The Standing Stones of Hollow Hill

I have never spoken of this to anyone but my father, and he only knows because he is from where I am from. If you know anything about my heritage, you know I am steeped in Celtic lore, and I have always been drawn to the old places. But there is one place I have never been able to shake, a circle of stones that stands on a lonely hill just outside the village of Dunmore. It is not like the grand henges you read about in books; it is crude, weathered, and older than the stories that try to name it. I have walked past it since I was a boy, and I have always felt a cold pressure at the back of my neck, like being watched by something that does not have eyes.

It had been years since I last visited, and I convinced myself that the feeling was just a child’s fancy. But when my work brought me back to Dunmore, I decided to see the old hill again. I took my dog, a sturdy border collie named Meghan, and we set out on the familiar path. The day was bright and clear, but as we approached the stones, I noticed that the birds had fallen silent. Meghan began to whine, her tail tucked low, and she pulled at the leash as if she wanted to turn back. I ignored her, pressing on until we stood at the edge of the circle.

That is when the sensation hit me again, stronger than I remembered. It was as if someone had held a large television screen just behind my head, emitting a silent, invisible hum. The air grew heavy, and the light seemed to dim even though the sun was high. I looked at the stones, their surfaces covered in faint carvings—spirals and interlocking patterns that I had never noticed before. Meghan flattened herself to the ground, whimpering, and I knew we had to leave.

But I could not let it go. I returned the next night, armed with a flashlight and a sense of foolishness. The moon was new, and the darkness was absolute. As I approached, I heard whispers—soft, sibilant, like dry leaves skittering across the ground. I shone my light at the stones, and in the periphery of my vision, I saw shapes—tall, thin figures that vanished when I turned to look. The whispers grew louder, almost forming words in a language I did not know but felt I should understand.

I stumbled back, and in my haste, I tripped over a root and fell. When I looked up, the stones were no longer a circle; they were a doorway, a gaping black mouth that seemed to breathe. And in that darkness, I saw a face—pale, ancient, with elongated eyes that held no pupils. It stared at me, and I felt a pull, a temptation to step forward and embrace whatever lay beyond. But Meghan, who had followed me against her will, let out a sharp bark, and the spell broke. The stones were just stones again, and I ran.

I have since researched the carvings, and I found that the patterns match a dialect of Cornish that was spoken in the dark ages. One inscription, if my translation is correct, reads: ‘The gate opens when the heart is still.’ I do not know what that means, but I know that I will never go back. My father, when I finally told him, went pale and said only, ‘You saw the trow, didn’t you?’ He would not say more, but he made me burn my research notes and scatter the ashes in a running stream. He said it was the only way to let the stone settle.

I have not returned to Dunmore since, and I have stopped telling this story. But every night, when I close my eyes, I see that face, and I hear the whispers calling my name. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of a shadow behind me, and I know that the gate is still open, and it is waiting for me to still my heart.