The Hollow Oak Cabin

The summer before seventh grade, I was practically vibrating with excitement. Two weeks at Camp Alandra, a lakeside haven in the mountains, without my parents—just me and a bunch of girls my age. On the first day, I was assigned to Cabin 7, a cedar wood structure with six bunks. I met my cabinmates: Maya, with her tight curls and quick laugh; Tessa, who’d brought a whole shelf of ghost stories; Priya, quiet and observant; Zoe, who never stopped talking; and Sam, who rolled her eyes at everything. I was Chloe, the new girl, ready for adventure.

That night, we gathered around a crackling fire by the lake. Our counselor, Brad, a college kid with a goatee and a penchant for drama, leaned in and lowered his voice. “There’s a cabin deep in the woods—the Hollow Oak Cabin. It’s been boarded up since ’86. A girl named Emily used to be a camper here. One night, she went to the bathroom, slipped on a wet floor, and cracked her head on the sink. They say she died instantly. But she comes back every summer, looking for the campers who take her place.” He smirked. “Some say if you go there at night, you can hear her crying in the bathroom.”

Most of us rolled our eyes, but I saw a flicker of doubt in Priya’s eyes. Zoe scoffed, “Yeah, right.” But the story stuck. Later, in our bunks, Tessa whispered, “We should check it out. Tonight.” After Brad’s flashlight clicked off and his breathing deepened, we slipped out of our sleeping bags. At 1 AM, the forest was a wall of black. Our flashlights cut through pine needle paths as we followed a barely visible trail. The air smelled of damp moss and stale decay. After a twenty-minute hike, we saw the cabin.

It was a crooked silhouette against the moonlit sky. The porch sagged, and the windows were covered with plywood. A heavy padlock hung on the door. But the wood was old, and we were determined. Sam pried a board from a side window, and we climbed through one by one. Inside, the air was thick with dust. Moonlight filtered through cracks, revealing overturned chairs and a layer of grime. Tessa whispered, “She’s got to be here.” We moved slowly, our flashlights casting long shadows.

We found the bathroom door at the end of a narrow hallway. It was ajar. We pushed it open, and our beams fell on a cracked mirror and a chipped sink. The floor was stained with something dark. “Just rust,” I said, but no one else spoke. We all felt it—a heavy, watchful presence. Zoe, trying to break the tension, said, “Pretty boring. Let’s go.” But as she turned, the door swung shut with a slam that echoed. We stood frozen in the dark. Then a soft, rhythmic sound:

tap-tap-tap.

It came from the corner, behind the toilet. We pointed our lights and saw nothing. The tapping stopped. “It’s just the wind,” Maya said, but her voice was thin. Then, from the sink, a slow drip began. Drip… drip… drip. Our flashlights wavered as we stared. The faucet handle began to turn on its own. A rust-colored liquid oozed from the spout, pooling in the basin. It wasn’t water—it was thick, like syrup. It ran over the edge, dripping onto the floor, tracing a path toward the door.

The door was locked. We tried to open it, but it was stuck. Panic rose in my throat. Priya whispered, “She wants us here.” The drips became a steady stream, and the room filled with the smell of lilacs and rot. My flashlight flickered. We heard a woman’s voice, soft and pleading, right behind us: “I’m still here.” We turned—there was no one. But the mirror reflected not our faces, but a girl with dark hair, her scalp split open, blood matting her hair. She smiled.

The lights died.

We screamed, pushing against each other. The door suddenly unlatched, and we burst out into the main room. But the cabin was different—the furniture was newer, the curtains torn. On a wall, a photo of a summer camp group, with a white circle around a girl’s face. Emily. Below it, a nameplate: “Hollow Oak Cabin, 1986.” The clock on the wall read 3:33 AM. We ran for the window we’d entered, but it was gone—replaced by a solid wall. The front door stood open, revealing a forest that looked wrong: the moon was too low, the trees too close.

We stumbled out, running through the woods. When we finally reached our cabin, dawn was breaking. But when we told Brad, he laughed. “Hollow Oak? There’s no cabin in those woods. It was condemned and torn down years ago.” We showed him the dirt on our clothes, the scratches on our arms. He just shook his head. Later that day, a counselor led a hike into the woods. We walked the trail we’d taken. At the spot where the cabin had been, there was only a clearing and a gnarled old oak tree. Its trunk bore a single carving: “EMILY WAS HERE.”

My cabinmates and I never spoke of it again. But every summer since, I’ve felt a strange pull to that clearing. And sometimes, in my room at night, I hear a soft tap-tap-tap on my window. When I look out, there’s nothing but shadows. But I know she’s waiting. And I know that one day, I’ll go back. Because she’s still there, and she’s still looking for company. And I think she chose me. The last thing I saw that night, before we ran, was the mirror. My reflection smiled at me—a smile I didn’t return. And in that smile, I saw the girl I might become. And I know that’s the real horror: she doesn’t want to be alone, and she’ll find a way to make sure I’m never alone either.

The camp shut down two summers later. But I’m not afraid. I’m just waiting. Because I know that one day, I’ll open my eyes to find myself standing in that cabin, watching a girl with a flashlight enter a bathroom, hearing her scream, and knowing she’ll be the next to join me. We all carry the hollow inside us. The Hollow Oak grows strong.