The Hollow Road

“The mountain’s crying for him,” Nell whispered under her breath. Rain blurred the valley into a ghost of itself, all ash and dust. The carriage wheels hissed against the soaked clay road, throwing up ribbons of mud. Inside, the air smelled of damp wool and lavender sachets. Eleanor Williams braced her hand against the rattling glass and watched her reflection fracture with each jolt.

Thomas reached across the seat, gloved fingers brushing hers. “Almost there. We’ve already ridden for five days. Another few hours and we’ll be out of this miserable weather.”

“Assuming the road holds,” she murmured. The fog ahead looked alive, rolling and coiling between the trees as if reaching for the carriage.

“Optimism, Mrs. Williams,” he said with a grin.“We must be strong for your father. His last letter sounded weak, and that isn’t like him. If the doctor’s right about his lungs…”

Eleanor knew that grin. It was the same one he wore when the bills piled too high on the parlor desk, meant to reassure her, but never quite reached his eyes.

Eleanor smiled dryly. “He’d want us alive, Thomas.”

The driver gave a dry laugh from the box. “Alive’s the trick in these hollers, ma’am.”

Thomas leaned closer to the open window. “Bit of bad weather never stopped us yet.”

“Weather?” the driver said. “This ain’t weather. This is the mountain catching its breath.”

The air seemed to thicken at that, fog pressing in from both sides of the road, swallowing what little light remained. The forest had gone quiet, save for the steady drumming on the carriage roof. Somewhere behind them, a bird gave a single short whistle, a morose and haunting tune.

“Nonsense,” Thomas said, smiling as he settled back in his seat. “If the mountain’s breathing, we’ll just whistle along.”

And he did, the same tune, but more cheerful, off-key but determined, rising above the rain like defiance.

The driver stiffened. His head turned slightly, just enough for Eleanor to see the edge of his jaw in the lantern light. “Sir,” he said sharply, “don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t call out. Not here.” The driver said almost pleadingly.

Thomas chuckled. “You think the mountain’ll answer me?” He looked at Eleanor as if to say, “Can you believe this bumpkin?”

“Other things might.” The driver warned.

The carriage rocked onward into the fog, the last streaks of daylight bleeding out behind them, the occasional bird call behind them.

The rocking of the carriage lulled Eleanor toward sleep, the rhythm soft and familiar. For a moment, she was a little girl again, dozing against her father’s side on the long rides home from market, his coat smelling of smoke and horses, his voice rumbling through her dreams.

“Remember, Nora,” he used to say, “birds don’t sing at night. If you hear whistling at night, don't call back.”

She smiled faintly at the memory, the warning that had once frightened her now almost tender in its absurdity. She used to shiver when he said that, though he always smiled afterward and tucked her closer beneath his arm, as if to promise the world was still kind.

Thomas’s warmth replaced that memory now. His breath brushed her hair, his heartbeat steady against her back. Thomas’s arm drew her close beneath the fox-fur blanket. He smelled of wet wool and safety, his breathing steady against her ear. She mindlessly toyed with his wedding ring as her eyes began to close.

“Nell, my love, please be gentle with that ring. Since we’ve been wed, I’ve put on a few more pounds than I would like, and it’s a little snug.” Thomas winced.

“Sorry,” Nell half-mumbled. “I’m just so happy I’m yours.”

The carriage jolted hard to the left, pitching Eleanor against the seat. The horses whinnied, hooves scraping as the wheels sank into something soft and deep. Mud splattered against the lantern glass.

“Bloody road,” Thomas muttered, bracing himself.

The driver pulled the reins. “Rut’s deep. Hold steady. I’ll see to it.”

Thomas frowned. “Why are we—”

“Wheel’s caught a rut, sir,” called the driver. His voice was muffled by the rain. “I’ll see to it.”

Eleanor peered through the window. The man was already down in the mud, oil lamp swinging from his hand. His shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into himself. She felt a pang of empathy as she realized the mist that was enveloping them must be freezing, and the poor man was also soaked to the bone.

She had wanted to stop earlier, and the driver agreed, but Tom didn’t see the point in delaying. Of course, it wasn’t dark, rainy, and gloomy then. Tom wasn’t from here, New York polish over farm-boy pride. He meant well, but he had that stubborn kind of kindness that always thought it knew best. He just knew that he knew better than the people ‘round here. Except Nell. He said he admired her wit, and it made him fall in love with her.

After a moment, she said quietly, “When I was little, my father told me not to whistle after dark.”

Thomas leaned back. “That’s quaint.”

“He said it was calling things.”

“Birds, perhaps?” Thomas said with a lovingly mocking air.

She shook her head. “He never said what.”

A metallic clatter broke through the rain, the driver’s toolbox hitting the ground. Then came the sound, not a scream, but a yowl, deep and cracking, as though the mountain itself had taken his breath for its own. Then silence.

Eleanor pressed her nose against the glass, but couldn’t see the driver. The contents of the toolbox were scattered around the carriage.

“Stay here, Nell,” Thomas said, reaching for the door latch.

“Thomas—” Elenor started to plead.

He smiled at her in that steady, maddening way he had. “I’m sure he just dropped a hammer on his foot. If it’s just a broken axle, he might need some help to get us moving again.”

His hand shook the door as he smiled, a little too long to be real. This smile wasn’t just to reassure her, but him as well.

With a huff, he burst open the door and hopped through, as if any longer and he would change his mind. The door shut behind him with a hollow thud.

Eleanor was alone with the rain. The door still swung on its hinges, the echo of the scream swallowed by the storm. She pressed a hand to the window, the cold glass, slick with steam, obscuring her view like a veil. She strained to see past the lantern light.

The beam wavered, stretching thin, as though the fog itself were clawing at the flame.

Then came the whistle.

The same tune the bird sang. The same tune Thomas had played earlier, soft, rising, deliberate.

Her breath caught in her throat as if it were afraid to make noise. The hairs on her body rose in unspoken terror. She prayed it was just a bird.

It came again, exactly the same, every note too perfect to be an echo, but closer, bigger. Too loud to be a bird. Too close to be safe.

Thomas stumbled back inside, drenched to the bone, breath sawing in his chest. Mud streaked his coat, his hands shaking as he dragged the door shut.

“There’s someone out there,” he said.

Eleanor rose halfway from the seat. “The driver?”

He shook his head, water flinging from his hair. “No. Someone else. I saw … a shape. Tall. Moving through the fog. I didn’t see the driver. Looked like he was dragged away.”

He wedged the iron bar from beneath the seat across the latch, his hands fumbling. The wind clawed at the door as if testing it.

For a long moment, nothing moved. Then came the sound, a slow, deliberate scrape along the side of the carriage. The sound of splintering wood shatters the silence. Something circling.

Eleanor pressed her hand to her mouth. “Maybe it’s just the horses—”

The sound climbed higher, raked against the windowpane.

A tapping followed.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Soft and deliberate.

Thomas lifted the lamp. Light spilled across the glass, catching only the rain. A fingertip smear appeared from the other side, dragging a long line through the fogged pane. Brown, bone-thin fingers, bark-like and jointed wrong, wiped across the pane as if looking for cracks.

Eleanor choked on a breath. “Tom … ”

“It’s nothing,” he whispered, but his voice cracked on the word. He was shivering, though the air was stifling. Each time the thing scraped the wood, his eyes darted toward the latch as if expecting it to give. The man who’d mocked superstition was now mouthing prayers without realizing.

From outside came a voice, muffled seeming to mock his words, his cadence.

Her pulse stuttered and then forgot itself.

Thomas turned, face pale. “Did you hear that?”

The copy came again in a gravelly, twisted voice, but this time it asked.

“Did you hear that?”

They froze.

All night, the thing circled, scratching, whispering, repeating. It learned their words, then their rhythm, then the small things no stranger could know. Nell, stop fussing with my ring. I’m just so happy I’m yours.

They clung to each other beneath the fox-fur blanket, whispering to stay awake. The lamp burned low. The rain turned to mist against the glass.

At one point, Eleanor stirred and heard Thomas’s voice, outside the carriage, humming that same cursed tune. Yet he sat beside her, eyes shut, breathing slow.

She reached out to shake him. His eyes opened before she touched him.

“Did you say something?” he asked with a tremor to his voice.

The answer reflected in her terror-filled eyes, as a tear escaped and slipped down her cheek.

Outside, the whistle rose again, and somewhere in it, she thought she heard laughter.

The fog never lifted; it only thinned enough to pretend at morning. Pale light seeped through the windows, weak as breath.

Thomas straightened, red-eyed from a sleepless night. “It’s daylight,” he said, as if naming it could make it true. “We haven’t heard it in quite a while. Whatever that was, it’s gone. I’ll see to the wheel before the road dries wrong.” He smiled, but his voice was shaky and his eyes bloodshot. It was less confidence and more mantra, prayer to will it into reality.

Eleanor wanted to protest, to beg him not to step into the gray. But the thought of staying there alone felt worse. She offered to help, but he was adamant that she stay.

The door groaned open. The mist rushed the carriage, wet and metallic. Thomas vanished into it almost immediately; the lantern’s glow swallowed him whole.

For a time, there was only the sound of mud being cleared from the wheel, the horse’s uneasy snort. The wagon shifted as it righted itself.

Then the shouting. Thomas was yelling her name. Once. Then again, overlapping, the two voices, both his, both ragged.

Eleanor threw the blanket aside and stumbled out, boots sinking in the mud. The mist wrapped her ankles, her knees, her throat. She grabbed the coach gun from the driver’s seat.

Both Thomas.

Both calling to her.

“Nell! It’s me!”

“Nora, don’t listen to him!”

She raised the gun. Her hands trembled so hard the barrels quivered, the metal biting into her palms. Her breath came in shallow gasps, every sound of the storm folding in on itself until all she could hear was his voice, two of them. Ripping her in half.

The left Thomas took a step forward. “Please, love, it’s me. He’s…he’s the thing…”

The right lurched closer, mirroring the movement perfectly. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t call her that.”

Both voices overlapped now, each claiming truth. The same words, the same eyes, the same blood trickling down their cheeks. Her mind scrabbled for difference, something human to anchor to, but every instinct screamed and contradicted the next.

One heartbeat says left. The next says right. The third says run.

Her gaze darted between them. The ring, mud-caked but glinting. The left’s bare hand, raw where the band should be.

He wouldn’t lose it. He said it was tight. I couldn't even twist it. He wouldn’t lose it, would he?

“Please,” the left one of them whispered. “Please, Nora.”

“Don’t listen to him, Nell,” the right hissed.

The wrong name sliced through her confusion like a blade. Her heart hammered once, twice… Then she fired.

The recoil slammed her shoulder back. The shot hung in the air, echoing through her chest. Love and terror pulled her in opposite directions until something inside her gave way. For a heartbeat, she thought she heard both of them still calling her name.

Only one figure fell. One figure stood. A ray of sun breaking through the murk and glinted off the muted gold band forcing her eyes down.

She stared at the now still figure in the mud. The blood spread in ribbons through the mud, fading as the rain claimed it.

The other Thomas staggered to her, slick with mud, trembling.

“You did what you had to,” he said, voice hoarse and breaking. “He can’t tear us apart anymore.”

He still wore his ring. The horses had gone still. The oppressive fog was lifting.

Eleanor let the gun fall from her hands. He caught her, pulling her close and holding her hand. The way he always did to comfort her.

“It’s over,” he whispered. “We’ll be home soon.”

She wanted to believe him. She did.

He helped her back into the carriage, his hand warm around hers despite the chill. The world seemed to exhale; the haze thinned into pale veils that drifted toward the trees.

“We’ll make good time once the road dries,” he said, voice gentle, steady again. The same voice that had read vows.

Eleanor nodded, too tired to speak. Her ears rang from the gunshot; her pulse thudded in the hollow of her throat. Through the open door, she watched rainwater carry the last of the blood downhill. Thin and pink as if the mountain rinsed its hands of him.

He climbed onto the box and called to the horses. They started forward with a shudder, the wheels sucking free of the mud.

The storm was over. The worst had passed. Eleanor sat back beneath the fox-fur blanket, staring at her hands. Mud, blood, rain, she couldn’t tell which was which. But they were moving again, and Thomas was alive. That was enough.

When he spoke again, his tone was trembling but soft, almost teasing. “See? Daylight cures everything, Mrs. Williams.” He sounded nervous. Scared.

She managed a small smile. “You were right.” He reached back through the carriage window to squeeze her fingers, warm, solid, real.

“Tom?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, just withdrew his hand and urged the horses on.

Ahead, the fog was closing again, drawing tight across the road like curtains. The horses’ ears twitched; their pace faltered. They said nothing for what felt like hours. Eleanor’s body began to surrender. The night’s terror folded over her like a blanket, heavy and strange. Her eyes closed heavy with the weight of exhaustion.

Somewhere between waking and dream, she heard Thomas begin to hum. Low and tuneless. Then the notes slid into shape, familiar and haunting.

Her pulse went cold. “Darling,” she murmured, half-asleep, voice barely a breath. “Don’t.”

She thought she heard him whisper, “You’re almost home, Nora.”

The carriage rolled on, and he kept humming.