed away, but the humming followed, now seeming to come from all around me, from the walls, the floor, even from my own skin.

I stumbled back to my room and slammed the door shut. I leaned against it, panting. The humming ceased. But then, from the small window above my bed, I heard a child’s voice, singing the exact same lullaby. I froze. I looked outside. The alley was empty, but I saw a shadowy figure at the end, barely visible in the moonlight. It was short, like a child, but it moved with an unnatural, jerky gait. It began to walk toward the house, and as it grew closer, I saw that its clothes were tattered, and its face was hidden under a tangle of hair. The singing became clearer: ‘Sleep, little one, sleep. The dark is your friend. The night is deep.’

I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. The figure stopped right below my window and tilted its head up. I saw its eyes—glowing, white, and empty. It opened its mouth, and the song poured out, but now it was a discordant shriek. I fell to the floor, covering my ears, whimpering. The singing lasted for what felt like an eternity, and then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. The silence was deafening.

When I dared to look again, the figure was gone. The window was just a dark pane. I crawled onto the bed, shivering, and pulled the covers over my head. I stayed like that until dawn, when the first light of day seeped through. I heard the sounds of my relatives waking up, pots clattering in the kitchen. I rushed out, looking for my aunt, my grandmother—anyone. But when I entered the kitchen, everyone was there, talking and laughing as if nothing had happened. They looked at me with concern, asking if I had slept well. I wanted to tell them about the night, but the words stuck in my throat. And then I saw it: in the corner of the kitchen, a small, porcelain doll propped against the wall. Its glass eyes were white, just like the figure’s, and its small, painted mouth was open in a perfect ‘O’, as if frozen mid-song.

My grandmother noticed me staring and said, ‘Oh, that old thing. We found it in the cellar years ago. No one knows where it came from. But it’s been there ever since. It used to sing, but we never knew the words.’ She chuckled, but the sound was hollow. I felt a chill run down my spine. I realized then that the lullaby was something old, something that had been waiting in the dark of that house, and it had chosen me. I did not stay for the communion. I packed my things and left that very morning, but even as I rode away, I could hear the faint, off-key melody in my mind, and I knew that once heard, it could never be unheard.