The Hollow Gods

by A. J. Vrana

  “The murderer is always someone close to the victim,” she told him. “Elle’s father confessed to killing her, so it couldn’t have been you.”

  His chest rose and fell with a huff of relief. “I didn’t do it.”

  A lump welled in Miya’s throat. She didn’t know why she’d suspect him, but after what she’d seen—both from him and the man who’d verbally assaulted her—faith in her own perception had whittled down to a thin, brittle sliver.

  Seeing her on the verge of tears, Kai sighed and slumped his shoulders.

  “Go home,” he said softly, nodding towards the road leading back into town. “You don’t belong here.”

  She wondered if maybe he was right. Maybe she shouldn’t have been there. She stared at her feet, considering that she was out of her depth. Gravity was pulling her back to earth, reminding her that this was absurd. When she looked back up again, she half expected Kai to have vanished.

  But he was still there, his expression unreadable as he watched her with full attention. Feeling some of her anger melt away, she offered him a weak smile. He didn’t react, but as she was about to oblige his wish and leave, she saw a ghost of a smile in return—tired and worn, hesitant, and even a little shattered. It halted her step until he severed his gaze and turned his back to her.

  With no reason left to stay, she too turned and headed back to the road that led home. She wondered if those men were alive—if Kai would go back to check, perhaps finish the job when she was no longer around. Miya placed a hand over her belly as her insides churned at the thought, then stopped and glanced over her shoulder. She watched Kai disappear back into the forest, like the phantom from her dreams.

  26

  The Descent

  * * *

  The sky was a sheer white—no sun or moon visible through the pale, cloaking tract. It was as though time had stopped in this realm, waiting for Miya to return before oiling its rusty gears. There was no movement or sound, no indication of life.

  Miya stood at the edge of the forest where the Dreamwalker had been waiting. She’d promised to follow her—wherever she went. But for now, Miya sensed she had time to spare. She ventured forward, leaving the village behind her.

  The pale, blank sky turned to night, the moon high and the wind crisp. The familiar scent of pine and oak sent a reverberating current through Miya, the sound of rustling leaves and the thrum of the forest’s heartbeat quickening her steps. She could hear the wolf howling from somewhere within, waiting for her to find him.

  Miya focused on drawing closer to the willow tree where she knew the wolf waited. There was no path to follow; she was lost in the labyrinth, his summon an invisible thread tugging her through wringing wooden walls—walls that had no intention of playing fair. They twisted and coiled, conjuring shadows that hampered her efforts to align herself in their midst.

  Miya knew the Dreamwalker was watching, waiting to see if she’d pass her test—if she’d find her way back to the willow. She didn’t know what the Dreamwalker wanted with her, what the wolf wanted with her, but she felt compelled. As she moved deeper into the forest, the landscape behind her morphed with sentient expression. The frayed bark flaked from the trees, spirits crawling under their threadbare skin like snakes under sand, trembling and writhing in anticipation of what she would do next. A breeze passed through the branches—music inspiring the leaves to dance. Were they celebrating? She grew more frantic as the howls rung louder, closer, and more imminent.

  When Miya reached the small, circular glade, the howls faded into the wind, and all descended into quiet. Only the quivering of the tiny emerald blades gilding the willow’s swaying canopy could be heard in the surrounding stillness. There, the willow stood waiting for her, anticipating her return. Overcome with familiarity and relief, Miya felt the grand tree breathing into the earth, welcoming her back. As she approached, the shroud rifted, revealing a shadowy figure nestled against a cleft carved into the tree’s impressive trunk. Its form was difficult to discern, masked by careening stems, their movement rhythmic like pendulums. But as the shadow’s wistful presence drew Miya in, her perception sharpened, and she became aware of something that rattled her equilibrium.

  The shadow was not what she expected.

  27

  The first thing Miya felt was cold air biting her arms, neck, and face. Her hair whipped past her shoulders as the disorientation hit, and gravity forced her to catch herself before she fell. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and unfamiliar shadows.

  As Miya looked around, she realized she was outside, the streetlight in front of the neighbour’s house revealing her location. Gradually, she recognized the shapes of the buildings, the patches of grass, and the poorly lit road running through her street. She was standing on Patricia’s driveway just a few paces from the alley leading to her basement. Too shocked to panic, Miya’s mind was a white blank as she scanned her memory for clues to how she’d gotten there.

  “Miya?” someone called from behind. It was Patricia, peaking out of the garage with her keys in hand. Miya heard the faint clicks from the engine of Patricia’s car; it must have been running recently.

  “Miya, are you all right?” she asked.

  “I...” She felt woozy—swooning and barely managing to find her balance. “I think I was sleepwalking.”

  “What!” Her landlady gasped and strode over. “You don’t remember coming out here?” She frowned, noticing Miya was barefoot in her pyjamas.

  “Maybe it’s just stress.” Miya forced a smile, not wanting to worry her, but deep down she knew it wasn’t the stress. Maybe it was time to see a doctor…or a psychiatrist.

  “Let’s just get you inside.” Patricia put an arm around her as she guided her towards the house. “I’ll get dressed and take you to the hospital. Something might be wrong.”

  Miya resisted; she didn’t want to owe her any more than she already did. “Patty, I feel just fine. I can get checked out in the morning and—”

  Psst.

  The quiet hiss stopped Miya mid-sentence. She scanned Patricia’s face, but her landlady hadn’t heard it. Convinced the sound came from behind her, Miya turned and looked towards the street. There, on the other side of the road, was a figure cloaked in an iridescent, violet-black mantle.

  It was the Dreamwalker.

  Her long, dark hair flowed around her, but her face remained concealed by the sharp, beak-shaped mask, the tip curling just past her chin. Miya could see most of her mouth, the contours of her cheekbones, and the outline of her jaw, though nothing that would help identify her. Feeling her heart tear against her ribcage like it was trying to escape, Miya sucked in a sharp breath, ready to call attention to the apparition when something seized her entire body. Unable to move, fascination and horror invaded her bones. The Dreamwalker smiled faintly, drawing a finger to her lips before they split open into a wicked grin.

  Hush, the gesture spoke. Then, like vapour, she vanished from the physical realm.

  “Miya?” Someone was shaking her shoulder. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

  Words failed her, so she shook her head, frantic as she stared into the empty space across the road.

  “Hang on, sweetheart, I’ll get my car.”

  Miya’s chest tightened, her ears deafening as black spots peppered her vision. The panic held her in its clutches as tightly as the Dreamwalker just had.

  “I can’t see,” she whimpered, terror sinking its claws in before vertigo made her crumble.

  Patricia grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet.

  “Just breathe, Miya.” She stroked the girl’s hair. Miya clutched on to Patricia’s voice and focused on her breaths—pulling the air into her lungs and pushing it back out. Gradually, the darkness lifted, and she could make out the brick patterns on the side of the house. She saw the fear jump out of Patricia’s smoky eyes as she helped her to the wall.

  Propping herself up, Miya watched through grainy vision as Patricia rushed into the garage. Minutes lat
er, an old, burgundy Chevy Impala pulled out. Leaving the engine running, Patricia jumped out and circled around the front to help her.

  “I’m fine,” Miya mumbled, stumbling forward until she reached the back seat. She curled up against the window after Patricia shut the door, the fright and confusion sapping her strength.

  As they pulled out of the driveway, the faintly playing radio lulled Miya into a light sleep. She faded in and out of consciousness, though she could feel herself searching for something as she fluttered between realms. Straddling the border, one foot in each world, she knew that she was on the verge of something. It was right there, waiting for her to grasp it from the other side and pull it back with her.

  The car came to a stop, tugging Miya from her ethereal wandering, and she sat up just in time to avoid falling out of the car as Patricia swung open the backseat door.

  “This is probably a waste of time,” Miya told her glumly. “They’re going to take a look at my vitals, tell me there’s nothing wrong, then send us home.”

  “They might run some tests.”

  Miya’s heart dropped. She didn’t want to be stuck in the hospital until tomorrow, but she tried to look on the bright side: at least she’d get checked out by a medical professional who could tell her if her marbles were rolling away.

  At the front desk, Miya realized she didn’t have her health card. When told by the nurse that she’d be billed for hospital services, Patricia swore loudly but offered to go back and pick up the card. The nurse accepted this and admitted Miya as she handed her keys over to Patricia.

  Miya looked around the waiting room, grateful it wasn’t busy. A lady in ripped jeans and a biker jacket slept against her girlfriend, her head teetering as it nearly rolled off the other woman’s shoulder. She jerked awake, blinking in momentary confusion before resuming her nap. Miya smiled, thinking they looked cute. Scanning the rows of chairs, she noticed movement from the top left corner of the window above the magazine rack. A dark shape was perched on a swaying branch outside.

  “So how can we help you?” A different nurse drew her attention back to the desk, her voice friendlier than her colleague’s. She was at least a head shorter than Miya and didn’t look much older—mid-to-late twenties, perhaps.

  “I woke up standing in the driveway, then nearly blacked out,” Miya told her, debating whether to mention what she'd seen. As the nurse looked up at her, Miya noticed she had heterochromia; both her eyes were blue, but the left one had a brown freckle at the bottom of her iris.

  Tucking her strawberry blonde locks behind her ear, she sat Miya down and recorded her vitals. “No fever. Blood pressure and heart rate are normal.” After taking note, she removed the thermometer. “Has this ever happened before?”

  Miya shook her head. “No, but I do struggle with insomnia and anxiety. I think I also—”

  The nurse smiled when she broke off. “Yes?”

  Miya swallowed, feeling her fingertips tingle. “I think I saw something when I woke up.”

  The nurse didn’t appear concerned, giving her a sympathetic squeeze on the arm. “Hallucinations are not uncommon with sleep disorders. Let’s see what the doctor says.”

  She slipped a wristband over Miya’s hand and led her through the double doors to the next room, where she was left behind a set of curtains. A hospital gown awaited on the cot. After changing, she whipped the beige screen open in case Patricia came looking.

  The Amazonian woman could be seen from across the ward, marching through the halls with purpose. She eventually found her troublesome tenant and huffed about the nurses up front—preposterously disorganized, she’d called them. She handed Miya her backpack with her wallet, keys, cell phone, and a change of clothes complete with warm socks and her favourite sneakers. After thanking her, Miya urged her to go home and rest.

  “You sure?” Patricia raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t even seen the doctor yet.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Miya reassured her with a smile. “The nurse didn’t seem too concerned.”

  “Honey,” Patricia rolled her eyes, “they’re trained to downplay everything. Last time I was here, they told me my ovarian torsion was a kidney stone—ended up losing one of my girls because they didn’t get me into surgery on time.”

  “Sorry,” Miya winced.

  Patricia sighed, leaning into the hall. “Well, you’ll probably be here a while. I guess I could go home and take a catnap. If you need anything, my phone’s on.”

  “Honestly, you’ve done more than enough for me. I can find my way once I’m out of here.”

  Miya’s landlady gave her a once-over. “All right, but don’t you hesitate if you need anything,” she scolded.

  “Thanks, Patty.” Miya kicked her feet as she avoided eye contact. “You’ve really been great to me.”

  “Oh, hush,” Patricia waved her off. She gathered her things along with Miya’s pyjamas. Sentimentality to Patricia was like water to the Wicked Witch of the West.

  After she left, the wait dragged on longer than Miya expected. A couple of confused nurses came around, wondering if she was the patient who needed a CT scan or a toe x-ray. It wasn’t until three hours later, at six in the morning, that someone resembling a physician graced her with his presence. He had a lab coat and a stethoscope, so she figured he’d do.

  “Good morning, I’m Dr. Callahan,” he greeted with a noticeable West-Indian accent—a strange contrast to the total lack of inflection in his tone. It was so flat Miya had to refrain from asking how many hours ago his soul died. With puffy, bloodshot eyes, he quickly scanned the chart while scratching through his dense, wiry curls. “No family history of sleep disorders?”

  Miya shook her head, and Dr. Callahan frowned. “Says here you experienced a hallucination. Have you been sleep deprived? Taking any kinds of stimulants or recreational drugs? Drinking more than usual?”

  “Not much of a party animal, though I haven’t been sleeping well.” Miya imagined her eyes resembled those of a dead fish as she accidentally mimicked his monotony.

  “Any reason for the lack of sleep?” he asked, leaning over to check her breathing and shine a light into her eyes and ears.

  She hesitated, unsure of whether to disclose that she’d been hearing wolf howls, hallucinating the Dreamwalker, losing her memories about town lore, waking up with sleep paralysis, and having nightmares she couldn’t remember for the life of her. But Miya knew she wasn’t hallucinating because of sleep deprivation; no—the sleep deprivation was worsened by the hallucinations.

  “Just stressed with school and financial stuff.”

  “Got it,” he said, writing something down again. “If you’ve been struggling with anxiety and insomnia, I could write you a referral to the psych department.”

  “Are they going to put me on drugs?” she asked.

  He looked up from the chart. “Maybe, but you’re always free to refuse.”

  “Right,” she sighed. “Sure, I’ll take the referral.”

  “I’ll have it sent in right away. In the meantime, you could probably do with a break.” He pulled out his prescription pad and wrote something down, then tore the sheet away and handed it to her. “Herbal supplements, for sleep.”

  Dr. Callahan clicked his pen and dropped it back into his breast pocket, preparing to leave. “Just one thing,” he added, turning back to her. “You should avoid telling people about this. Don’t go bragging to your friends. With the rumours going around and the recent tragedy, hearing about another girl your age wandering out of the house in the dead of night might ramp up paranoia. And well—be careful. If it happens again, come back. We can always put you in the sleep clinic for observation.”

  The prospect of being hooked up to machines was hardly appealing. Like hell she’d be able to sleep in a sea of wires while men and women in lab coats studied her brain waves. And if she really was at risk, wouldn’t it be reckless to tell other townspeople? Elle had been killed by her own father. The less people knew about what was happen
ing to her, the less likely she was to end up on the front page of the newspaper. She wondered why he was so concerned, anyway. “Are you saying the Dreamwalker tried to spirit me away tonight?”

  A passing woman dressed in a frumpy pink blouse and a green wool skirt slowed just as Miya uttered the D-word. Her face paled, and her eyes bulged before she continued on her way, when Miya cut her with a withering glare.

  “That’s certainly what some people would say,” Callahan replied carefully.

  Miya tried to feign indifference. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

  Dr. Callahan shrugged, regarding her with something between nonchalance and the will of a good Samaritan. “I won’t say I believe anything. Only been living in the area for a few years and can’t say I’ve ever paid much attention, but I’ll tell you this.” He stopped, glancing past the curtains to make sure the two of them were safely out of earshot. “Not too long ago, I had a real strange fellow come knocking on my door here in the ER. Strange enough to make the locals working with me lock their daughters away and pull out their rosaries. Now, kid, you don’t have to believe any of that, but what you believe doesn’t matter much.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder, out towards the locals. “It’s what they believe that matters. Gene Robinson proved that point well enough.”

  Miya’s gut writhed like she’d swallowed charcoal. A slow burn travelled up her oesophagus until she tasted the ash on her tongue—bitter and astringent. Perfectly comfortable moments ago, she now felt cold. The chill was deep, running straight through the marrow of her bones. Who was more dangerous? The Dreamwalker, or Miya’s own neighbours?

  Everything she’d experienced up until then suggested she was being spirited away. She wondered if it was her fault for entertaining the possibility of finding evidence of the Dreamwalker. Now the Dreamwalker was filling her head with illusions, blocking her memories, drawing her closer, and coercing her to follow. And who knew what she was doing to those around her. Perhaps she’d been responsible for Gene’s insanity, too.