The Squeak from the Hollow

I lost my mother in the fall of ’99, and the only thing I kept of hers was her dog, a black bundle of curls we called Onyx. She was a mutt, probably some retriever mix, with a soul as gentle as the summer rain. Onyx was free to roam the little town of Millbrook, and she’d trot back with mud-caked paws and a grin that could melt a glacier. Her joy was a squeaky toy, and we’d laugh ourselves sick watching her prance around with a rubber octopus or a fake bone clamped between her teeth. The last toy we got her was a plastic whale, maybe eight inches long, with a squeaker that sounded like a distressed seagull. She’d carry it everywhere, looking absurdly proud with the whale’s tail flapping against her snout.

Onyx was old when we took her to the river that day. Her eyes had that milky film, and she’d bump into the furniture more often than not. The river was a mile out of town, a lazy brown snake that curled through the pines. We walked the dirt path that ran beside it, and Onyx padded ahead, her nose to the ground. The sun was warm, and the water sparkled like broken glass. Then I heard a whimper, soft and thin, carried by the breeze. I found her at the bottom of a hollow—a deep, narrow pit hidden under a tangle of roots and ferns. She’d fallen in, her leg twisted under her, her eyes wide with pain but silent now. I climbed down and lifted her out, cradling her against my chest. She didn’t bark, didn’t struggle, just lay there, her breath shallow.

The vet said it was her time. We held her as she slipped away, and I buried her in the back garden under the old oak, with her whale toy placed gently beside her. I didn’t cry at first. It took a few days for the weight to hit me, and then I’d find myself sobbing in the kitchen over her empty bowl.

Months passed, and life moved on in that dull, gray way. Then, one Saturday, a neighbor’s dog had a litter of Yorkies, and they were giving them away. I didn’t want another dog, but my husband, Tom, insisted it would be good for me. So we brought home a tiny, two-pound ball of fur we named Pip. Pip was all energy and mischief, with a yap that could pierce eardrums and a love for anything that squeaked. He’d tear apart every toy we gave him within a day, shredding the stuffing across the living room floor. He was a terror, but he made us laugh.

One rainy afternoon, I was cleaning out the attic and stumbled upon a box of my mother’s things. Inside, tucked under a moth-eaten sweater, was the whale toy. It was still intact, the plastic slightly yellowed but the squeaker still firm. I brought it downstairs and tossed it to Pip. He pounced on it, his tiny jaws clamping down, and the squeak that came out was not the playful chirp I remembered. It was a long, low groan, like something exhaling in pain. Pip dropped it and backed away, his hackles raised, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

That night, I heard the squeak again. Not from the toy, but from the backyard. I peered through the kitchen window, and the rain was falling in sheets, the oak tree a black silhouette. The squeak came again, muffled, as if from deep underground. My blood turned cold. I told myself it was just the wind, a creaking branch. But Pip refused to sleep in his bed, whining and scratching at the door.

The next morning, I went to the garden to check on Onyx’s grave. The earth was disturbed—a small, neat hole right at the base of the headstone. I knelt down, my heart pounding. The hole was just big enough for a small animal, and it was empty. The whale toy was gone.

I didn’t tell Tom. I didn’t want to sound insane. But at night, I’d hear it—the squeak, soft and persistent, coming from the garden. Sometimes it would stop, and I’d hear something else: a faint scratching, like claws on wood. Pip would stand at the back door, his eyes fixed on the darkness, growling low.

A week later, I found a dead rabbit on the porch. Its neck was broken, and there were no bite marks, no blood. Just a clean snap, as if something had wrung it. I buried it in the woods, trying not to think.

Then, one evening, I caught Pip with the whale toy. I don’t know how he got it, but there it was, in his mouth, and he was shaking it violently. The squeak it made was different now—higher, more urgent, almost like a cry for help. I pulled it from him, and as I held it, I felt a warmth, followed by a cold that seeped into my palm. I dropped it, and it rolled under the couch.

That night, I had a dream. Onyx was there, young and beautiful, her eyes clear and bright. She was standing at the edge of that hollow, looking down. The hollow was deeper than I remembered, and at the bottom, something moved. I couldn’t see it clearly, just a shifting darkness. Onyx turned to me, and her lips moved, but no sound came out. I woke up with tears on my face and a name on my lips—a name I’d never heard before: Morwen.

The next day, I went back to the hollow. I’d avoided it since Onyx’s death, but something pulled me there. The pit was still there, the roots undisturbed. I climbed down, my heart in my throat. The floor was soft with decayed leaves, and there was a smell like old rot. I dug with my hands, not knowing what I was looking for. Then my fingers hit something hard. I pulled it free—a bone, small and white, not from an animal. It was a child’s finger bone.

I scrambled out of the hollow, my breath ragged. I ran home, and I called the police. They dug up the area, and they found more bones—tiny, delicate, like a small bird’s. But they were human. They’d been there for years, maybe decades. The police later told me they belonged to a girl who’d gone missing in 1987, from a town twenty miles away. No one had ever found her.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking of Onyx, how she’d loved to explore, how she’d always been drawn to that hollow. How she’d whimpered that day, not in pain, but in fear. And the whale toy—it had been in her mouth when she fell. She’d been carrying it, and she’d dropped it in the hollow. Somehow, it had come back to me. Back into my house.

And now, Pip was acting strange. He’d sit in the corner, staring at the wall, his tiny body trembling. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I’d hear a whisper, soft and thin, like a child’s voice: ‘Squeak, squeak.’

I threw the whale toy into the fire. It melted into a black, gummy mess, and the squeak it made as it burned was the most horrible sound I’ve ever heard—a scream cut short. The next morning, the toy was gone from the ashes. There was no trace it had ever existed.

But the squeaks didn’t stop. They come from the garden, from the hallway, from under my bed. And every night, I see Onyx in my dreams, standing at the edge of the hollow, her eyes full of sorrow. She’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t understand. All I know is that something came out of that hole with her, and it’s still here, watching me through Pip’s eyes. And it’s waiting.