The Hollow Stretch

It was the summer of 2009, and the heat had settled over our small town like a damp wool blanket. My grandmother, two aunts, and I were sitting around the kitchen table, lazily picking at a plate of sandwiches, when my mother suggested we cool off with some frozen custard from a place called The Frosty Spoon. The idea was met with eager nods, and soon we were piled into the car, the air conditioning blasting against our sun-warmed skin.

We arrived at The Frosty Spoon, a cheerful little stand with red-and-white awnings, and as we got out, I fumbled with the car keys and accidentally locked them in the trunk. My mother sighed, and my aunts exchanged worried looks. We called a roadside assistance company and were told to wait. The heat was oppressive, and my grandmother, a spry woman with a restless spirit, suggested we take a walk down the gravel road that ran alongside the custard stand. It led to a quiet, older neighborhood, and the shade from the overhanging oaks promised some relief.

We strolled past tidy bungalows with porches and overgrown hydrangeas, the only sound the crunch of gravel under our feet. The further we walked, the quieter it became. Even the usual hum of cicadas seemed subdued. My aunts chatted softly, but I noticed my grandmother had fallen silent, her head tilted as if listening for something.

Then I heard it—a faint, drawn-out call, like a voice carried on a breeze. It was my name, but stretched and slowed: ‘Maaaarrrgggiiiee’—my name is Margaret, but everyone calls me Marge. The sound seemed to come from up ahead, beyond a curve in the road. My grandmother’s fingers tightened on my arm. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. I nodded, my chest tightening. My aunts, a few paces ahead, hadn’t noticed, so we quickened our steps to catch up.

We walked past a row of mailboxes and a cluster of empty-looking houses with dark windows. The call came again, a little louder, a little closer: ‘Maaaarrrgggiiiee.’ This time my aunts stopped. We all stood still, straining to identify the source. There was no one in sight. The road stretched on between low hedges, and at the end, we could see a faint shimmer of heat, like a mirage. My grandmother, always practical, said, ‘It’s just some kid’s game. Let’s head back.’ But her voice was unconvincing.

As we turned to leave, the call repeated, now sounding almost pleading: ‘Maaaarrrgggiiiee.’ It seemed to come from just behind us. We spun around, but the road was empty. A curtain twitched in a nearby window, but no one appeared. My mother, who had just caught up from the car, asked what we were doing. We explained, and she dismissed it, but she kept glancing over her shoulder as we walked back.

Later that night, after the roadside tech had opened the trunk and we’d gotten our custard, I couldn’t shake that voice. It echoed in my mind, lingering like a half-remembered dream. I asked my grandmother if she’d ever heard anything like it before. She hesitated, then said, ‘There used to be a girl who lived along that road—years ago. She disappeared one summer. They never found her. Folks said she wandered off and got lost in the woods beyond the neighborhood. But sometimes… sometimes I think she’s still out there, calling for someone to find her.’

I didn’t sleep well that night. Every creak of the house sounded like a slow, drawn-out ‘Maaaarrrgggiiiee.’ And in the weeks that followed, I found myself avoiding that road, even though it was the quickest way to the grocery store. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the voice was meant for me, that whoever or whatever it was, it had chosen me to hear it. The strangest part? When I finally asked my mother about the girl, she looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, ‘What girl? I don’t remember any girl.’ But my grandmother never met my eyes again when I brought it up.

Years later, I moved away, but that single phrase, that slow calling of my name, still surfaces in quiet moments. Sometimes, when I’m walking alone in a deserted place, I’ll pause and listen. And deep down, I know that if I ever walked down that road again, I’d hear it—’Maaaarrrgggiiiee’—and maybe this time, I wouldn’t be able to turn back.