The Hollow Steeple

The old church at the edge of Morrow Valley had been abandoned for decades, its steeple a crooked finger against the bruised sky. I’d moved there after my divorce, seeking the quiet that my therapist promised would help my anxiety. Nights were the worst, so I’d walk my border collie, Luna, along the gravel paths that wound through the wheat fields. We’d usually go at 11 PM and 4 AM, and the rhythm of those walks became a balm.

Last Tuesday, insomnia gripped me at 3 AM. I leashed Luna and stepped into the moonless dark. The air was heavy, thick like wet wool. Halfway down the lane that bordered the churchyard, Luna stopped. Her ears flattened, and a low growl rumbled from her chest. Then she exploded into frantic barking, straining against the leash toward the church. The steeple—a hollow spire of blackened wood—seemed to lean closer, as if listening. A flicker of movement, like a grey shift, disappeared behind it.

I pulled Luna home, heart hammering. The next morning, I went back alone. The churchyard was overgrown, its iron gate rusted ajar. Inside, the air smelled of dust and old rot. The floorboards creaked under my weight. As I approached the altar, I noticed a dark stain on the wood—a shape like a hand, but with too many fingers. On the wall above, someone had scratched a phrase: ‘SHE COUNTS THE STONES.’

That evening, I couldn’t shake the unease. Luna refused to go near the church again, planting her feet and whining until I turned back. But the next night, I heard it—a faint, rhythmic knocking, like stone on stone, coming from the direction of the steeple. I grabbed my flashlight and slipped out. At the threshold of the church, the knocking stopped. Inside, the air was colder. I swept the beam across the aisle, and there, at the base of the altar, lay a small, smooth stone. On it was scribbled: ‘FOR THE ONE SHE LOST.’

I tried to leave, but a force—like two invisible hands—pressed against my chest, pushing me deeper. I stumbled toward the steeple’s stairway. At the top, a tiny room with a narrow window overlooked the valley. On the windowsill sat a row of stones, each with a name scratched into its surface. The last one was blank. My hand trembled as I picked it up. The stone was warm, and I felt a gnawing hunger in my gut—as if the church wanted me to claim it.

Behind me, a voice, dry as autumn leaves, whispered from the shadows: ‘She lost her child in the fire eighty years ago. They call her the Hollow Mother. She’s been building her steeple with their names ever since.’ I turned, but saw only the empty room. When I looked back, the blank stone was gone. From below, I heard Luna’s frantic barking, muffled as if underground.

I fled, but the knocking followed me home. All night, stones rattled against my window. When I finally drifted into a restless sleep, I dreamed of a woman in grey, her face a void, counting stones by a candle. In the morning, I found a new stone on my doorstep, my name scratched in shaky letters. The church now has a new hollow—and I fear I’ll soon be counted among its stones.