The Hollow Spring

It’s the kind of story that, if I heard it from someone else, I’d think they were pulling my leg. But it’s true, as true as I’m sitting here, and I’ve got the scar to prove it.

July of 1987, and my buddy Carl and I were camping along the Whetstone River, a place we’d been going to for years. We usually camped downstream of the park, but this time we were further up, near the base of the Raven’s Head, a bluff that jutted up from the riverbank like a great stone skull. Our camp was tucked in a grove of pines, and behind us, maybe fifty yards, the bluff rose, its face scarred with ledges and a narrow path that switchbacked to the top. At the top was a spring, the only fresh water for miles, so we made daily trips up there, hauling two-gallon jugs on a rope ladder we’d rigged.

That particular afternoon, Carl and I got the water duty. We grabbed four empty jugs, looped the rope ladder over our shoulders, and started the climb. The air was thick with the smell of pine and damp earth. We’d made this climb a dozen times, but something felt off. The birds were quiet, and the only sound was the crunch of our boots on loose shale.

About halfway up, Carl stopped and pointed at a ledge just above us. ‘Hey, you see that?’ he said. I squinted. There was something on the ledge, half hidden by a gnarled juniper. It looked like a bundle of rags, but as we got closer, I saw it was a twisted mass of roots, dark and shiny like wet leather. They were woven together in a pattern that almost looked like a face, but not human. More like a mask, with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth.

‘What the hell is that?’ I said. Carl shrugged, but he took a couple of photos with his old Polaroid. We figured it was a natural formation, but it gave me the creeps. We moved on, but as we went, I noticed that the air was cooler, and I could hear a faint, high-pitched sound, like a whistle just at the edge of hearing.

At the top, the spring was a dark pool about six feet across. It was fed by a trickle from the rock, and it was crystal clear, but that day, the water looked wrong. It was murky, like someone had stirred up sediment from the bottom, and there was a thin film of green scum on the surface. We filled our jugs, and as we did, I saw something move at the bottom. I leaned in, but it was gone. Carl noticed my look. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘I thought I saw something,’ I said, ‘maybe a fish.’ But I knew there were no fish in that spring.

We headed back down, our loads heavier than usual. The path felt narrower, and more than once I had to press myself against the rock as a gust of wind threatened to throw me off balance. When we got to the ledge with the root mass, the sound got louder, a dissonant wail that made my teeth ache. I stopped to look again, and I could swear that the roots were moving, twisting, as if they were alive. Carl grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t look, just keep moving,’ he said.

Back in camp, our other two friends, Maria and Tom, were by the fire. Carl set down the jugs and pulled out the Polaroid. The photo from the root formation had developed, but it wasn’t what we saw. Instead of roots, the photo showed a dark, hooded figure, its face obscured, one hand reaching out as if to grab the camera. We all stared at it. Tom laughed nervously. ‘That’s a trick of the light,’ he said. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was real.

That night, we drank water from the spring. It tasted metallic, like blood. We went to sleep, and I had dreams of falling into a vast, echoing darkness, with that wailing sound all around me. I woke to find Carl standing at the edge of camp, staring up at the bluff. ‘It’s singing,’ he whispered. ‘Listen.’ I heard it too, a high, melodic hum coming from the top of the cliff, weaving through the wind. It was almost hypnotic.

We decided to go up again in the morning to check the spring, to see if the water had cleared. But when we got to the top, the spring was gone. In its place was a dry, crumbling hole, and only a thin trickle of water leaked from a crack in the rock. The pool had vanished, leaving behind a layer of black silt that smelled of decay. And there, at the bottom of the hole, was a nest of those same black roots, pulsing as if they were breathing.

We ran back down, terrified. But the worst was yet to come. That night, as we sat around the fire, trying to make sense of it, Tom said he felt something crawling on his skin. We looked at him, and his face was covered in a fine black fuzz, like mold. He started screaming, clawing at his skin, and we had to hold him down. ‘It’s in the water,’ he howled. ‘It’s in the water.’

We packed up and left the next morning, driving straight through to home. But the photos Carl took? When we developed the rest of them, there was a shot of us at the spring, all of us smiling. But in the background, in the water, there was a pale, bloated form, with long, black tendrils wrapped around our legs. We all saw it. We never spoke of it again.

But I still hear that wailing at night, sometimes. And I catch myself staring at any dark, standing water, wondering if it’s still there, waiting for me to come back. So if you ever find yourself near the Raven’s Head, and you see a trail of black roots, don’t stop to look. Just run. And whatever you do, don’t drink the water.