Hollow-Limb Jess

A spooky Halloween campfire micro.

Photo by Otto Norin on Unsplash

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“She’s there every night,” Pete stammered. “Hollow-Limb Jess… climbing into one of the boys.”

Camp Director Millet sipped the cup of chamomile the young counselor had brought him. He was an insomniac who rarely slept. Still—he did not like to be disturbed at night.

Millet was middle-aged and balding, but he’d kept the stocky, athletic build of his youth. Pete, by contrast, looked thin; drained. The younger man clutched the cast on his right arm, which he’d broken just the other week—it was his second broken bone this month.

“That’s why you came to see me?” Millet asked. “To talk about Hollow-Limb Jess from the campfire stories?”

The clock read 11:59. It was the last night of camp, and he could still hear faint laughter coming from the boys’ cabin.

“But it’s true,” Pete whimpered. “Every night, I watch it happen. There’s a low, hollow bell. Then she cracks opens the door. She crawls to every sleeping boy and taps on each forehead with her long nail.”

“I know the stories.”

“Then she peels back his eyelid and peers in to see if he’s sleeping. She opens his mouth wide, so wide, and she climbs inside, past his teeth and over his tongue…”

The clock chimed midnight. Millet shivered—it was like a spoon resonating against an empty, hollow socket.

“…and down his throat and out of his stomach and into his bones to feed.”

Millet’s eyes flicked to the door. Had it been ajar like that the whole time, the cold night air twisting in?

Pete wiped his mouth. “Oh, the boys only lose a little, Director—but me, Director—me!”

Was the man insane? And yet, Millet wondered—hadn’t he heard the creaking of the boys’ bones? Hadn’t he noticed that they seemed somewhat lighter than when they had arrived?

“Director, please…when no one else is asleep she feeds on me…”

“That’s enough,” said Millet, but his voice quavered.

“My bones are growing too light...” Pete’s pale face glistened with horror. “And she’s becoming too heavy…”

There was a hollowness to the man that made Millet’s skeleton ache. And hadn’t he awoken many mornings—when Pete was gone for the night—feeling somewhat hollower than before?

Millet rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted. Was it his many nights spent wide-awake? Was it the chamomile?

Pete took an unsteady step forward, his figure swaying.

“Please sleep,” he whispered. “Please sleep.”

He was so tired, so tired he could barely manage to murmur—

“It’s just a story…”

Then Millet felt a tap on his forehead—hard like a nail. Cold tendrils shot through his skull as a scattering of wind chimes filled his ears. His vision blurred and he gasped out in terror—he struggled against the sleep that threatened to drown him…

Millet forced his eyes to focus. He saw Pete, his mouth agape in surprise.

It was stretching wide, so wide, and something—someone—was climbing inside.

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• This is my first horror piece on Substack! (I usually post more humorous material.)

• I’ve been too much of a perfectionist (and much too busy) to post anything lately. So it feels good to get something on here. Once a month is my minimum. 😮‍💨

• Appreciate you reading! Take excellent care & see you next time!