The Lantern in the Hollow

It was the summer I turned eleven, and my family had just moved to a small town in the hills of Vermont, where the houses clung to the slopes like barnacles. I hadn’t made any friends yet, but every day after school, I’d wander down the gravel road that led to the old mill pond, hoping to find something interesting. One afternoon, I met a girl named Eliza, who was skipping stones across the water, her dark hair whipping in the wind. We got to talking, and she told me she lived in a house at the edge of a hollow, a place where the trees grew so thick that the sunlight never reached the ground. She said it with a strange smile, and I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

A few weeks later, she invited me to spend the night at her place. My mom was hesitant, but I begged, and she finally agreed, dropping me off at the end of a long, unpaved driveway that snaked through a dense forest. The house was a modest cabin, with a screened porch and a tin roof, and it felt older than the hills themselves. Inside, the walls were paneled with dark wood, and the air smelled of cedar and dust. Eliza’s parents were quiet, smiling people who left us to ourselves. We ate frozen pizza and played board games by the light of a kerosene lamp because the power flickered every time the wind blew. Around midnight, Eliza said she wanted to show me something.

She led me out the back door, into the pitch-black night, carrying only a small flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing a narrow path that wound between gnarled roots and overgrown ferns. I could hear the sound of water trickling somewhere below us. We walked for what felt like an hour, though it was probably only ten minutes, until we reached a clearing where an old stone well stood, its opening overgrown with moss. Eliza stopped, her eyes wide, and whispered, ‘My grandpa used to say that if you listen at the well at midnight, you can hear the whispers of the people who drowned in the pond.’ I laughed, but she put a finger to her lips and leaned over the edge. I did the same, and at first, all I heard was the wind. Then, faintly, I heard a voice, not a whisper but a clear, young girl’s voice, saying, ‘Let me out.’

I stumbled backward, my heart pounding. Eliza looked at me, her face pale in the flashlight’s glow. ‘I’ve heard it too,’ she said. ‘It’s been happening ever since I moved here. It calls my name at night.’ We hurried back to the house, and I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, I confronted her father, who was sipping coffee on the porch. He looked at me with tired eyes and said, ‘That well has been sealed for a hundred years. There was a girl who drowned in the pond, back in the 1800s. They found her body down in the hollow, right where the well is now. Some say her spirit never left.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, but the weird thing is, the well was dug just a few years after she died. Coincidence?’

I went home that day, trying to forget, but the voice stayed with me. I started having nightmares, and in my dreams, I would see a little girl in a white dress, standing at the edge of the woods, holding a lantern. She would point at me, and her mouth would move, but no sound came out. The dreams became so vivid that I was afraid to sleep. Weeks passed, and I tried to avoid Eliza, but she kept calling, leaving messages on my mom’s voicemail. One evening, my mom said she was worried about Eliza because she had been sick and missed school. That night, I decided to walk to her house, not sure why, but feeling a pull I couldn’t explain.

The path was dark, and I didn’t bring a flashlight. The moon was hidden behind clouds as I stumbled through the underbrush. When I reached the clearing, I saw the well, and beside it, a figure holding a lantern. But it wasn’t Eliza. It was a small girl, her hair wet, her clothes dripping, and her skin pale as milk. She turned to me, and her eyes were black, like the pond at night. She spoke, her voice echoing as if from a deep chamber, ‘You can see me. Good. I need you to tell my mother I’m sorry.’ I couldn’t move. She took a step closer, and I could smell the stagnant water. ‘I didn’t mean to fall in. And the well was the only way to get out. But I’m still here. I’m always here.’ She held out the lantern, and its light was cold, like moonlight on ice. ‘Don’t forget.’

I woke up on the ground, the morning sun filtering through the trees. I was alone, and the well was empty, just a hole in the earth. I walked back to Eliza’s house, but the driveway was overgrown, and the cabin was abandoned, with boards on the windows. I learned later that Eliza and her family had moved away months ago, leaving no forwarding address. The only thing left was a faded photograph on the floor, of a girl in a white dress, standing by a well. She looked just like the girl in my dream, but her eyes were open, and they were blue, not black. I still have that photograph. Sometimes, at night, I can hear a faint voice from the hollow, calling my name. I never told anyone how I found it. And I never went back.

Years later, I came across an old newspaper article about a girl named Mary who drowned in the mill pond in 1872. Her body was never found, and the well was dug in the spot where she was last seen. Some said the well was a way for her spirit to reach the surface, but that if you listened, she’d ask you to help her come out. The article ended with a quote from the town historian: ‘Some things are best left at the bottom of a well.’ I think about that girl, and the lantern she held, and how she asked me to say sorry to her mother. But her mother is long gone, and I can’t help but wonder if the girl is still down there, waiting for someone to let her out. Sometimes, before I fall asleep, I think I hear her voice, clear and close, saying, ‘Let me out.’ And I wonder if, one night, I’ll be the one to answer.