GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE HOLE

The Hole

I still dream about the fire. My little brother’s bloodcurdling screams for me to save him. The way the flames clawed at the old barn. The smell of burning wood—and something worse—that burned my nose and eyes in a way I could never find words to describe. All those nights we spent dreaming, all his fears, all his warnings—lost now, like whispers in the flames.

It was 1986, the height of the Satanic Panic, and my brother Miles was eleven—too young to be obsessed with H.P. Lovecraft but old enough to believe. That summer, we went to the library often, caught in an unspoken competition to see who could read more books. Miles was a brilliant little nerd, landing himself in the gifted and talented program at school by excelling in reading and writing. His creativity was off the charts, and though he was two years younger than me, his intellect cast a long shadow. While I was reading fantasy novels, he had become enthralled by folk horror.

After devouring as many tales as he could, he became convinced—toward the end of the summer—that something lived beneath our farmhouse garage in Little Falls.

Paranoia was running high in our little armpit of New York due to kidnappings of children in the area between us and Syracuse. Miles confided in me that the disappearances weren’t the work of some drifter, but something older. Something that had found a way through.

I didn’t believe him.

He filled his room with terrifying drawings—things with too many eyes, too many mouths. Symbols scrawled across the pages, ink smeared from his frantic hands. He said they kept it at bay. My parents sent him to a psychiatrist. It didn’t help. Instead, he became even more convinced that we were living near the mouth of some unexplainable horror.

By late August, I had started freshman football, signaling the approaching school year. After the second night of practice, I came home, inhaled my dinner, and took a shower. When I came out, I caught him with his giant Herkimer diamond, chanting over a book from the library, mumbling guttural sounds no kid should know—except a nerd like him. The large rock with quartz crystal in it was his pride and joy. He loved Herkimer diamonds and bragged to anyone who would listen about the treasure he had found in the creek last summer.

It was the perfect time to bust his balls.

I mocked his ridiculous chanting, but he remained unbothered by my taunts. Only when I stepped into the circle he had drawn on the hardwood floor did he finally break concentration. He said he was working on a protective spell—that if he didn’t finish, we’d all die. Seeing an opportunity to cast a negative light on the golden child whose intelligence outshined mine daily, I told Mom. She took the book away.

Miles lost it—screaming, thrashing, shouting that we were unprotected now. He cried uncontrollably and, for the first time ever, swore at my mom. I cackled from the other room, listening to his tantrum. Finally, after an hour or two, he cried himself to sleep.

But he wouldn’t stay asleep for long.

That was the night he set fire to the barn.

I woke to the glow outside my window, to the sound of his voice shrieking through the night. I ran, barefoot, into the cold August air. Flames leapt from the barn, heat pressing against my skin.

He was inside.

I didn’t think. I just ran in after him. Instinct took over. Though he was a royal pain in the ass, he was my brother, and I had to help him.

The smoke clawed at my throat, my eyes. Shadows twisted in the fire’s glow, and for a moment, I thought I saw shapes moving—not the flicker of flames, but something else. Something that shifted, reached.

“Miles!” I coughed. “Where are you?”

A small, trembling figure crouched near a giant hole in the center of the barn—exposed now, dirt scraped away, planks raised. Miles turned to me, his face streaked with soot and tears. He was whispering, eyes locked on something in the fire.

I followed his gaze.

And I saw them.

They weren’t fully formed—half silhouettes, half something deeper, darker, seeping through the space between the flames. The fire didn’t consume them. It was as if they were the fire, feeding on it, growing stronger in its light.

Miles reached for me, but before I could grab him, a beam above us cracked and fell. The impact sent me sprawling, searing pain shooting through my leg as debris pinned me down.

“Miles!” I screamed, coughing, clawing at the wreckage.

His eyes met mine, wide with terror. The flames surged behind him, and in them, the things moved.

He screamed as something unseen pulled at him. His body jerked unnaturally, his arms flailing, his voice twisting into something inhuman before the fire swallowed him whole. His screams bellowed like a million echoes all at once inside a vast cavern.

And then—nothing.

I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was in the emergency room. My father and mother huddled in the corner, sobbing. When we left the ER, we passed the fire trucks on our way home—on what would be the longest ride of my life.

We pulled up the stone driveway, pebbles bouncing off the car as we skidded to a stop. The barn was gone. So was he. Our lives—smoldering ruins like the barn itself.

The next day, I saw it. Like an ancient eye staring into my soul from my bedroom window. The old well beneath, now surrounded by a mound of scorched dirt. The fire chief said there was no trace of Miles—that he must’ve fallen down the well. They tried to see how far it went, but their cables and equipment weren’t long enough.

No bones. No remains.

Beneath the earth of our farmhouse would be his final resting place, regardless of what his headstone in the cemetery said. My parents covered the well with steel, wood planks, and plastic to protect it from rot. Then, they filled it in and planted grass over it.

I placed the large Herkimer diamond in the middle of the mound—to keep us safe. And I hoped, in some way, to protect him, wherever he was.

Nothing ever grew there. The stone was all that remained.

Now, decades later, after my mother’s death, I’m back at the house.

The stone—the Herkimer diamond that had remained a fixture for decades—is gone.

The hole—the one they buried—is open again.

It’s late. From my old bedroom window, I see it.

A reddish-orange light, pulsing from deep within.

Something is awake down there.

And this time, there’s no one left to stop it.

Art and story by Hal Hefner.
Produced by Catmonkey Studio