The Singing Stones

It happened a decade ago, when my brother and I were still kids, spending summers at our grandmother’s farm in the hollows of the Appalachian foothills. The land was old, scarred by coal mining, and dotted with the skeletal remains of abandoned homesteads. One particular ruin crowned a ridge behind the barn: a collapsed stone cottage, its roof gone, walls half tumbled, a gaping doorway like a black tooth. We were forbidden to go near it, of course, but forbidden things have a pull.

That afternoon, we were chasing Gran’s mutt, a scruffy terrier named Biscuit, through the tall grass. He bolted up the slope, barking at something unseen, and disappeared through that crumbling doorway. We hesitated at the edge of the property, but the thought of losing the dog to a collapse was worse than a scolding. We scrambled after him, our hearts thudding, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and decay.

Inside, the light was dim, filtering through cracks in the mossy stones. The floor was littered with leaves and animal droppings, but in the center, the ground was scraped clean. There stood four figures: two men and two women, as still as statues. They wore clothes we’d never seen except in old photographs from history books—fringed leather for the men, and long, dark dresses with beaded patterns for the women. They were singing, but no sound came from their mouths. It was a song felt in the chest, a vibration that made our teeth ache. They didn’t look at us, didn’t even blink, as if we were part of the ruined walls.

We stood frozen, our breath caught. We were Creek on our grandmother’s side, and the weight of what we were seeing pressed down on us—not fear, not yet, but a deep, unsettling recognition. Then, as one, the figures turned their heads, and their eyes were not eyes but black hollows. The silence in the room was unbearable. Biscuit whimpered and bolted, and that broke the spell. We ran, stumbling over roots and rocks, not daring to look back until we were safe in the farmhouse kitchen.

Gran and Granddad listened, their faces going pale as we stammered out the story. Granddad grabbed his shotgun, even though he’d never used it on anything but snakes. They climbed the ridge, and we watched from the window as they entered the ruin. They came out minutes later, their shoulders slumped. ‘Nothing there,’ Granddad said, but his voice was tight. Gran made us drink sweet tea, but she kept glancing toward the hill, muttering under her breath in Creek. That night, we heard singing from the ridge, muffled and melodic, but when we pressed our ears to the window, it stopped. ‘It’s just the wind,’ Gran said, but her hands were trembling.

We never went up there again. But I dreamt of them—those hollow-eyed figures—for years. And I knew, in my bones, that the stones they stood on were not the only thing they were waiting for. The song had found some part of us, and it was still humming in our blood, patient as the hills, waiting for us to come back. I never did. But sometimes, late at night, I hear that song on the wind, and I wonder if it’s grown tired of waiting.