The Tar Pit of Birch Hollow

The trouble began in early April, not with a whisper, but with a thud against the side of the house. I was staying at my friend Marlow’s place, a converted church on the edge of Birch Hollow, a town that had seen better days a hundred years ago. Marlow had just gotten out of the hospital after a nasty fall from a ladder, and I was there to help him around, fetch his meds, and keep him from going stir-crazy.

We were in the old nave, now a living room with high, arched windows, watching reruns of some forensic show. The knock came from the wall to our right, the one that faced the overgrown cemetery behind the church. It was three sharp raps, like a fist wrapped in cloth. Marlow’s dog, a old retriever named Gus, lifted his head and let out a low growl, his eyes fixed on the wall. I went to the front door, but the porch was empty. The streetlight flickered, casting long shadows from the tombstones. I chalked it up to a branch, or a prank, and told Marlow not to worry.

The next morning, we were jolted awake at 6:00 AM by a crash from the kitchen. I ran in to find all the cabinets and drawers hanging open, and every piece of cutlery scattered on the floor, as if tossed by a tantrum. No forced entry, no mess except the silverware. Gus was cowering under the table, whining. Marlow, pale, said, ‘It’s the tar pit.’ He’d grown up here, and his grandmother used to warn him about the tar pit on the edge of town, where they used to dump waste from the old leather factory. Said it had a hunger. I laughed it off, but Marlow insisted we check the back door.

We found the back door slightly ajar, leading to a small yard that bordered a thicket of pines. Beyond the trees, I could see a dark, glistening patch of ground, the tar pit. It was a black, viscous pool, maybe thirty feet across, with a few dead trees sticking out. As we watched, a bubble rose to the surface and popped, releasing a puff of dark vapor. Marlow said, ‘It’s been active all spring. People say it’s bottomless.’

That afternoon, I decided to investigate. I was a journalist, always chasing a story. I grabbed a long stick and poked at the edge of the pit. The stick sank in easily, and when I pulled it out, the end was coated in a thick, oily substance that smelled of rot and wet ashes. I noticed something else: a faint, rhythmic pulsing in the muck, almost like a heartbeat. I stepped back, and as I did, the ground beneath my feet shifted, and I almost slipped. I swore I saw a hand, dark and slick, briefly break the surface before sinking back down.

Back in the church, Marlow was agitated. He told me that his grandmother had a story: during the factory’s heyday, workers would sometimes fall in, and the pit was said to be a trap for wayward souls. He had never believed it until now. We searched the house for any pattern to the knocking, and we found in the basement a series of scratch marks on the wall, as if someone had been writing in a language I didn’t recognize, but Marlow said it looked like old Norse runes. He found a translation in a dusty book: ‘The one who feeds shall rise.’

The punctured silence that night was worse. Around 3 AM, the knocking returned, but this time it was a rapid tattoo, like a frantic plea. It came from the ceiling above our bedroom. We were both awake, lying stiff. The door to the hallway creaked open on its own. I grabbed a flashlight, and we followed a trail of wet, black footprints that led from the hallway to the bathroom. The bathroom mirror was covered in condensation, and written in the moisture was a single word: ‘Marlow.’ As we stared, the word was smeared away, and a new one appeared: ‘Hunger.’

The next morning, I had had enough. I called a friend at the local university, a geologist, to come and test the pit. He arrived with a remote camera and a core sampler. He couldn’t get the sampler to penetrate more than a foot; the tar was too thick and seemed to resist. But the camera, lowered on a cable, captured something that made him pack up immediately. On the footage, deep below the surface, there was a shape, huge and amorphous, swimming slowly. It had no eyes, but it seemed to sense the camera, and it lunged toward it, filling the screen with a black mass before the cable snapped.

The geologist left without a word, and Marlow and I were alone. That evening, the pit began to swell. We watched from the back window as the tar oozed out of its banks, slinking toward the church like a living tide. The knocking was constant now, coming from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, as if the whole house was being pummeled. Gus was frothing at the mouth, running in circles. Marlow cried, ‘It wants a soul. My grandmother always said it could be appeased, but only with a ritual.’ He showed me the book: a page with a diagram of a pentagram, and instruction to place a silver object and a piece of the one who would offer and then say a specific incantation. ‘It has to be someone who willingly enters,’ he said, ‘or it will never stop.’

The tar reached the back steps. I felt a deep, primal pull from it, a lure to just step forward and sink in. Marlow grabbed me, held me back. ‘No, you’re not ready. I have to do it. It’s my family’s curse.’ He pulled a silver cross from his neck, placed it on the floor, and began to chant in that old language. As he chanted, the tar receded, slowly, as if reluctantly. But a piece of the tar, a tendril, reached up and wrapped around Marlow’s ankle, and in an instant, he was yanked off his feet. He screamed, ‘Remember, it sleeps for a century!’ and then he was dragged down the steps, into the black mire, which closed over him with a sickening gulp.

I stood frozen, the cross still on the floor, the book in my hands. The house was silent. The tar had receded to its original pool, looking dormant. I didn’t see Marlow again. I searched, but there was no trace. I couldn’t stay in that church. I moved away, but the dreams come every night: I see Marlow sinking, his eyes wide, and behind him, something vast and patient. I never told anyone the full story, but I know the pit is waiting. And when I look at my own reflection, I see a film of black oil on my skin, and I know it’s only a matter of time before it calls me home.