The Hollow Gods

by A. J. Vrana

  Scrambling back to the room, Mason swung open his closet door and rummaged around. There were dozens of them to get through, but he was wide awake now, his body shaking with adrenaline.

  I thought you were done with this, a tiny voice mocked, but he ignored it and read the date at the top of the first personal account.

  October 22, 1868

  I feel as though I have survived the coming of the four horsemen. The town lies in ruins, the people frightened, dejected, and hopeless. Even as the alleged evil has perished in flames, the air of suspicion has not lifted. The villagers continue to search for the demonic wolf—a creature they claim is black as night with eyes red as blood. The animal was seen several times, wandering close to the village. Some even say the beast was spotted with our poor angel, God rest her soul.

  I, for my part, still cannot believe that such a sweet, delicate lady has been lost to us. Cassia—I dare not speak her name, but I am haunted by her face, her clear blue eyes, her soft pale locks golden like morning sunlight. How could she have been the Dreamwalker’s thrall? How could the Dreamwalker ever have taken her?

  I am an apothecary by trade—a man of science—and it frightens me that my hand is stayed when I wish to confess here that I do not believe in such fairy tales. I do not believe that our dear girl was possessed or led astray by any Dreamwalker or her demonic wolf.

  Yes, Cassia spent her days wandering the woods. Foolish of her, as the villagers always warn of the dangers that lie within—whether they be real or imagined. Yet she did not listen. Her girlish curiosity was her undoing.

  What was in those woods that she found so compelling? That she would continue to go back even when I warned her that people would say ominous things? And where was her father? Had he been more vigilant, I do not believe she ever would have gone missing. Cassia had vanished for days before returning. They said she had been spirited away—that her return was a sign of possession and toil undoubtedly the work of the fabled Dreamwalker. One would think that a missing child’s return is cause for celebration, not suspicion and fear.

  I sometimes catch myself thinking dreadful things. Had Cassia not returned, would I have been spared the sight of her screaming at the pyre?

  I want to believe that this was all avoidable, but I am at a loss. The villagers behaved as though they were the ones possessed. Their eyes glazed over like their souls had left their bodies. Jonathan—a kind and gentle friend, a tailor with no more taste for violence than a saint…I’d never seen anyone more crazed than he last night. He pounded his shovel into the earth, cried out like a madman diseased by the full moon, and nearly bit off his own tongue shouting accusations at the poor girl. He and the other villagers would not stop, they would not listen to reason. And those who tried to reason came to fear for their own lives. It was indeed as though something had taken hold of the townsfolk, compelling them to act with incomprehensible bloodlust.

  That thing, I have no doubt, is the superstition of old, which casts fear into the hearts of good people.

  The remaining paragraphs were scorched, the photocopy black from where the original paper had been burned. The signature was blotted out, and no name had been marked by town officials anywhere on the document. Nevertheless, this apothecary seemed perfectly sane. His testimonial made sense; he was aware of the village’s spiral into hysteria. He clearly blamed superstition, much as Mathias had, for the violent crimes committed against the young woman, Cassia.

  And he would not be the first. As Mason pored over the legible testimonials, he began to see a distinct pattern. The nameless apothecary was no exception. Each account mentioned good people—friends, acquaintances, and family who got caught up in the alarm and turned violent without any apparent cause. It was a classic case of groupthink, inspired by the same imposter syndrome seen in cases like Gene Robinson’s. Someone would believe a loved one had been abducted and replaced, and as they confided in others, the hysteria spread like a plague. Gene’s delusions hadn’t contaminated anyone because he hadn’t shared them; he'd acted quickly, and he'd acted alone.

  But there was another theory about what happened to the town in 1868, written by an Agnes Whitener, a midwife. It was...different, to say the least.

  November 3, 1868

  Twelve days. They still hunt the black wolf. Their desire for the creature’s blood has driven them to madness. The forest burns, the flames engulfing everything, and now even the village is in ashes. They don’t understand, but there is something else. I can still feel it, seeping into the soil, rotting the land, corrupting our hearts.

  I have been so frightened I could not deliver Mrs. Allison’s baby this week. The thought of blood makes me all but faint, and I am not one who is permitted to be squeamish by virtue of my profession. I fear that I may be next. I can see the glances—eyes filled with malice, searching for someone to blame, someone new to burn. And yet none seem aware that they are not themselves.

  I, too, have not been myself. My home is charred, my belongings reduced to dust, but I cannot bring myself to leave this cabin for fear that I will see that monstrosity again. Black as death, a voice one could only expect from the devil himself, and two beaming, golden eyes that pierce even iron. Those eyes saw everything, they controlled everything. He was speaking in tongues, and though to me, it sounded like grinding bones and flying locusts, it seduced Mrs. Sibley, Mr. Hawthorne, and so many others. Even the children were affected, and those who were not soon learned that it was wisest to stay away as the town sunk into the depths of hell. The creature was there from beginning to end, as though watching a play unfold, ensuring that the finale was as grand as he’d planned. He alone had composed this dark tale.

  I am certain Doctor Edwards would admit me if he knew any of this. I’d be locked away for melancholia, hysteria, or the town would have me accused a servant of the Dreamwalker. There are times when even I question my own perceptions when I think that perhaps I am too feeble-minded and that I simply cannot endure these executions and hunts. For my own safety, I may very well discard what has been written here. Even if I am mad, I’d rather not anyone know of it.

  The testimonial ended there, unsigned even though the photocopy indicated the author’s name at the top of the page. It was likely added by whatever authority had collected it before poor Agnes had time to burn her diary. Some of what she wrote fit. Based on the town records Mason had seen, there was a forest fire in the fall of 1868 that claimed almost the entire village. Given that it was nearly winter, and the conditions unfavourable, the fire must have been started by some persistent hunters. If they were trying to smoke out this mysterious wolf, they must have set the fires repeatedly—until they didn’t have to. Mason wondered if black wolves wandering the area became the inspiration for the grotesque illustration in the reports.

  Even so, Mason wanted desperately to dismiss Agnes’s testimonial. It was utterly insane. But he also couldn’t deny it was consistent with rational narratives of the trial. Moreover, there were other accounts like Agnes’s. Those who claimed a sinister presence was behind the attack were clearly unaffected by the delirium—just like those who blamed backwardness and superstition. If Agnes and her lot didn’t sink into the quicksand of hysteria, but on the contrary were aware of it, they couldn’t be dismissed as raving lunatics. They were, in effect, on the same wavelength as the apothecary who said the rioting villagers only seemed possessed. And those villagers were neither aware of their distorted thinking nor privy to some diabolical presence. They were far more insane than Agnes could have ever been.

  Mason was distraught by what was in front of him. The two versions of the story actually complemented one another, and testimonials like Agnes’s accounted for what Mason saw in his dream. He was sure they were describing the same monster he’d witnessed—the horror from which Gavran had saved him.

  And yet, the clothes worn by the people in his dream hadn't even approached nineteenth-century fashion. If anything, they had appeared much, much older. Had the monster m
anifested at two different historical moments? His dream may have shown him the origin of it all.

  Unable to hold himself back any longer, Mason threw on a sweater and burst out of the bedroom like he was fleeing for his life. He needed to think and to think he needed to pace. After creeping downstairs, he switched on all the lights and stalked from one end of the lounge to the other.

  Stopping in front of the fireplace, Mason looked up at the collage of photos. A chill crawled up his spine as he remembered the ghastly face hovering over him earlier that night. It was Mathias—a pale, emaciated Mathias, his eyes sunken, and his expression forlorn. The young doctor had never believed in ghosts before, but the framework of his beliefs was beginning to crack like the windows of a sunken ship. Under enough pressure, they would inevitably shatter.

  “Mason?” It was Annabelle, her voice hoarse with sleep as she tied her blue fleece robe around her waist, stopping halfway down the stairs and peeking over the rail. “What are you doing up at this hour? Is everything all right?”

  The warmth he always felt in the old farmhouse seemed all too distant now.

  “Hey Annabelle,” he greeted meekly. She probably needed rest, yet here she was because of him.

  Thumping lightly down the stairs, Annabelle padded over to him, her slippers clapping against her heels. Stopping by the massive stone wall, she glanced up at her son. Much of him was obscured by shadows cast by the dim yellow light of antique lamps. “Would you like some company?”

  Nodding, Mason moved away from the fireplace and helped himself to the couch.

  Annabelle joining him in the adjacent armchair. “What’s eating you?” she nudged. “Is it about earlier?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “What is it?”

  Shifting on the sofa, he nervously rubbed his hands together. “The Dreamwalker. The myth about her. And the truth about this town’s history.”

  He saw her shoulders stiffen like she was preparing for the incoming barrage. It was almost cult-like—the way the villagers protected the fable, and with it, the way they protected themselves from their own history.

  “The legend—” Mason cleared his throat. He could still smell the charred wood from the pyre, mingling with the odour of burning flesh. “Is it from the year 1868? Around the time of the trial, when the forest was burned?”

  The question seemed to surprise her—almost as though it was less complicated than she’d expected. “No, actually. The legend and the trial are two separate events. The legend is much older, though no one’s sure where it originates from.”

  “I suppose that’s why it’s a legend,” he chuckled. “But you know, I’ve never actually heard the legend.”

  Annabelle shifted in the armchair and hesitated. “Well,” she began, “the story itself doesn’t seem like anything special. Basically, a girl from Black Hollow got lost in the woods one day and met an injured wolf under a willow tree. She helped nurse the wolf back to health, and to thank her, he led her back out of the forest. But once she returned to the village, she was haunted by howls echoing from the forest every night afterwards. The villagers referred to her as the Dreamwalker. Eventually, she became this scary figure who kidnaps girls and inspires chaos.”

  “That’s it? That’s hardly ominous.” Mason huffed and threw himself back against the cushions. “But there’s all this stuff about her coming back. The missing girls, the wolves multiplying—I figured out those are the signs,” he pondered aloud, bits of the testimonials floating back to him. “I already know the missing girls end up murdered. But the wolf culls. Did they really think hunting wolves en masse would help?”

  Annabelle pushed her hair out of her eyes. She seemed frustrated, her eyes pleading with the relentless researcher in him. “The villagers believe that the Dreamwalker uses wolves to carry out the kidnappings. One in particular—a large, black wolf with red eyes. He’d lure the girl away into the forest and take her to his master. If the girl returned to the village after that, it was understood that she was no longer herself. She was...corrupted, I suppose.”

  She took a deep breath, her grey eyes hardening as she struggled to divulge what had been festering under the wounds of local history for far too long. “To keep girls from being taken, the villagers hunted wolves mercilessly, almost to extinction. They wanted the black one, but, of course, they never found him. The more fruitless the search, the more they killed. It’s impossible to kill a living spirit—a god—but you can kill her familiars.”

  Mason could hardly believe this was the reason wolves were being slaughtered—that this was the archaic cause Gene Robinson took up to murder his own daughter. There was absolutely nothing like this in the grand narrative—nothing in the textbooks that mentioned such madness. From what most sources had to offer, Black Hollow was a quiet town of minor historical significance. So much of what actually happened here had been lost or woven into folklore only known by locals.

  And Annabelle—one of those locals—seemed deeply uncomfortable with what she was revealing. The slaughter of an entire species and the murder of innocent girls, riding on the claims of some old fairy tale—he couldn’t imagine any of it sat well with her.

  But there was something else—something Mason had taken far too long to realize.

  “Annabelle.” He swallowed her name like a lump of hot coal, sweat clinging to his back as a chilling realization dawned on him. “There’s a wolf cull right now.”

  Annabelle frowned. “Yes, the town is very much in support of it. I’m not, but most folks here still hold onto the whole Big Bad Wolf image, I suppose.”

  “No—that’s not what I mean.” He couldn’t get it out. The trial of 1868 had coincided with a wolf cull, and now there was another. The only factor that differentiated murders like Elle’s from the mass violence of the trial was the wolf cull. “I don’t think you understand,” he looked up at her, his eyes widening in both exhilaration and panic as the words fell off his lips. “History is repeating itself. The town will go on another hunt.”

  Annabelle’s breath halted. “That can’t be,” she insisted. “Those times are long over. Elle and girls like her are tragic anomalies. Their murderers acted alone.”

  “Do you really believe that? Was Gene crazy, or is that just an excuse to ignore a larger pattern?” Mason pressed. “When was the last cull?”

  Annabelle’s grip tightened on the armrest. “There hasn’t been one since 1868.”

  It was apparent to Mason—those times were not long over. The Dreamwalker and her wolf were still here, two cogs in a wheel that turned endlessly. No matter how many times those cogs were knocked out, the good people of Black Hollow would always find replacements. After all, the wheel had to keep turning.

  “I think the villagers feel terrible about their own history,” Mason speculated. “They’re ashamed. All these signs that the Dreamwalker’s coming back—it’s just their fear and guilt talking. They have to believe the Dreamwalker is evil to justify all the violence that’s happened. And now they’re paranoid. They see her everywhere, in everything.”

  “That might be part of it,” Annabelle nodded. “I’m sure they have to believe those girls were killed for a reason.”

  “If the townspeople really thought they’d done the right thing, or if they could accept that their ancestors murdered innocent girls, they wouldn’t still be worried about the Dreamwalker and her wolves. They’d live in the modern world instead of some prehistoric fable.” Mason scowled. “How many people in Black Hollow sympathize with Gene Robinson? Too many, I bet.”

  The villagers were compelled to exorcise their guilt, to purify the demon that haunted them—over and over again. Every story needed its villain.

  Mason had learned about the power of collective guilt when he studied social psychology; he knew it was very real. Still, he couldn’t believe that something like this could endure in the psyche of an entire town for so long. He’d witnessed the town’s
fear of the Dreamwalker, first at the market, then at the hospital when Kai Donovan had escaped.

  It was a divine act of mercy that Mason had stolen Kai Donovan’s blood, but it irked him that there was a kernel of truth to the nurses’ superstitious whispers. Could it really be a coincidence that there was a man with wolf’s blood walking around a town where demonic wolves allegedly kidnapped girls? He wanted to laugh out loud, tell himself that none of it mattered and that everything would be back to normal in the morning.

  Yet he knew that wouldn’t happen.

  He needed to know there was a rational explanation, and that he wasn’t drowning in ink on the pages of a fairy tale.

  “Annabelle, there was something else I forgot to ask.”

  “Yes?” She looked up with a tired smile.

  “What you told me can’t be all of the story. Of the Dreamwalker, I mean. What happened after the girl started hearing howls every night? You never mentioned how it ended for her, or for the wolf. Everyone’s so scared she’s coming back, but why?”

  He wanted to know if his dream was the answer.

  “There are several versions, actually.” His host stood up, moving towards the kitchen where he heard the tap, followed by a glass filling with water. She returned and set a cup down in front of him, then sat in her armchair. “In the simple version, the girl came back, but the villagers cast her out because they were afraid of her. That, of course, is where all the Dreamwalker rumours started.”

  Mason chugged his water then flopped back, turning his gaze to the ceiling. “Shouldn’t they have been happy she wasn’t dead in the woods somewhere?”

  “It’s not that simple.” He felt Annabelle’s gentle voice reaching out to him, “It was a different time. People believed in different things, like spirit worlds that mirror our world. They were taught to fear the realms where spirits lived.”

  “Spirits?” Mason sat up. “Like, ghosts?”