The Hollow of the Cedar Grove

It was the tail end of November, and the village of Kestrel’s Hollow lay under a blanket of fog that seemed to seep from the very ground. The air was thick with the smell of wet pine and damp earth. I had come to this place to escape the city’s noise, to find some kind of peace in a small cabin that my uncle had left me. He had died a year ago, and I had never visited. The cabin was situated at the edge of a cedar grove, a place the locals avoided after dark, muttering about ‘the hollow ones’.

That first day, I was unpacking boxes under the dim afternoon light, when a sound cut through the silence – a rhythmic knocking, like a fist against wood. I froze, listening. It seemed to come from the grove, a steady, deliberate thrum. I told myself it was a woodpecker, but the sound was too slow, too heavy. I pulled on my coat and walked toward the source. The fog swallowed me as I entered the trees. The knock grew louder, more insistent, until I reached a clearing where an ancient, gnarled cedar stood alone. The knocking came from inside the trunk.

A tremor ran through me. I pressed my ear to the rough bark, and I heard a whisper, not in a language I knew, but somehow I understood its meaning: ‘You have come. We have been waiting.’ I stumbled back, my heart hammering. A crack appeared in the trunk, and a faint, amber light spilled out. I didn’t wait to see more. I ran back to the cabin, grabbed a bottle of wine, and spent the rest of the evening by the fireplace, trying to rationalize what I had heard.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the cabin, every rustle of leaves outside, sent my mind spiraling. At around 2 AM, the knocking returned, this time from the walls of my cabin. I lit every lantern I had and sat in the center of the living room, my back against a beam. The knocking traveled around me, from wall to wall, until it settled on the floorboards beneath my feet. A voice, dry as dead leaves, whispered from under the house: ‘You are the one who can see. You are the one who must listen.’ I pressed my hands over my ears, but the voice scraped through my skull.

By dawn, the knocking had ceased, and I tried to convince myself it was all a dream. But when I looked into the bathroom mirror, I saw a mark on my left cheek – a handprint, as if someone had grabbed me in the night. I touched it, and it was cold to the touch. The mark wouldn’t fade, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I grew terrified of my own reflection.

The village priest, a weathered man named Father Aldous, was the only one who would speak to me about the grove. He came to the cabin after I called him, his eyes widening when he saw the mark. ‘You’ve been marked by the hollow ones,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘They are the trapped souls of those who died in the grove, long ago. They were witches, I think, or perhaps something worse. They seek a vessel to release them into this world. You, my son, have become that vessel.’ He gave me a bundle of dried sage and iron nails, telling me to nail the herbs above every door and window, and to pray.

I followed his instructions, but the presence only grew stronger. The knocking became a constant hum, like a swarm of insects, and the whisperings multiplied. I began to see shapes in the fog – tall, thin figures with hollow eyes, reaching for me. I found myself walking toward the grove without knowing why, as if something were pulling me. On the third day, I caved and went to the grove, determined to face whatever was there.

The grove was darker than before, the fog deeper. The ancient cedar seemed to pulse with a sickly light. I pressed my palm against the trunk, and the bark split open like a wound, revealing a hollow within. Inside, I saw a strange, glowing fungus that covered the inner surface. The whisperings became clear as a chorus of voices, begging me to free them. ‘Break the hollow, release us,’ they said. ‘We will give you everything you desire.’

I felt a wave of greed wash over me – visions of wealth, power, love. But then I remembered what Father Aldous had said: ‘The moment you accept their gift, you become one of them.’ I shook my head, but the visions intensified. My hand, as if of its own accord, reached for a broken branch lying nearby. I slammed it against the trunk, again and again, the wood splintering. The voice screamed in rage. The ground beneath me trembled, and a cold wind blew through the grove, extinguishing my lantern.

I ran, tripping over roots and branches, until I burst out of the trees. The fog had lifted, and the village lay quiet under a pale winter sun. I made it to my cabin and locked the door. But the knocking continued, now coming from inside – from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling. I fell to my knees and began to recite whatever prayers I could remember, the words tumbling from my lips.

As I prayed, the knocking grew softer, the voices dwindled, and a last whisper reached my ears: ‘We will wait. You will return.’

I left the cabin that very day. I drove for hours, not stopping until I reached the city, where I sought refuge in a crowded hotel. The mark on my cheek has never faded. And now, as I write this, I hear a faint knocking from the walls of my hotel room. I have come to understand that the hollow ones are not just in the grove – they are in me. They will always be with me, waiting for the moment I weaken, waiting for me to return.

If you ever come upon a place like the hollow of Kestrel’s Hollow, do not listen to the knocking. Do not press your ear to the bark. For there are some things that are best left unseen, and some hollows that should never be filled.