The Hollow Note

The cabin had been in Maren’s family for three generations, but she had never liked it. It sat at the edge of a pine forest, its timber walls dark with age, and the wind through the trees always sounded like something breathing. She was there alone now, housesitting for her aunt while she recovered from surgery in the city. The nearest neighbor was two miles down a dirt road, and the only phone reception was a single bar by the kitchen window.

It was her third night. She had brought her guitar, a cheap acoustic she’d played since high school, hoping to fill the silence. But the silence was thick, like the air before a storm, and her fingers hesitated on the strings. She sat on a wooden stool in the center of the main room, facing the open doorway that led to the small hallway. The door to the bedroom was at the end, slightly ajar. The clock on the wall ticked past 2 AM.

She started to play a soft melody, something she’d written herself, a slow arpeggio that echoed off the bare walls. As she played, she felt a prickle at the back of her neck. She looked up, and there, in the doorway, stood a child. A boy, no more than seven, with skin the color of old paper and hair so black it seemed to absorb the dim light. His face was a featureless blur, like a photograph smudged by water. He didn’t move, just stood there, watching.

Maren’s stomach dropped. Her hands froze on the strings. She wanted to scream, but her throat was closed. She told herself it was a trick of the light, a shadow cast by the moon through the window. She forced herself to breathe. She remembered her grandmother’s stories about the woods, about things that watched from the edge of the property. She decided to ignore it, to prove to herself it wasn’t real. She closed her eyes and started to play again, louder this time, a faster, more frantic tune.

She played for what felt like hours, her fingers cramping, sweat beading on her forehead. She played every song she knew, from folk ballads to nursery rhymes, her voice cracking on the high notes. Every time she glanced up, the boy was still there, unmoving, a silent sentinel. Finally, as the first hint of gray crept through the window, she looked up and he was gone. The doorway was empty.

She didn’t stop. She played until the sun was fully up, until her fingers were raw and bleeding. Then she packed her bags and left, driving away without looking back. She never touched a guitar again. When her aunt called to ask why she’d left early, Maren only said, ‘The cabin has too many memories.’ She didn’t tell her about the boy, or about the way the air in the hallway had felt cold and heavy, as if something was still waiting there.

But the story didn’t end there. Years later, Maren had a daughter of her own, a quiet girl with dark hair. One night, after reading her a bedtime story, her daughter looked past her shoulder and whispered, ‘Mommy, who’s the boy in the door? Why is he watching us?’ Maren’s blood ran cold. She turned, but there was nothing there. Yet for a moment, she saw a glimpse of white, a flash of black hair, and she knew the boy had followed her home. She hasn’t played a note since, but she can still hear the echo of her own guitar in the dark of her daughter’s room, playing a tune she never wrote.