The Hollow Patch

The night air carried the smell of gunpowder and damp earth. We had come to the high field behind the old mill, a place we called the Cinder Flats, to watch the town’s fireworks burst over the reservoir. I was sixteen then, and my friends—Marcus, Lila, and Jonah—were my whole world. We laughed and passed a flask of something warm, watching the sky bloom in reds and golds, the booms echoing off the distant hills. It was a good night, the kind you want to bottle.

When the finale faded, we decided to take the long way back, down the slope toward the abandoned quarry. The path was unfamiliar, overgrown with tall, skeletal grass that clawed at our ankles. We stumbled along, joking about stepping in foxholes, when I noticed the others pulling ahead. I paused to tie my shoelace, and when I looked up, they were already disappearing over a small rise. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind prickled my neck. I called out, but my voice seemed to be swallowed by the grass.

I quickened my pace, but the ground grew uneven, and I found myself in a clearing I didn’t recognize. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and the only light came from a distant bonfire. In the center of the clearing was a patch of grass that was perfectly flat, almost like a green felt mat. It was too neat, as if it had been cut recently, even though the surrounding field was wild. On the edge of that perfect circle lay a single glove, its fingers curled as if reaching for something. I knelt to pick it up—it was damp, and the stitching was odd, like it was made of a material I couldn’t place.

As I straightened, I felt a shift in the air, a pressure change like before a storm. The grass around the circle began to sway, but not from wind—it moved in waves toward the center, as if something beneath was sucking it down. The perfect patch began to sink, slowly at first, then faster, revealing a hollow that seemed to have no bottom. A low, rhythmic hum emanated from the hole, not a sound I heard with my ears, but one that vibrated in my chest. I wanted to run, but my legs were heavy, and the hum grew louder, almost like a lullaby.

I forced myself to look away from the hole and saw my friends’ silhouettes at the top of the rise, waiting. I opened my mouth to shout, but what came out was a thin, reedy whistle, not my voice. The hum answered with a deeper note, and the glove in my hand twitched. I dropped it and stumbled backward, my feet catching on a root. I fell, and as I hit the ground, I saw the hollow had closed, the perfect patch restored, but now it was darker, almost black.

I scrambled to my feet and ran, not daring to look back. When I caught up to my friends, they were laughing, but their laughter stopped when they saw my face. They asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t find the words. I just said we should go. We walked in silence, and I didn’t tell them what I saw. That night, I dreamt of the hollow, and in the dream, it spoke to me in my father’s voice, asking me to come back.

A week later, I returned alone. The Clematis was gone, and the field was empty, but the perfect patch was still there, waiting. I stood at its edge, and I felt the hum again, but this time it was gentle, almost inviting. I didn’t step onto it, but I couldn’t leave either. I stayed for hours, listening. And then I noticed the grass around the circle was brown, dying, as if the patch was draining the life from everything near it.

I never told anyone about the glove or the hollow, but I started wearing a different glove on my right hand, to cover the mark that appeared on my palm—a pale, circular scar that has never healed. Sometimes, at night, I can still hear the hum, faint and distant, and I know it’s calling. One day, I’ll have to answer. But not yet. Not yet.