The Lamplight on Hollow Row

In our town, there was a stretch of road known as Hollow Row. It wasn’t a cemetery, but an old, winding lane lined with gnarled oaks and abandoned mansions that had fallen to ruin. Local lore said it was cursed, that those who walked there after dusk would hear things that weren’t there, and see things that should not be. My mother, a physician with a mind as sharp as a scalpel, had always scoffed at such tales. But one evening, returning from the hospital on foot because the weather was mild and she needed the exercise, she had an encounter that shook her to the core.

She was halfway down Hollow Row when she heard a voice—so soft it was almost a breath—call her name. ‘Mira.’ It was not her name, but it was close—a distortion, as if someone had heard it from a distance. She stopped, turned, and saw only the empty road. There were a few pedestrians, but none familiar, none looking at her. The voice came again, just behind her ear, so close she felt a cold draft. ‘Mira.’ This time, she felt a presence, an invisible weight pressing against her back. She walked faster, her heart pounding, and did not stop until she reached home. She told me, her eyes wide, that it was the most irrational fear she had ever felt, and she could not explain it.

I am a curious person, and my mother’s distress intrigued me. When I brought it up with my friends, they were eager to investigate. Among them was Aakanksha, a devotee of the occult, who had an old book on local legends. She claimed Hollow Row was a ‘thin place,’ where the veil between worlds was frayed. We decided to spend a night there, to uncover the truth. I felt a thrill of fear mixed with excitement, and I agreed.

We gathered at midnight at the entrance of Hollow Row. The only light came from the occasional lamppost, their bulbs flickering as if short on current. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves. Aakanksha had brought a EVP recorder, a digital camera, and a compass that she said would point to anomalies. The others, Rhea and Dev, held flashlights that cast long, dancing shadows. I carried a bag with extra batteries and a first-aid kit, though I doubted it would help.

As we walked, the streetlights began to dim one by one, leaving only the moon, partially obscured by clouds. The old mansions loomed, their windows like empty sockets. We stopped near a particularly decrepit one, where the iron gate hung askew. Aakanksha whispered, ‘Let’s set up here.’ She placed the recorder on a mossy stone and asked in a clear voice, ‘Is there anyone here? Speak to us.’

At first, silence. Then, a faint static from the recorder. We played it back, and through the hiss, we heard a whisper: ‘Mira…’ My blood ran cold. That was the name my mother had heard. I looked at the others; they were white as ghosts. Dev whispered, ‘It’s a coincidence, it’s just static.’ But Aakanksha was excited. She asked more questions, and the recorder picked up other words: ‘Leave…’ ‘Don’t…’ ‘She…’ The voice was indistinct, but it seemed to be speaking to me.

Suddenly, all the lampposts on the row went out simultaneously, plunging us into darkness. Our flashlights flickered and died. We were blind. Aakanksha’s compass spun wildly, then pointed toward the old mansion. I felt a cold hand brush my cheek. I screamed, and the others did too. We huddled together, trying to find our way back, but the road seemed to twist and elongate. The mansion’s gate, which was behind us, now loomed ahead.

We ran, stumbling over roots and stones, desperate to escape. After what felt like an hour, we burst out onto the main road, gasping. The streetlights were on here, welcome and bright. We looked back at Hollow Row, and it was as normal as ever, but we knew we had experienced something real. The recorder, when we played it later, captured a clear, chilling message: ‘She lies in the lamplight.’

We never went back. My mother, when I told her, turned pale and whispered, ‘I saw a woman in white under a lamppost that night. I didn’t want to tell you.’ I have not passed Hollow Row since, and I warn everyone against it. But sometimes, when the wind carries a faint whisper of my name, I feel a pull toward that cursed lane, and the lamplight that hides a truth we should never have sought.