Hollow House

by Greg Chapman

  “Zac, stop!” Carol’s face shone with tears. She attempted to climb to her knees, but Matthew clutched her nightgown to keep her back.

  “Sorry Mother, but Max has to pay his dues!” Zac emphasised his determination by punching Max in the kidneys.

  “You’re not my son!” Carol said. “You wouldn’t do this!”

  Zac frowned. “How do you know he wouldn’t, hmm? How do you know what goes on inside your boy’s head?” He tapped his temple with a bloodied finger. “I know exactly what’s in Zac’s head, and do you want to know how I know? Because I put it there!”

  Matthew’s brother laughed. It was the hearty laugh of a man—not a boy. His back arched at the exertion. Then he dropped to his knees, in his father’s blood, while Max tried to protect his mangled face with trembling hands. “Zac’s always wanted to do this. He just didn’t know how. Until I came along.”

  Carol reached for him. “Please stop. You’re killing your father.”

  The boy licked stray flecks of blood from his lips. “Don’t worry Mother,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of love to share. Once I’m done with Father here—you’re next.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ben awoke at dawn and left the house, eager not to make contact with his wife, but more to answer the burning questions about the Kemper House.

  The street was eerily quiet, and Ben couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of solitude as the sun rose over the hills to the east. He slurped at the coffee from his thermos and dismissed the sensation as lethargy. He’d hardly slept at all, not with Megan’s last words to him and the events of the day prior still lingering in his mind.

  As he climbed into his car, he stopped and gave the Kemper House another look. The temptation to break in and find the truth was palpable. The police had already had their way with the place, and as far as he was aware, no one had taken ownership of the property. What would be the harm in prying open a window and getting a first-hand look at the house from Hell?

  Ben shook his head and started the vehicle. There were safer ways to find out what he wanted to know, and he had quite the list. He needed to speak to Detective Baltzer, not only about the identity of the murdered man, but also about the Cross killings. He needed to discover what the police knew about the Kemper House’s evil twin. He reversed out of the driveway and got one last look at the dark edifice on the opposite side of the street.

  Who on earth would want to build a house like that?

  ~

  It didn’t matter how many cigarettes Detective Jim Baltzer smoked, nothing would stop the trembling.

  He stood in the police station car park as dawn peaked above the city, and puffed on the cigarette, blue smoke twirling into the air.

  The Kemper House case was fading just as quickly.

  All he had was a body and the house it was found in.

  A vision of the corpse laid out on the autopsy table flashed behind his eyes in tandem with the smell of preserving fluids. Interspersed was a slideshow of another case—crime scene photos of a working girl they had found at the landfill the year before. Together they presented a mingling of fresh and stale death.

  He ran a gnarled hand over his lined face and widened his eyes, desperate to find focus. Back inside his office, were photos of a woman’s corpse, accompanied by a list of names gracing a whiteboard near the door. The murdered woman and her missing companions. The first victim had been found naked, but wearing evidence of brutal and demeaning torture. The other three women were still missing. The detective had a hunch the man responsible was in his city, but he was no closer to finding him, or the other missing women. The case had dominated his days, until the Kemper House. Baltzer swallowed down his guilt of having to put the former case aside. But he didn’t have the luxury of time. He’d have to pull in some of his detectives from the missing women case to start investigating a new, much stranger death.

  Sighing, he puffed on the smoke once more, keen to taste something other than decay. He looked across the car park for his car.

  That’s right, I was going home. The autopsy has been done, so I can go home.

  As he walked across the car park, the coroner’s laughter still rang in his ears. There was apparently something funny about the fact that he didn’t have to make a Y-incision in the corpse, because it had already been done for him.

  Baltzer flicked the half-finished cigarette into a pool of rainwater. He fumbled for the keys in his pocket. The way the world staggered around him, he almost felt as if he was intoxicated on too much murder.

  “Baltzer?”

  The detective turned and looked toward the gate. Immediately, he winced. It was the reporter—Ben fucking Traynor.

  “Detective Baltzer, I need to talk to you.”

  He waved Traynor away and continued toward his car, only to stop.

  That’s right, I’ve got a bone to pick with this asshole.

  Turning on his heels, he approached the gate.

  Traynor immediately started hurling questions at him through the mesh fencing. “Have you identified the victim yet?”

  Baltzer pulled the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Even if the DNA was complete—which it isn’t—and even if we’d notified his next of kin—which we haven’t—you’d still have to wait like everyone else.”

  “So that’s a no then. What about the cause of death?”

  Baltzer lit his cigarette, careful to take his time. Then he smiled. “Why did you speak to the neighbours before we’d had a chance to interview them?”

  Traynor shrugged. “I did my job. Sue me. So, cause of death?”

  Baltzer took a long drag on his cigarette. “You know that woman called me to complain? She rang the station because of what you did. Does that seem wrong to you?”

  Traynor reached into his pocket and pulled out his Dictaphone. “Detective Baltzer, can you reveal the cause of death of the man found in Willow Street? Are you any closer to catching his killer?”

  Baltzer chuckled, smoke chuffing out from his mouth like a train. “You’re a piece of fucking work, Traynor.”

  “Is that your official comment?”

  “Okay, here’s my official statement.” The smug prick was looking to get his teeth kicked in. “The Homicide Department is yet to identify the deceased male located at 72 Willow Street. DNA analysis is expected to be complete in the coming days—”

  Traynor pressed the stop button on his Dictaphone. “Wait, what about county records? Bank statements on the house?”

  “Yes, we’ve looked into that. There’s no record of anyone having lived in the house for twenty years.”

  “So who owns it? Is it a government house?”

  “We’re waiting on the deeds. There are no repayments owing, and it’s not listed for sale.”

  “Is it condemned? Was the guy a squatter?”

  “We don’t know, alright?” Baltzer threw his cigarette away. “All we know is that the guy cut himself to fucking pieces.”

  Traynor almost dropped his Dictaphone. “Say again?”

  Baltzer chewed his lip, regretting his last words.

  “So, are you saying that this was a suicide?”

  “Right now we honestly don’t know.”

  “What about the writings on the wall? Could this have been a ritual killing? Could it have been staged? Is this case now taking priority over the murdered prostitutes?”

  “Traynor, shut the fuck up, okay? We need more time, and you’ve just got to lay off. And if you print any of what I just said, I’ve already warned you about what will happen.”

  He watched the reporter put the recorder back in his pocket. The frustration on his face looked familiar. Then his eyebrows rose. “Have you looked into who built the house?”

  The detective frowned. “No, why?”

  “Because I’ve been told there’s another Kemper House—identical—right on the other side of town.”

  ~

  As Ben drove over the bridge into northern West Plains, he play
ed back the last moments of his conversation with the detective.

  No sooner had Ben mentioned looking into the murders at the other house in 1982, Baltzer’s attitude, and patience, had turned sour. He’d declared the insinuations that the crime was ritualistic and connected to a forty-year-old murder case as ludicrous. Worse still, he’d threatened to charge him with obstruction if he continued to hinder the investigation. A second threat to call his editor at The Gazette had sent Ben running with his tail between his legs, leaving him no choice but to follow his own investigation. He couldn’t get taken off the story now. Not when he was on to something.

  He turned left onto Derry Street, the main thoroughfare on the northern side of the city, and drove by a long line of houses with terracotta roofs and neutral facades. The north section of the city was filling up with modern houses, land package estates, their cookie-cutter styles pushing farther into the ranges with each passing year.

  With one hand on the steering wheel, he unfolded the print out of old real estate listings for the former Cross residence he’d downloaded on his office computer. Provincial Real Estate had been taking care of the property in the mid-1980s before it was taken off the market, and Ben had a hunch they might still have it on their books. He accessed his cell phone and dialled Provincial’s number. A cheery receptionist named Kelly picked up on the third ring.

  “Hi Kelly, my name’s Ben, and I’d like to inquire about a house on Mayne Avenue, the old gothic style house?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t currently have any properties listed for sale on Mayne Avenue.”

  “Oh, right. It’s just, I saw this house and thought, wow, it’s a fantastic looking house and when I looked it up I saw that Provincial had been the agency in the past. I wondered if anyone there knew the owner, or—

  “I’m sorry sir, but the house isn’t on our current listings. Is there another property that you’d like to discuss with us?”

  Ben ended the call and slammed his hand down on the steering wheel. He could try the half a dozen other agencies in the city, but he knew he’d be better off getting a closer look at the house itself.

  ~

  The Mayne Avenue house was identical right down to the leprous paint job and needle spire. Ben sat in his car across the street, in awe of the structure. It was as if the house had somehow uprooted itself from its foundations in Willow Street, and followed him over the bridge.

  To Ben this version of the house appeared to be a few years younger than its southern counter-part. The front yard was yellow with drought. Its lone tree grey with death, branches reaching like crooked fingers towards the house. The windows offered no glimpse of the interior, only blackness.

  Mayne Avenue was a lot quieter than Ben’s neighbourhood. He’d been parked for a few minutes, and no one had ventured by. There was no traffic, not even a taxi, and if Ben wanted to get a closer look, he figured he could do it without being seen. The urge to get inside made his skin itch, so he grabbed his cell, and exited the car.

  The street remained clear in both directions, with no sign of watchful neighbours, as Ben approached the Kemper House Mark II. The building appeared to swell in size with each step, the windows peered relentlessly down on him, regardless of the angle, like the gaze of a figure in a painting. The only difference between 1201 Mayne Avenue and 72 Willow Street was the absence of the smell of putrefaction, and for that, Ben was grateful.

  He stopped a few yards from the front steps and glanced at the houses next door, careful not to give the impression of being a prowler. Instead, he was a potential buyer, wanting a better look at some potential capital. He took out his phone and took a photo. There was no gate or fence surrounding the house, so Ben was free to walk straight up the path and down the right hand side. Remnants of grey leaves and branches from the ancient tree crunched beneath his shoes. There were three windows on the ground floor, and two upstairs. An ocular window sat in the wall at the apex of the house. All of the windows were intact, which Ben found odd. He’d thought the house would have made the perfect target for vandals.

  The rear yard contained two more dead trees and a rusting swing set, but no other signs that it had ever been inhabited. Together, the house and its grounds looked as if they had been grown from some bad seed rather than built. Ben found it hard to fathom why the Cross family, or the Mortons, hadn’t sought to repair the house, or at least repaint it. That’s what he would have done. Then again, he wouldn’t have given the properties a second look. He admired old houses if they were well-kept and imbued with a sense of charm. But to him, the Kemper Houses were ugly and better off demolished.

  He took a deep breath, and climbed the stairs that lead to the back porch. The back door was caked with dust, its hinges barely hanging onto the wood. The brass doorknob had lost its sheen decades ago, probably when the Mortons had closed up and left for good, almost forty years before. He turned the knob and found the door locked. He peered through the door’s window, attempting to look inside, but a thick curtain obscured his view.

  His reporter’s conscience flared, insisting that he only needed to break the glass and reach inside for the lock. But instead he backed away and walked down the steps before the temptation became too much. He left the backyard and walked along the opposite side of the house. Here, it was no different. The entire house was a time capsule, sealed forevermore.

  As he passed a window on the lower floor, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He stopped and looked. A curtain settled back into place as if something or someone had moved it.

  It couldn’t have been the wind.

  There was no wind, and even if there was, all the windows were closed, which meant there was a possibility that someone was inside.

  He jogged to the front of the house and ascended the steps. He rapped the knocker on the front door, silently begging that it wasn’t his imagination or his investigative mind playing tricks. He gave a moment’s pause and rapped the knocker again.

  “Hello? Is anybody home?”

  Ben went to the one of the front windows and tried to peer through, but all he could see was his own desperate reflection. He stepped back to the door. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’m from The Gazette newspaper and I’d like to talk to you about our new subscription package.” He licked his lips impatiently; he was sure he’d seen someone inside. “Hello?”

  The front door clicked open and a young boy greeted him, plump-faced, with a bright red woollen jumper and a bowl haircut. Ben could hardly believe his luck.

  “Hey, champ.” He tried to peak through the gap in the door. “Is your mom or dad home?”

  The boy pulled the door wide, and Ben beheld the front living room—and a woman standing at the bottom of the staircase. Her floral print dress was stark against her dark curls and plain complexion.

  “Move away from the door,” she said.

  At first, Ben thought she was speaking to him, until the boy took a few steps back.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said offering the woman a kind smile. “This must be your boy.”

  Her eyes were cold. “We’re not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” Ben said. “I’m new to this door-to-door sales thing.” He looked at the boy, who was regarding him as if he were a stick insect. “It’s only my second day. My name’s Ben. What’s your name, buddy?”

  “Don’t talk to him,” the woman said through gritted teeth and this time she was addressing Ben.

  He held out his hands to placate her. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I only wanted to speak to the owner of the house.” He craned his neck trying to see more of the interior. The woman watched him, but neither she nor the boy moved; in fact, Ben wondered if they’d even blinked. “It’s a lovely house—”

  “You need to leave.”

  The woman could have killed him with her eyes alone and the boy seemed as though he would have gladly watched. Ben felt cold air on th
e front of his body, like he was looking into a refrigerator while his back was warm.

  “What’s going on?”

  A man and a woman appeared from an entryway to the right of the living room. They were in their early fifties and dressed casually, the man with a tie-dye print shirt and jeans, and the woman with a tight-fitting blouse and tan pants. It was the man who’d spoken.

  “Hi,” Ben said, confused. “I’m from The Gazette—”

  “He’s trespassing,” said the woman at the bottom of the stairs.

  The newcomers considered her statement and gave Ben a second look. “From The Gazette did you say?” the other woman asked.

  “That’s right. I’m here to offer you a subscription.”

  “You’d better come in then.” Ben thought it strange when she didn’t offer a smile with the invitation.

  The woman at the stairs beckoned to the boy with a flick of her wrist. He ran to her side and they began to ascend, their eyes upon Ben as he stepped inside.

  “You’ll have to forgive Cindy,” the man said. “She doesn’t like uninvited guests.”

  “Oh, I totally understand,” Ben said. “I’m not that fond of salesman either.”

  “And yet, you’re a salesman,” the woman said.

  “Well, it pays the bills.” He quickly changed the subject and took a sweeping look around the living room. “This is a beautiful house. It must be old.”

  “Ancient,” the man said.

  The reporter chuckled and offered his hand. “I should introduce myself if I’m going to try and sell you something.”

  “You told Cindy your name was Ben. Is that not your name?” the woman asked.

  The reporter dropped his hand and swallowed. These two were looking at him just like Cindy. “Oh, yeah, of course I did.” Again he tried to divert their suspicions. “Sorry, but I didn’t catch your names.”

  “Henry,” the man said.

  “Belle,” said the woman.

  “So, Cindy and the boy, are you all related?”

  “They’re just visiting,” Henry said.