The Hollow Gods

by A. J. Vrana

  Kafka. That was what she’d named the bird, at least in this life.

  Kai began to wander, having no use of his eyes. His body and its long, slumbering memory knew where to take him.

  Before long, he found himself in the glade with the willow tree. The soft breeze rustled the tiny emerald blades—a warm welcome as the tree’s wispy limbs danced at seeing their old friend.

  Kai stepped into the shade, his body transitioning seamlessly from one form to the other. He sat beneath the giant willow’s canopy and looked towards the sky—an expanse of shimmering blues, violets, and pinks. For the first time, he loved that these eyes saw colour. Where the light was warmest, with shades of honey and azalea, a large, white sphere—both sun and moon—hung near the horizon.

  Kai knew he’d have to wait. The hanging star would traverse the endless sky many times before the girl from the village would return. Even though he’d promised to find her, he knew seeking her out was not his place. Returning would be her decision alone.

  But he would wait, nonetheless. And if she found her way back to him, he would fulfill the rest of his vow, and remain with her, as promised.

  52

  Miya

  The Girl from the Village

  When Miya opened her eyes, she was standing alone in front of the willow. The Dreamwalker was nowhere to be seen.

  Miya almost missed her presence in the eerie silence of the dreamscape.

  She looked up at the majestic tree, wondering just how ancient it was. She heard the red gate’s voice whisper to her from somewhere within:

  “Cut the seams of reality, and chaos is bound to spill out.”

  And Miya had spilled out along with it. She’d fallen into the part of the dreamscape where the willow tree resided—where its memories overflowed to all those who encountered it.

  It wanted to tell her something.

  After having stood guard in the forest for so long, watching the ebb and flow of time in complete silence, the willow’s memories spanned centuries and realms far outside the framework of even the most unhinged mind. But there was one memory the willow was particularly fond of, one that it wanted to share with Miya: a memory of the distant past—her past. It was a fable drawn from the hearts of ancient spirits:

  Long ago, there was a girl from a village who one day wandered into the woods. After becoming lost, she stumbled upon a majestic willow tree nestled deep in the labyrinth of the forest.

  There, resting under its long, protective limbs, she found a black wolf. He lay injured and dying, his will to live having long left him. Taking pity on the poor beast, she fed him what little food she had and nursed him back to health as best she could. With this small kindness, the wolf recovered. He thanked the girl by helping her find her way out of the forest so that she could return to her village. Then he disappeared back into the woods from whence he came.

  Time went by, and every day, the wolf would sit under the willow, waiting to see if the girl would return. And every night when the moon would rise, he would howl as if calling to her, hoping that it would somehow guide her back. But autumn soon passed, and as snow blanketed the land, no humans entered the forest. It wasn’t until the warmth of spring had thawed away the bitter winter ice that the girl wandered back into the woods in search of her old friend.

  After circling through the maze many times, she finally came across the familiar glade. Only this time, there was no wolf.

  There, sitting under the willow in place of the black wolf, was a man.

  This memory, the willow told Miya, was its most cherished, but Miya could no longer tell if the story was being told to her, or if she was living the story herself. Gradually, she was pulled into the fable.

  Miya was standing in the girl’s place. Or perhaps, she was the girl. She and the girl were one and the same—the original spirit—united as Miya walked in her own footsteps at long last. And as she did, she finally began to understand: a Dreamwalker was someone who could walk through other realms. But not every girl murdered by her family and community was a Dreamwalker, nor were any of them spirited away by her. They were just innocent women who happened to wander too far from home.

  The only person who was ever spirited away by the Dreamwalker was the Dreamwalker herself, fighting to awaken.

  Rousing from an eternal slumber, Miya finally remembered...

  She chose to leave; she wanted to be lost in these woods, and now she was finally home.

  She won the devil’s wager. She beat the First at his own game, and she’d finally broken the cycle.

  She looked up and saw a raven perched on the crooked limb of a white oak.

  “Am I dead, Kafka?”

  The raven swooped towards the ground and erupted into dark, effervescent swirls that gradually dissipated to reveal a boy with hair like crows’ feathers and eyes black as ink—the boy from her dreams.

  “No,” said Kafka-the-boy as he plucked a stray feather from his cloak. “Dreams are not death.” He reached into the shroud, fishing around before placing in her hand a bright, iridescent stone that shimmered with deep purples, meadow greens, and sunset golds. It appeared to be broken, but beautiful nonetheless. “You are simply home.”

  Miya smiled at her feathered friend—a silent thanks. She could feel the stone’s familiar power humming against her hand as she clutched it tightly.

  Kafka moved out of the way, bowing as he cleared her path towards the willow. Miya continued on her way, confident they would see more of each other soon.

  As she approached the willow, a gentle wind parted the swaying branches, revealing a man’s figure. He was sitting still as stone, leaning back against the imposing trunk. Miya knew he was waiting for her.

  As she passed under the willow’s canopy, she was finally able to meet his gaze. He smiled at her, the moonlight catching his mahogany eyes and illuminating that haunting red tint she knew so well. Slowly, he reached out to her, and this time, she reached back without hesitation, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her in. Miya fell as she’d never fallen before—without caution or restraint. She was exactly where she wanted to be, cocooned in familiar warmth as he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled. He began to speak—a language she’d never heard before—and yet she understood every word.

  “You’ve strayed too far from the flock again, Lambchop.”

  Triumph tugged at Miya’s lips, and she smiled as the words echoed through her spirit, and far into the ages. People are, after all, creatures of habit.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, this book would not have been possible without the amazing guidance of two outstanding people: Jaimee and Malorie. Jaimee—you took my dumpster-fire of a first draft and taught me how to turn it into something truly great. Thank you for believing in my work and for always giving me the extra push I need. And to my cheer- leader, Malorie, who suffered through three drafts of my monster-baby and kept me sane when I was at the end of my rope. Thank you for re-tweeting me through all those nerve-wracking pitch contests, for supporting me, and for tolerating my every minute update.

  Thank you, Hannah, for years of caffeine-fueled rage-fests in McDonald’s parking lots. You’ve been my partner in crime since my fledgling days as a writer and have helped me iron out countless plot holes. I think Navi and Suki would be pleased with the quantity of chicken nuggets we’ve devoured over the last decade.

  Von—I owe you decades of sleep. I will never forget the nights we spent brainstorming ideas—some of them absurd

  and some of them brilliant. The depth of your imagination remains truly terrifying. You’ve done Gavran proud.

  Thank you, Brenton, for being my closest confidant, for reading my drafts, for listening to my infernal ramblings, for always lending an ear through all the rejections and dashed hopes, and for celebrating my every success with more jubilance than my black heart could muster over a lifetime.

  Laura, thank you for being my yes-man, for giving me much needed insight, and for helping me
fix the opening pages of my book. Your keen eye has been invaluable, and you knew what was bothering me better than I did.

  Thank you, Julie, for opening my eyes to a whole new way of knowing. Your wisdom has submerged me in an ocean of inspiration and gifted me a new lens through which to see the world.

  To my beta readers: Stu, Stephanie, Bethany, and Jack- son. Your feedback and affirmations have been lifesavers. Thank you for being thorough, thoughtful, and for helping me improve my work. You are all gems!

  And last but certainly not least, thank you to the Parliament House team—Amanda, for choosing this book among the many in your slush pile; Shayne, for designing the most stunning cover I never could have conjured; Chantal, for managing the entire editorial process; and to the editors, for putting up with my tome-length emails and poring over this beast multiple times. Thank you for making dreams come true.

  Finally, to my readers, remember: Stories aren’t told to convey the facts. They’re told to convey the truth.

  Miya and Kai’s journey continues in…

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of the thrilling conclusion to the chaos cycle duology.

  1

  Miya

  The street was as empty as the eye of a storm. Save for the wind scattering autumn leaves over cracked asphalt, a lone young woman stood in the middle of the road. Her long, dark brown hair whipped around her face, and her muddy green eyes prickled from the sharp cold that howled at her to go home.

  Home, however, was a long way from here.

  She canted her head at the sound of a shrill cry echoing through the vacant night. A mass of black feathers and a sharp, curved beak entered her periphery. Talons dug into her shoulder, but the animal trilled contentedly.

  “Hey, Kafka.” Miya scratched the raven’s breast, enjoying his silky plumage.

  He squawked back, beating his wings as he clung to her.

  Miya trained her gaze on the house up ahead. Lily-white paint chipped from the rickety paneling, and the bumpy driveway, with its patchy interlocking and overgrown weeds, reminded her of a world she longed to forget. But Summersville, West Virginia was no Black Hollow. A faded, grey sign was splayed on the lawn, the text barely discernable: As seen on—

  Ghostventures.

  America loved its ghosts. Amateurs armed with EVPs and electromagnetic readers went barging into people’s homes, yelling taunts and expecting answers. Did they think proof of the supernatural would keep the demons at bay?

  Truth was never an antidote—only a drug too short in supply to meet the demand.

  Taking a deep breath, Miya clutched the pendant that hung around her neck—a copper raven with its talons contoured over the top of an iridescent stone. The dream stone—a piece of it, anyway.

  As she started up the porch steps, her companion flew away and perched on the blackened compass atop the roof. Kafka-the-boy—the one who’d gifted her the labradorite—had been absent from the dreamscape for three long years, but she suspected he was watching through Kafka-the-raven. He always stayed close.

  “It’ll be ok,” she whispered to herself. “You’ve dealt with much worse.”

  Refusing to use the ghastly colonial doorknocker—a brass lion’s head clutching an ornate hoop between its jaws—she rapped on the door three times before it swung open.

  The woman who answered looked like she’d stumbled back from the afterlife or was on her way there. The only sign of animation was the bare look of surprise on her face as she took in her visitor.

  “Are you the…”

  “I’m the witch,” Miya cut to the chase. She didn’t have the patience for dishonest terms like medium, psychic, or empath. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t a witch either, but it was the closest thing to her true nature that people understood. Outside of Black Hollow, no one knew who the Dreamwalker was.

  “R-Right,” the woman stammered. “I’m Dawn. We spoke earlier?”

  Miya strained a smile, and the corners of her lips felt like they were chapping. “I remember. I take it the Ghostventures crew didn’t help?”

  “No, they didn’t.” The door whined as she opened it further. “Please, come inside.”

  Dawn’s slouched shoulders obscured her otherwise robust figure. Miya wondered if she was having trouble eating; her clothes hung loose, and her cheeks sagged. Her light brown hair was parched, peppered with silver strands that almost looked gold against the dim orange light of the hall.

  “I’m sorry it’s so cold in here.” She wrung her knobby hands as she led Miya towards the kitchen. “The heat’s technically working, but it’s just…always so cold.”

  “Asshole spirits will do that,” Miya mumbled. She clutched her dark mauve leather jacket around her sides and lifted the hood over her head. It helped her stay focused when she knew she was surrounded by malevolence. Dawn took a seat at the table and rubbed her arms with a sigh.

  “It started a year ago, when my husband got his new job. We were struggling, and this house was such a steal. We figured it was because the town was small, too far from any major cities, but strange things began to happen almost right away.”

  Miya helped herself to the chair across from her client. “Weird noises? Bad dreams?”

  “The noises didn’t bother me.” Dawn fiddled with a wine bottle that’d been left on the table, then poured herself a glass. She’d obviously been finding ways to cope. “But the dreams…My husband, Greg, didn’t think they were a big deal. He thought I was being dramatic, or that I had a sleep disorder.”

  Miya snorted; the narrative was almost cliché. “It’s always the husband who won’t believe.”

  Dawn hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I suppose so.” She offered a tepid smile. “So, are you really a witch?”

  Miya curled her fingers under her palm. “Sort of. I don’t worship the devil or eat kids if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Dawn’s voice grew quieter. “Do you believe in the devil?”

  Miya caught her client’s gaze. “I believe in far worse.”

  Dawn bowed her head and clutched the cross around her neck. “Anyway, the dreams kept getting worse—more vivid. Most nights, it felt like I hadn’t slept at all. A few times, I woke up elsewhere, in the basement or the backyard. I did what Greg asked and went to see a doctor, but my test results came back normal. Nothing was wrong with me, so I figured it must be the house.”

  “Why not move?” Miya asked.

  “Greg refuses.” Dawn’s voice fractured, frustration bubbling to the surface like boiling water licking the lid of a pot. “It’s like he’s waging war against this thing, only he doesn’t even believe in the thing he’s fighting!”

  “And what do you think this thing is?”

  “I-I don’t know. Our church preaches that spirits aren’t real. There’s heaven and hell. Nothing in between.” Dawn covered her face with her hands, her shoulders trembling. “But I know it’s real, no matter what my faith says.”

  Miya’s heart clenched. She could feel this woman’s pain, and it sundered whatever distance she’d worked to keep. “I believe you,” she whispered. “Even if you moved, there’s no guarantee it wouldn’t follow.”

  Dawn’s breath drew in. “Is it a ghost?”

  Miya shook her head, scanning the room. Claw marks were etched into the wall, revealing the entity’s path. “Ghosts are human spirits. This one’s not, and it isn’t friendly, either. To tell you the truth,” she stood and reached into her back pocket, “I’ve been hunting this one for a while.”

  This was her life now—not out of choice but out of necessity. Miya never could have imagined just how many malicious spirits preyed on people in their dreams, and as the Dreamwalker, she was in a unique position to help them. She enjoyed it, but it wasn’t altruistic. The monsters haunted her too.

  A crack, jagged like lightning, splintered the drywall, oozing something black and tarry. A low, wet gargle reverberated through the kitchen.

  “It’s happening!” Dawn yelped, knocking over her
chair as she jumped up.

  Miya’s hand steadied on her back pocket. She glared down the fissure in the wall—or rather, a fissure in the seam of reality.

  “Dawn,” Miya said evenly. “Get behind me and stay in cover.”

  The older woman scrambled to the other side of the kitchen and ducked behind a cabinet. Grateful Dawn didn’t peek, Miya pulled a single playing card from her jeans.

  It was the king of spades, copper stains marring him from a nightmare long ago.

  She threw it down, face-up, and unsheathed a hunting knife strapped to her belt. “I didn’t think we’d do this here,” she called to the spirit, and it answered with a ferocious roar that ruptured the drywall around the blackened rift.

  Miya winced as she dragged the blade across her palm. Clenching her fist, blood ribboned around her fingers and speckled the card on the floor.

  She grinned into the oncoming void. “Long live the king.”

  Wisps of black mist slithered upward and coalesced into the shape of a man.

  The house rumbled in dissent, and the border between Dawn’s world and the dreamscape pulled taught. Something sinister was lurking.

  Normally, Miya had to lie down and let her spirit descend into the dreamscape, but the demon spared her the effort and shunted her wholly across realms. The quaint kitchen, decorated in canary yellows and smelling of fresh casserole, stilled like a film on pause. The lemony hues melted to muddy browns. Tables and chairs fused into ghoulish shapes. A vase levitated from the crumbling windowsill, then hurtled towards her.

  The man made of smoke extended an arm, clipping the vase just enough to slow it down. Miya stepped aside, watching, unfazed, as it drifted past her nose and dissipated.

  The house was gone. Miya found herself in a sea of black fog, the laminate counter and spring-coloured backsplash sinking like sand through an hourglass. The plywood chimera, fused from fragments of domestic life, roiled in the dark. Its misshapen wooden joints screeched painfully as it tottered away. The stench of sulfur wafted with the haze, and Miya clamped her jaw to keep from retching. The spirit’s true form glinted up ahead. With the dream stone glowing against her chest, the darkness parted around its lavender light. She could see a silhouette: an imposing figure with long, slender limbs and fingers that dangled like knives.