The Keeper of the Hollow

The trouble began on the first of August, 2012, the day my son, Toby, turned seven. We had moved to the old farmhouse in Vermont just a month prior, seeking a quiet life away from the city. My husband, Leo, had stayed home to prepare for the party, while I took Toby to my mother’s place—a few towns over—to pick up the custom-made cake. It was a sweltering afternoon, and the car’s AC was on the fritz.

I remember glancing at my phone as I pulled into my mother’s driveway. Leo had texted, ‘When will you be back? The grill is ready.’ I smiled and texted back, ‘Soon. Toby’s playing with grandma’s cat.’ Twenty minutes later, another text: ‘What’s taking so long?’ I sighed, replied, ‘Patience, dear. We’ll be there soon,’ and pocketed the phone.

Three hours later, I finally drove home, the cake and a tired but happy Toby in tow. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the gravel driveway. I noticed the front door was slightly ajar. Leo was standing on the porch, his face pale in the dying light. As I stepped out, he didn’t move, just stared at me with wide eyes.

‘Leo? What’s wrong?’ I asked, approaching him.

He whispered, ‘I heard something in the basement. It’s been there since noon.’

My blood ran cold. We had bought this house from a widow whose husband had died in the basement, a heart attack, she said. But the realtor had hinted at something darker, a suicide. The house had a history.

We called the police, but they found nothing. The basement was empty, though there was a heavy, moist smell in the air, like wet earth and old metal. That night, after Toby was asleep, I heard it: a low, rhythmic knocking, coming from the wall behind our bed. Three knocks, a pause, then one. Leo heard it too.

‘Tap, tap, tap. Tap,’ I counted. ‘It’s like it’s answering something.’

We didn’t sleep. At dawn, I noticed a small, rusted key on the floor near the basement door. It hadn’t been there before. I picked it up; it was cold, impossibly cold. Leo took it and examined it, then tried it in the lock of a small, sealed door under the stairs that we had thought was just a closet. It turned.

The door opened to a narrow, descending staircase that we had never seen. The realtor had never mentioned it. A draft of damp, cool air whooshed up, carrying the faint sound of whispering.

‘Don’t,’ Leo said, but I was already stepping down. The stairs spiraled into darkness. At the bottom, a low-ceilinged room with stone walls. In the center, a small, black box, no bigger than a shoebox, on a pedestal. The keyhole on the box was identical to the one on the door.

I didn’t want to open it, but something compelled me. Leo was behind me, his breath ragged. I inserted the key. It clicked.

Inside, lying on a bed of dried flowers, was a single, human tooth, and a piece of parchment. The parchment had a name: ‘Ephraim Hollow.’ And a date: August 1, 1997. The day of our move-in.

I screamed and dropped the box. The tooth clattered on the stone floor. The whispering grew louder, filling my ears, a thousand voices hissing, ‘You have come. You have come.’

We fled upstairs, locking the door behind us. But that night, the knocking returned, now from every wall. And in the mirror, I saw a reflection of a gaunt man with hollow eyes, standing behind me. Leo saw him too. ‘He’s here,’ Leo whispered. ‘He’s always been here.’

We tried to leave, but the car wouldn’t start. The phone lines were dead. The road to town was washed out by an unexpected flood. We were trapped.

And then, Toby started sleepwalking. Every night, I found him standing at the basement door, his small hand on the keyhole. When I shook him awake, he’d look at me with vacant eyes and say, ‘He says I have to give it back.’

‘Give what back?’ I asked.

He pointed to his mouth. ‘My tooth. He says he wants it.’

We tried to keep him awake, but exhaustion won. On the third night, I woke to find the basement door wide open, and Toby gone. Leo and I rushed down, our flashlight trembling. The black box was gone. In its place, a new object: a child’s baby rattle, covered in dark, crusty stains.

‘He took him,’ Leo cried. ‘He took our son.’

We searched the house, the fields, the barn. Nothing. Then, as dawn broke, we heard Toby’s voice, faint and childlike, echoing from the woods: ‘Daddy? Mommy? I’m over here.’

We ran toward the sound. We found him sitting at the edge of the forest, clutching the black box to his chest. He looked up, his face streaked with tears, and said, ‘I gave it to him. He let me go for now.’

‘Who, Toby? Who?’ I demanded.

He looked past us, towards the house, and pointed. ‘The man in the walls. He says he’s the keeper now. He says we’re all his guests, and we can’t leave until he’s done with us.’

We took Toby inside, but the box remained. We didn’t dare touch it. We sat in the living room, huddled together, as the sun rose. And then, from the basement, came a sound we had all prayed never to hear: the key turning in the lock, and a voice, low and grating, whispering, ‘Welcome home.’