I grew up in this house, back when it was alive with noise—my parents’ laughter, the clatter of dishes, and the endless chatter of my friends: Timmy, Sarah, and Matt. The woods behind the house were our kingdom, a sprawling maze of trees and secrets where we spent every summer inventing games and chasing shadows.

Timmy was the spark. He had a wild streak, always pushing us into trouble with that crooked grin of his. The Hollow Pact was his idea, born from a tattered book he’d found in the town library—something about ancient deals with the land, offerings to unseen things. “It’s just pretend,” he’d say, eyes glinting. “But what if it’s not?”

The rules were simple: bring an offering—a coin, a trinket, a piece of yourself—and bury it under the old oak tree in the clearing. Then recite the chant:

“Take this gift, and grant my plea. Bind us together, you and me.”

It was a game, a silly ritual to pass the time. I’d wish for a new bike, Sarah for a puppy, Matt for his dad to stop yelling. Timmy’s wishes were always vaguer, weirder—like “to see what’s on the other side.” We’d laugh, shove each other, and run back home before dark.

The last time was different. It was late August, the air thick and humid, the kind of heat that made your clothes stick to your skin. We were older—twelve, almost thirteen—and starting to drift apart. Sarah had been moody all day, Matt was sulking over a broken slingshot, and I just wanted to go inside where it was cool. But Timmy wouldn’t let it go.

“One more time,” he said, his voice sharp. “Something big.”

“Big how?” Sarah asked, brushing her braid over her shoulder.

“Something that lasts,” he replied. “Forever.”

He pulled out his pocketknife and sliced off a lock of his dark hair, letting it fall into the hole he’d dug. Sarah sighed but cut a strand of her own, blonde and frayed. Matt tossed in a rusted bottle cap, his “lucky” charm. I dug into my pocket and dropped in a quarter, glinting in the fading light.

“The chant,” Timmy said.

“Take this gift, and grant my plea. Bind us together, you and me.”

“What’s your wish?” I asked, kicking at a root.

Timmy’s grin was too wide, too hungry. “That we’ll always come back. No matter what.”

“That’s creepy,” Sarah muttered.

“It’s not creepy,” he shot back. “It’s power.”

He pressed his hand into the dirt, sealing the hole, and added something new: “And if we call, you have to let us in.”

The woods went still. No birds, no wind—just the weight of his words hanging there. We didn’t play the game again after that. Life moved on. Timmy drowned the next summer, pulled under by a current in the lake. Sarah died in a car crash at seventeen, the road slick with ice. Matt vanished five years ago on a hiking trip, leaving nothing but rumors.

I was the last one left.