The Hollow Pipes

The summer I turned sixteen, my friends and I found a drainage culvert behind the old mill pond. It was a massive concrete pipe, wide enough for two of us to walk side by side, and it vanished into the darkness of the embankment. We called it the Hollow Pipes because when you stood at the mouth, the wind would funnel through and make this low, moaning hum that seemed to come from the earth itself. It was our secret place, where we’d sneak cigarettes and cheap cider, laughing at the echoes of our own voices.

That particular afternoon, it was me, my friend Marcus, and two sisters from the next town, Ivy and Fern. We’d brought a couple of flashlights, but they were weak, casting sickly yellow pools that barely penetrated the gloom. The air inside was cool and musty, smelling of wet stone and decayed leaves. We walked further than we ever had before, daring each other to go deeper. The pipe curved gently, and soon the entrance was just a small, distant disc of white light.

It was then that we noticed the change. The hum that had always been a constant companion grew louder, more insistent, and it began to follow a pattern, like a voice trying to form words just beyond the edge of hearing. We stopped, and the sound stopped too. When we started walking again, it resumed, as if the pipe itself was breathing with us. I laughed nervously and suggested we head back, but Marcus insisted we push on. He said there was something he wanted to show us, a place where the pipe opened into a larger chamber.

We found the chamber. It was a wider section, the concrete crumbling and stained with green slime. In the center stood a rusted iron ladder leading up to a manhole cover above. But it was what was on the walls that made us all stop. There were thousands of tiny scratches, covering every surface, like countless fingernails had raked across the concrete in desperation. The pattern was not random; it was deliberate, forming a spiral that spun inward and downward, ending at a small, dark opening at the base of the wall, just large enough for a child to crawl through.

We had heard the urban legends, of course. A boy had gone missing in these pipes decades ago, and they’d never found his body. The official story was that he’d gotten lost and drowned when the rains came. But the kids in town whispered that he’d found something down here, something that took him, and that his voice could still be heard in the hum on quiet nights. We’d always laughed at that. But now, standing in that chamber, we weren’t laughing.

It was Ivy who first heard it clearly. A high, thin voice, like a boy crying for help, but muffled, as if coming from behind a wall. It echoed from the small opening. Marcus, being the fool he was, dropped to his knees and stuck his head inside, shouting, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ The crying stopped. And then, from the darkness, something answered. It wasn’t a voice; it was a sound like wet fingers sliding over stone, and a low chuckle that made my blood run cold.

We all backed away, but Marcus’s leg was caught in some debris. He panicked, kicking free, and the sound grew closer. We ran, stumbling through the pipe, the hum now a deafening roar behind us. The entrance, which had been a comforting dot of light, seemed impossibly far. My lungs burned, and I could hear Fern sobbing. Just as we reached the lip of the pipe, I felt a cold hand brush my ankle, and I looked down. There, in the shadow of the pipe’s mouth, was a small, pale face with black eyes, and it smiled at me before retreating into the darkness.

We never went back to the Hollow Pipes. But sometimes, late at night, when the wind is still, I can hear the hum outside my window, and it sounds like laughing. And I know that whatever is down there isn’t done with us. It’s just waiting for the next warm day, when the children come to play. And this time, it won’t let them go.