The Mulberry Hollow Harvest

In the autumn of 2008, I was a young mother of two, living with my husband in a small farming town in the Midwest. Our house was a modest white clapboard with a wraparound porch, nestled at the edge of a sprawling cornfield that seemed to stretch to the horizon. My days were a comfortable routine: breakfast, laundry, chasing after my five-year-old daughter, Lily, and tending to my eight-month-old son, Toby. I was content, if not a little weary, but that was nothing new.

One blistering September afternoon, after walking Lily to the school bus, a wave of exhaustion hit me like a physical weight. I sank onto the porch swing, thinking the heat had gotten to me. But the fatigue persisted through the following days, each morning a struggle to lift my head from the pillow. I told myself it was the change of seasons, the endless chores, the sleepless nights with Toby. I even considered the possibility of another pregnancy, but my body gave no such signs, and I dismissed it.

One particularly oppressive day, the tiredness became unbearable. I collapsed onto the living room couch, the children nestled beside me, and fell into a heavy sleep. In my dream, I was in a warm, golden field, laughing children running through the tall grass, their faces radiant. I felt a profound happiness, a sense of belonging I hadn’t felt in years. Then, a voice, soft but insistent, whispered, ‘Come to the hollow, and you will never be tired again.’ I woke with a start, the children still sleeping, the house silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock.

That evening, I mentioned the dream to my husband, Carl, who dismissed it as a sign of my overtired mind. But the dream returned every night, growing more vivid. In the dream, I would walk through the cornfield, the stalks parting for me, leading to a lush, green hollow that seemed to pulse with a gentle light. The voice would repeat its promise, and I would wake with a profound sense of loss.

I began to notice changes in the house. The vegetables in our garden grew at an unnatural rate, their colors more vibrant than any I’d seen. The corn in the field, usually left to dry by late September, was still tall and green, the ears plump and golden. The local gossip, Mrs. Hendershot, mentioned that the fall harvest was early, and the crops were the best in memory. She smiled, but her eyes held a haunted look.

My exhaustion grew worse. I would find myself standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at the cornfield, my children playing at my feet, but unable to remember how I got there. One afternoon, I collapsed on the kitchen floor, and when I came to, the sun was setting, and the children were crying. Carl was enraged, demanding to know why I hadn’t fed them. I couldn’t explain the gaps in my memory.

Desperate, I sought help from the town’s herbalist, an elderly woman named Martha, who lived on the edge of the woods. She examined me with a grim face, then asked about the dreams. I told her everything. She nodded slowly, her eyes distant. ‘The hollow you speak of,’ she said, ‘it’s a place where the old ones sleep. They feed on the vitality of the living, drawing strength from those who are weary and weak. You have a spirit of the harvest, but it’s not a blessing—it’s a trap.’ She gave me a pouch of dried herbs and told me to place it under my pillow, and to never go into the field at dusk.

That night, I followed her advice, but the dream was more forceful than ever. The voice was no longer a whisper but a booming resonance, pulling me toward the hollow. I saw myself walking through the corn, my feet moving of their own accord, my children left behind. I woke screaming, the pouch torn to shreds on the floor.

Carl was losing patience. He thought I was going mad, or worse, neglecting our family. I could see the resentment growing in his eyes, and I felt a creeping dread that I was losing everything. One evening, after Lily had gone to bed and Toby was in his crib, I couldn’t resist the call any longer. I slipped out the back door and walked into the cornfield, the stalks closing around me like a maze.

The hollow was just as I had dreamed it, a serene circle of green grass surrounded by ancient oaks. At its center was a stone well, covered with moss. The voice resonated from the well, ‘You are nearly ready. The time has come to give yourself to us, and you will be renewed.’ I felt a hand on my shoulder—not Carl’s, but a cold, ethereal touch. I turned and saw a figure of mist, featureless, but radiating hunger.

I screamed, but no sound came. The figure pressed closer, and I felt my strength draining, my legs giving way. I thought of my children, their faces, their laughter. I thought of Carl, even in his anger. I summoned a final surge of will and grabbed a stone from the well’s edge. I struck the figure, but it was like hitting smoke. Yet, the impact seemed to disrupt its hold, and I fled, tearing through the corn, the stalks cutting my skin.

I burst into the house, sobbing, and found Carl in the kitchen, his face pale. He held a note that I had apparently written, but I had no memory of it. It said, ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. Take care of the children.’ He had found the children sleeping soundly, but I was missing for over an hour. He’d been about to call the police.

We moved away shortly after, selling the house at a loss. The new owner reported strange things—crops that made him feel weak, and a recurring dream of a hollow in the field. We moved to a city in the East, and gradually, my strength returned. But sometimes, when the wind blows through the park, I hear a faint whisper, and I see cornfields where there are none.

Years have passed. Lily is a teenager now, and Toby is almost grown. Carl and I have rebuilt our life, but I never told them the whole truth. The tiredness never fully left me; it lingers, a low hum in my bones. And each year, as the harvest moon rises, I find myself staring out the window, fighting the urge to walk into the unknown, to find that hollow, and surrender to the peace it promised. I know now that peace was an illusion, but sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I wonder if I made the right choice. The voice still calls, but it’s fainter now, like a leaves rustling in the wind. And I’ll always be a little afraid that one day, I’ll answer.