The Hollow Service

The air had that peculiar weight before a storm, though the sky was clear and stained with the last orange of dusk. I remember it clearly because the dog, a rangy kelpie named Mudge, kept stopping to sniff the air and whine. My sister Lila and I were walking the long loop from our parents’ place to our grandmother’s, following the cracked footpath that wound through the newer part of town, past the row of cypress pines that always smelled of cat piss, and then along the back road where the old grain silo stood like a forgotten sentinel.

We were on the final stretch, the road that ran parallel to the creek and led to Gran’s street, when the light turned strange. It wasn’t the usual violet of a country sunset; it was a sickly, pale gold that seemed to cling to the air like dust. The trees cast no shadows, and the few cars parked in driveways seemed to float on a cushion of haze. Lila noticed it too; she slowed her pace and said, ‘It’s like the whole world’s holding its breath.’ I didn’t answer, because I felt it too—a pressure behind my eyes, a dull hum in my ears that had nothing to do with the distant traffic on the highway.

We turned onto Pine Grove, the street where Gran’s little weatherboard house stood at the end, but I stopped short. Ahead, on the left, was the community hall, a squat brick building that had been there since the town was founded. I’d passed it a thousand times, but tonight it looked different. The windows, usually dark, were lit with a flickering amber light, and the front door was propped open with a brick, revealing a wedge of darkness beyond. A few cars were parked in the gravel lot, not the usual battered utes and sedans, but sleek, black vehicles with tinted windows that looked like they belonged in a city. And on the lawn, near a large oak tree, stood a woman.

She was tall, dressed in a long grey coat despite the warmth, and her hair was pulled back so tightly it stretched the skin around her eyes. She wasn’t moving, just standing there, facing the building, with her arms at her sides. I nudged Lila. ‘Who’s that?’ I whispered. Lila squinted. ‘Don’t know. Maybe a funeral? But there’s no hearse.’ Mudge, usually oblivious, started to growl, a low rumble in his chest. I yanked his leash, but he wouldn’t stop.

The woman turned then, not slowly, but all at once, like a mechanical doll. Her face was pale and blank, utterly without expression. She looked at us for a long moment, and then she smiled. It was not a pleasant smile; it was a stretching of lips that showed too many teeth, and her eyes remained dead, like chips of obsidian. I felt a cold sweat break out on my neck. Lila grabbed my arm. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, her voice tight. We quickened our pace, walking past the hall, keeping our eyes forward. But as we passed the door, I caught a whiff of something—a sweet, cloying smell, like rotting flowers mixed with incense. And from inside, I heard a chant, low and rhythmic, like a congregation reciting, but the words were wrong—guttural, almost like speaking in tongues.

We reached Gran’s house, and I was trembling as I knocked. Gran opened the door, her face lit with surprise and warmth. ‘Girls! Come in, come in. I was just about to put the kettle on.’ I stepped inside, the smell of her familiar cooking wrapping around me like a blanket, but I couldn’t shake the image of the woman. I asked Gran about the hall. ‘Oh, that old place? They got a new pastor last month. A preacher from up north. He’s been holding evening services, but I heard he’s a bit odd. Keeps to himself. Some say he’s brought a lot of new people to town.’ I looked at Lila. Her face was pale.

We stayed for an hour, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept glancing out the window, but the hall was hidden by trees. When we left, the night had fully fallen, but the hall was still lit, and the cars were still there. The woman was gone, but the door was open, and now the light spilled out onto the lawn like a golden tongue. Mudge refused to walk past it; he sat down on the footpath and wouldn’t move. Lila and I had to drag him, his claws scraping the concrete.

We didn’t talk until we were back on our own street. ‘What was that?’ Lila whispered. I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe we were tired. Maybe the light played tricks.’ But I didn’t believe it. I remembered a story Gran had told me once, about a church that had stood on that spot years ago, before the hall was built. It had burned down in the 1950s, and some said the ground was still marked, that you could feel the heat under your feet if you stood in the right place. I had always dismissed it as old-wives’ tales.

I slept badly that night. I dreamt of the woman, standing in a field of wheat, the stalks swaying even though there was no wind. She was mouthing words, but I couldn’t hear them. When I woke, the morning light was harsh, and I felt a headache forming. I went to the kitchen, and my mother was there, reading the paper. She said, ‘Oh, they had some kind of service at the hall last night. The new pastor, I think. A bit strange, don’t you think? All those black cars.’ I didn’t answer.

A week later, I walked past the hall again. It was daytime, bright and normal. The windows were dark, and the gravel lot was empty. I walked up to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. But as I turned to leave, I noticed something on the ground near the oak tree—a small pile of white feathers, arranged in a perfect circle. And on the bark of the tree, carved into the wood at eye level, was a symbol I didn’t recognize. It looked like a spiral with a line through it, and it seemed to shimmer, as if it were moving. I touched it, and it was cold.

I never told Lila about that. I never went back. But sometimes, at dusk, when the light gets that odd, hazy quality, I think I can hear a faint chanting on the wind. And I wonder if the woman is still standing there, waiting, her smile stretching wider than any human mouth should. I wonder if the pastor ever left, or if he became part of the ground. I wonder if the hall is hollow now, just a shell filled with something that ancient and patient, something that feeds on the ones who walk by at twilight, who stop to notice the woman in grey. And I wonder if Lila feels it too, the way the air thickens, the way the world holds its breath, waiting.

I never walk that way anymore. I take the long way round, even if it takes twice as long. And when I visit Gran, I always go in daylight, and I always keep my eyes on the ground, because I’m afraid that if I look up, I’ll see her again, standing in the shade of the oak, and this time, she’ll be closer.