The Weeping Stone of Marrow Hill

I never thought sleep would betray me like this. I used to crave it—the soft, warm darkness of unconsciousness, the escape from the grinding thoughts of the day. But that was before the dreams. Before the weight on my chest that felt like a stone, before the voice that rasped like gravel in a cemetery. I had come to accept my insomnia, to embrace it even, as a shield against the nightmares. But there is no shield against what followed me home from Myra’s house.

Myra is my best friend, the sister I never had. When she insisted I stay over after a late shift at the diner, I agreed, thinking that the familiar comfort of her cramped apartment, the smell of her lavender candles, would keep the darkness at bay. She gave me the bed, of course, while she took the pull-out couch, but I insisted we share the queen-sized mattress, as we had in college. We talked for hours, about nothing and everything, until her breathing evened out into sleep. I lay there, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, listening to the hum of the radiator, grateful that my insomnia was keeping me awake, keeping me safe.

But sleep came without my permission. It crept up on me like a thief, stealing my consciousness before I could resist. And in that sleep, I dreamed. It wasn’t the usual dream—the one where I’m in a house that isn’t mine, walking through rooms that shift and change, always hearing footsteps behind me. This was different. I was in a field, under a grey sky, and before me stood a massive stone, twice my height, slick with moisture. It pulsed with a faint, sickly light, and from its base, a crack weeping black liquid like tar. I could feel my bare feet sinking into cold mud, and the scent of rot filled my nostrils.

Then I heard it—a low, rhythmic scraping, like nails on a chalkboard, but deeper. It came from behind the stone. I tried to move, to run, but my legs were rooted to the ground. The scraping grew louder, and a voice, ancient and splintered, spoke from within the stone: ‘Marrow for the hollow, blood for the stone.’ The words repeated, over and over, until the ground beneath me cracked and opened, and I fell into darkness.

I woke with a scream, gasping, Myra shaking me. ‘Hey, hey, it’s okay. You were having a nightmare.’ Her face was a blur, but I could see the concern etched into her features. I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, and I tasted something metallic, like copper. I touched my lips and found them slick with blood. Myra gasped, and I looked down at my hands—they were trembling, and the tips of my fingers were stained black, as if I had dipped them in wet ink.

That was three weeks ago. Since then, things have escalated. The dreams come every night now, regardless of where I sleep. I’ve tried everything—sleeping pills, meditation, even drinking myself into oblivion. But the stone always finds me, and that voice, it doesn’t just speak anymore; it conjures shapes in the darkness, things that writhe and slither, that watch me with eyes that glint like broken glass. And when I wake, I find marks on my body—bruises in the shape of fingers around my ankles, thin cuts along my arms, patterns that look like ancient runes.

Last week, I went to the doctor, thinking I was losing my mind. He asked me about stress, about my sleep, and I told him about the insomnia and the nightmares, but I left out the details, the stone, the voice. He prescribed a stronger sleep aid and suggested therapy. I took the pills, and for one night, I slept without dreaming. But the next night, the dreams returned, and the stone was bigger, the crack wider, and the black liquid had pooled around it, forming a lake that shimmered like oil. In the dream, I waded toward the stone, and as I reached out to touch it, my reflection in the dark water—it wasn’t mine. It was a gaunt, hollow-eyed version of me, grinning with a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth.

Then, two days ago, I started finding things in my apartment. At first, it was small things—a dead fly on my pillow, a cold spot in the corner of my room, a single strand of black hair that appeared on my doorstep, though my hair is blonde. Then, yesterday, I found a small white stone on my kitchen counter, perfectly smooth and round, with a single red vein running through it. I didn’t put it there. I threw it in the trash, but it was back this morning, sitting on my nightstand, and when I picked it up, it was warm, and it seemed to pulse with a faint heartbeat.

I can’t sleep anymore. I dare not. I’ve tried to stay awake, to keep my eyes open, but exhaustion always wins. And now, I feel it during the day too. A weight on my chest, like someone is sitting on me, and that voice, whispering in the back of my mind, even when I’m wide awake. It’s getting harder to tell what is real and what is not. Last night, I saw a shadow in the hallway that moved like a liquid, and I followed it, thinking it might be a way to escape, but it led me to my bathroom mirror. I looked into the glass, and my reflection smiled at me—a slow, stretching grin that I didn’t make. I slammed my fist into the glass, shattering it, and when I looked at my hand, it was bleeding, but the cut was on the wrong side, the back of my hand, not the palm.

I called Myra, sobbing, but she couldn’t hear me. The line was dead, and when I checked my phone, the screen was cracked, and the image on the lock screen was not my own—it was a picture of a stone weeping black tears.

I don’t know what to do. I’m writing this in fragments, between bouts of terror, because I can feel it getting closer. The dreams are no longer confined to sleep; they bleed into my waking hours, like a stain that won’t wash out. And I know now, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that the stone is real, and it is waiting for me. I can hear it calling, even now, a low hum that vibrates under my skin. I think it wants me to come to it, to return to the field that exists somewhere in this world, maybe not far from here.

I’ve decided I have to go. I can’t run from this; it’s already inside me, in my blood, in my marrow. I’m packing my things now, though I don’t know what to bring. A knife, maybe, though I doubt it would help. Some silver, in case it’s a spirit of some sort. And my notebook, to keep writing, if I can. I’m going to find that stone, and I’m going to smash it to pieces, or die trying. This is my last entry, I think. If you find this, please, don’t look for me. And whatever you do, don’t sleep. Not even for a minute. Because the stone is patient, and it will find you, and it will hollow you out, until there is nothing left but a weeping shell of bone.

Goodbye.