The Salt Hollow House

It was the summer of ’78 when my father, Lenny, and his old man, Pop, took on a job at the far end of Cranston County. The house belonged to one of Pop’s poker buddies, a man named Silas, who’d inherited the place from his great-uncle. The house was a monstrous, three-story Victorian, all peeling paint and crooked gables, and it sat in the middle of an orchard so dense and overgrown that from the road, you’d think it was just a wall of green. There was only one way in and one way out, a gravel drive that wound through the trees and opened into a clearing where the house stood like a tombstone.

Pop and Lenny had been hired to rewire the old place. Silas was planning to sell it, but the wiring was shot, and he needed it up to code. The moment they stepped through the front door, a chill hit them that had nothing to do with the weather. The air was thick with dust and the smell of rot, but there was something else, something that made the hairs on Lenny’s arms stand up. They worked in the kitchen first, a cavernous room with a massive hearth and a long oak table that could seat twenty. Pop was crouched by the socket, fiddling with the wires, when he stopped and muttered, ‘Hand me the pliers, would ya?’ Lenny was across the room, sorting through their toolbox, and he looked up to see Pop frozen, staring at something behind him.

Lenny turned. There, sitting on a chair pulled out from the table, was a boy. He couldn’t have been more than seven, and he was solid as a ghost can be, but he was there. The boy was dressed in rags, clothes that must have been a hundred years old, threadbare and patched, the kind of thing you’d see in a history book. His face was pale, almost gray, and his eyes were hollow, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He just sat there, staring at Pop, his hands folded on the table in front of him. Pop was no coward, but he was a God-fearing man, and he knew what he was seeing. He slowly set down his screwdriver and straightened up, never taking his eyes off the boy. ‘We’re not gonna hurt you, son,’ he said, his voice low and steady. The boy didn’t respond. He just blinked, and then he was gone.

Lenny felt a cold knot in his gut. He’d never seen his old man scared, but Pop’s face had gone white. They didn’t finish the job that day. They packed up their tools and hightailed it back to the truck, and Silas found them standing by the orchard gate, chain-smoking. When they told him what they’d seen, Silas didn’t look surprised. He sighed, and his face went heavy. ‘You saw the boy, then. He’s been here as long as I can remember. My great-uncle used to tell me about him. His name was Ephraim, and he died in the famine, back in the old country. He came to this house with his family, but they didn’t make it. The boy, he starved in that very kitchen.’ Silas pointed a trembling finger at the house. ‘He’s not the only one. There are others. Strangers, they come when the moon is full. They walk the orchard, but they never leave.’

Pop and Lenny decided to leave, to give up the job, but Silas begged them to finish. He said the boy had never hurt anyone, that he was just a lost soul. Pop wasn’t so sure, but money was tight, and a job was a job. They agreed to come back the next day, but they made Silas promise to stay on the property while they worked. The next morning, they returned, and this time they brought a crucifix and a bible. They worked in the kitchen again, trying to finish the socket. The chair was still there, but empty. They tried to ignore it, but the whole time, Lenny felt like they were being watched. At noon, he went out to the truck to get a sandwich, and as he passed the orchard, he saw something move between the trees. It was a man, tall and gaunt, dressed in a long coat and top hat, like something out of the Victorian era. The man raised a hand and pointed at the house, then vanished into the shadows.

They rushed back inside, but Pop was already on the floor, struggling with a sudden panic. He said he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, like someone was trying to get his attention. They didn’t finish that day either. They sat in the truck, trying to gather their nerves, and Lenny finally said, ‘We can’t do this, Pop. There’s something evil in there.’ Pop was silent for a long time, then he nodded slowly. ‘I’m not going back.’ They drove away, leaving the tools and the half-finished job behind. They told Silas they couldn’t finish, and Silas didn’t argue. He just gave them a look that said he understood.

That was the only time Lenny ever saw his father truly shaken. Pop never spoke of the house again, but Lenny would, years later, when I asked him about the scar on his hand. He told me he’d cut it on a piece of metal at that job, but I always wondered if there was more. A few years ago, I drove past the old orchard, out of curiosity. The house was gone, burned down in a suspicious fire a decade back. The orchard had become a field of tall grass, and there was no sign that anything had ever been there. But as I stood at the gate, I thought I saw a small, ghostly figure standing at the edge of the trees, and for a moment, it felt like he was watching me. Then it was gone, and I knew I’d never go back.