Dark Hollows

by Steve Frech

  Laura.

  I crawled out of the opening.

  She was lying on her side with her back to me. She was the source of the soft choking sounds, and I could see her body lightly rise and fall with each labored breath.

  “Laura?”

  I crawled to her, and gently turned her onto her back. Her eyes were open, but I couldn’t tell if she could see. Her hands clutched at her upper abdomen, and were covered in blood. Her breath was slow and shallow.

  Panic seized me.

  “Oh God … Oh God … Laura …? Laura, can you hear me?”

  She made no sign that she could.

  I dropped the gun to the floor and put my hands on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. I frantically searched for anything I could use. The only thing available was some old filthy newspapers. Instead, I put my finger into the hole in my shirt left by the bullet and pulled. The bottom of my shirt came away in a crude strip. I was barely aware of the pain in my side as I wadded it up and tried to stuff it over the wound. Instantly, it began to soak up the blood seeping from her abdomen.

  “Laura?!”

  Her eyes were open but still unfocused. She made no sign that she could hear me.

  The strip of shirt was already soaked in her blood. I wasn’t going to be able to save her. She needed medical attention, now.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my burner phone. I was about to dial 9-1-1, but saw the gun on the ground, which made me stop. I stared at the gun, then the phone, then Laura. I turned around. Reggie’s feet were sticking out of the opening behind me. Laura was bleeding out in front of me, and I had the gun that shot her. My prints were all over it. It had also probably been used at the shooting in Lyndon. What would the police think? They would only have my word, unless Laura lived. I unlocked the phone with my thumb, but stopped when the dial screen appeared. I’d have to tell them everything. I could be tied to the killings at Lyndon. I’d go to jail, and there was the possibility I’d never get out. I’d known Reggie was going to do something. I was pretty sure what it was going to be, and I didn’t go to the authorities after it happened … but, dammit, Laura was dying right in front of me!

  I pressed my hands to my head and screamed. I paced back and forth, racked with indecision.

  I had to think. I had to come up with something, goddammit. I quickly formulated options, but immediately found flaws in each one. Maybe I could call the police and leave before they got there, but even if I did, they would ask Laura who—

  I realized that the choking sounds had stopped, and looked over.

  Laura’s chest still rose ever so slightly, but it was almost imperceptible.

  That was when I knew.

  It was too late.

  If I had called right away, she may have had a chance, but I’d panicked, and waited too long. She was beyond hope.

  I went and knelt beside her.

  “Laura?”

  Her eyes were open but still. Her face was serene.

  I sat on the floor in shock, unable to process that I had watched someone die, right in front of me. I didn’t know how she found me, but I was the reason she was there, and I had taken too long to save her. She may not have made it, but my indecision had cost her that chance.

  I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t look away as Laura took her last breaths. I placed my hands on the side of her face. I didn’t know how to comfort her, if I could comfort her. Tears began streaming from my eyes. I was scared, and in pain.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but I was snapped out of it by a lonely car passing the warehouse, outside. I got up, and looked out. The car was long gone, but Laura’s car was sitting next to mine. It was still running with the driver’s side door wide open.

  Something snapped inside me and a reflex took over. It was some animal instinct of self-preservation, the instinct to save yourself at all costs. It seemed to speak in a cold voice from somewhere in my brain; a voice unfettered by morals, only interested in survival. Laura was dead and there was nothing I could do about it. If I was caught here, with two dead bodies, I was just as good as dead, too. I was going into shock and the instinct took over; the instinct that kept me from going to the police after the shooting at Lyndon and the instinct that crafted the plan of covering my tracks whenever I went to meet with Reggie.

  I only vaguely remember going over to Reggie’s body and taking the car keys from his pocket. I ran out into the parking lot, to the side of the building, started his car, and drove it around to the back of the warehouse. I parked it there and ran back to the lot. I got in Laura’s car, and drove it around back, as well. I parked them side by side. I made one more trip to the lot and pulled my car into the shadows, hiding any evidence that someone was at the warehouse. I went to their cars and did my best to cover them in leaves and dead branches. I wasn’t going to be able to completely camouflage them, but I wanted them hidden from the casual observer. There was nothing but woods behind the warehouse and Reggie had assured me that no one ever came there, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  I went back inside the warehouse, and started what I knew would be a gruesome search.

  I found a stairwell in the corner of the building that went down to the basement. Using the light from my burner phone as a flashlight, I descended the stairs. The darkness was nearly total, and the phone’s light only gave me about three feet of visibility. I reached the bottom of the stairwell, and stepped out into a corridor. The sides were lined with more storage rooms. I slowly moved down the hall. The walls were grimy, and there was the constant sound of dripping water from somewhere in the darkness. There were two other sets of hallways that branched off, but I continued on my path. I knew I was heading in the right direction from the stench that was steadily building in my nostrils.

  The hallway finally ended in a heavy steel door with a padlock.

  On a hunch, I pulled out Reggie’s keys, which were still in my pocket. I tried two or three keys before one slid home. I twisted it and the lock sprang open. I took a large inhalation of breath, held it, and pulled open the door. The smell was unbelievable. The attempt to hold my breath didn’t work. I turned to the side, leaned against the wall, and vomited. I waited for the wave of nausea to pass and for my senses to adjust to the smell, but after a few minutes, I couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed my sleeve over my hand, and held it to my mouth. I took a step through the door. Once inside, I held up the phone to illuminate the room, saw what was in it, and promptly vomited, again.

  I had found where Reggie had been “stashing”.

  *

  An hour later, it was over.

  I stepped out of the storage room and quickly closed the heavy steel door. I had lost count of the number of times I’d vomited. At that point, I was only dry heaving. I reached down, and quickly snapped the padlock closed. I had made sure to leave the keys in the room, behind the locked door. I stood there in the dimness. It was only then that the instinct left me and I felt myself come to my senses. I stared at the padlock on the door, comprehending the full horror of what I had done. I turned and walked as fast as I could through the darkness of the basement.

  *

  Once I got home, I took off my clothes, and stuffed them into a garbage bag. I bandaged my wounds in the bathroom with the supplies in the cabinet under the sink. It hurt like hell, and I had lost a good deal of blood, but the wounds were superficial. I would live. I went back into the living room and stopped when my eyes rested on the scratchpad where I had deciphered the message from Reggie. I had left it on the counter, but now it was on the kitchen table. Someone had moved it. Someone had been there.

  Laura.

  That’s how she knew where to find me. It was the only way she could have known, but how did she get in?

  I knew the answer the instant the question floated through my mind.

  I went to the sliding back door and pulled. It opened without resistance.

  I had been distracted by R
eggie’s coded text message, and forgot to lock it. Laura had been here, opened the back door, and saw the deciphered message.

  I quickly grabbed my phone from the end table by the couch. I checked the screen.

  Six new texts. Three missed calls. All from Laura.

  I have to talk to you.

  Please, it’s really, really important.

  Please, answer your phone.

  Whatever you are doing, stop it right now and call me!

  Jacob, please! Call me. I need to talk to you.

  Where are you?! Please! Call me!

  Although she called three times, she hadn’t left any messages.

  I deleted all the messages, dropped down to the couch with my head in my hands, and waited for the sun to come up.

  *

  For the next few days, I didn’t leave my apartment. I spent them cleaning my wounds, and torturing myself with all the things I should have done to save Laura. I tried to remain as immobile as possible to help myself heal, but it meant that all I could do was lie there with my guilty thoughts. I should have called for an ambulance, no matter what might happen to me, but I didn’t. Even as I lay there healing, I knew the right thing to do was to call the police, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I told myself that I would wait until my wounds healed completely so I could think straight, and then come up with a way to explain it without incriminating myself.

  Part of me wished that someone would miraculously find their cars, which would lead to a search of the area, which I was sure would somehow lead to me, and bring it all to an end, but if Reggie said that no one went out there, then I felt sure they would never be found.

  Instead, I had begun the process of compartmentalization. I had done something horrible, and subconsciously, I was walling it up in my mind. Victims of trauma do it, but so do people with a guilty conscience.

  *

  A week later, I was lying on the couch, watching the news, when a report came on.

  “And our top story tonight, county police are asking for the public’s assistance in the search for a Wilton University student who has gone missing.” A picture of Laura appeared over the reporter’s shoulder. I sat up on the couch, wincing from the pain in my side. “Laura Aisling is a senior at Wilton University and was reported missing four days ago. Authorities are also searching for her car.” The reporter checked her notes, and gave a description of Laura’s car and license plate number. “Anyone with any information on her whereabouts is urged to call the number at the bottom of the screen …”

  From that moment, the horror inside me turned into a ball of guilt that began to grow …

  Over the course of the next week, I only left the couch to buy food, medicine, clean my wounds, and to go to the bathroom. The news stayed on the television twenty-four-seven. I made sure to catch every local broadcast, and flipped between the major cable news networks at regular intervals. It never reached the national networks, but local news stations would have updates from time to time, always pleading for anyone who knew anything to come forward.

  Search parties were organized and canvassed the area around the university. I was the only one who knew that Laura was dozens of miles away in a place they would never search for her. Some of Laura’s friends who I had never met were part of the search parties, and gave brief sound clips to the news teams, talking about what a good person Laura was. Their interviews were interspersed with helicopter images of lines of people, combing the woods.

  “Officials state that despite the time that has passed,” a local reporter was saying, “hopes are high that Laura Aisling will be found. Her mother, Gretchen Aisling, has issued this statement.”

  The image cut to a woman standing in front of a forest. A row of cameramen pointed cameras at her while reporters shoved microphones in her face. She was short, but had a fierce expression that was highlighted by her wry hair, and sharp, beady eyes.

  “I ask everyone to pray to our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for Laura’s safe return. If you’re watching, Laura, know that God is protecting you, and I can’t wait for you to come back to me, my angel. Your room is waiting, and God will bring you home.”

  The video cut back to the field reporter, who was wearing his “gravely concerned” face. “And we, too, hope for Laura Aisling’s safe return. Anyone who may have any information is urged to call the anonymous tip line that the police have established. The number is there at the bottom of your screen.”

  They cut back to the studio.

  “We all hope for her return,” the anchor with an unbelievable amount of foundation on his face said. “When we come back, Channel 7’s own Daniel Chance has a look at the weather. Stay with us. We’ll be right back.”

  I turned off the television. I had a decision to make, right then and there.

  They were going to find me. They were going to ask me questions. It was unavoidable. All they had to do was check her cell phone records, which I assumed they had already done. If I waited to say anything, they would want to know what took me so long. I could claim I hadn’t heard anything, but with each passing day, that excuse became less and less plausible.

  I took out my phone, took a deep breath, and dialed. I was going to tell them. I was going to tell them everything, but as soon as I began dialing, the instinct was back …

  *

  “Mr Jacob Reese?” the man at the front door asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Detective Laurie with the Addison County Police Department,” he said, flashing a badge. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I opened the door and stepped aside to allow him to pass.

  He stopped in the kitchen and looked around.

  “Thanks for coming out to talk to me,” I said. “I would have come to the station, but I’m not feeling too hot.”

  He smiled. “You don’t look so hot, but thanks for getting in touch with us.”

  “I’ve been laid up for a week with a stomach bug, so I’ve been cut off from the world. I saw the news this afternoon, and I couldn’t believe it.”

  “We’re talking to everyone, trying to find out what happened. You mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “No. Please,” I said, motioning to the kitchen table. “I’d offer to get you something to eat or drink, but all I’ve got at the moment are Sprite, saltines, and some soup.”

  “No, thanks. I’m good,” he said, settling into a chair.

  I poured myself a glass of water and joined him at the table.

  He took out a small, spiral notepad, removed the pen that was tucked into the binding, and flipped the notepad open.

  “So, as you heard, Laura Aisling has gone missing. We just want to talk to anyone who can give us an idea of where she might be.”

  “Sure.”

  “First of all, how did you know Laura?”

  “Well, like I told the person on the tip line, she was a friend. We met at a frat party a few months ago. We, um, we actually dated for a while.”

  He stopped writing and raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t know how much detail to go into on the tip line. I figured it would be better to speak to someone in person.”

  He considered it, and nodded.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “It’s been like a month and a half. We sort of drifted apart. We weren’t that serious, at least I didn’t think so, but about a week ago, she texted me a couple of times. She seemed upset.” I squirmed, playing up my unease. “I figured she wanted to talk about our relationship, but like I said, I thought we were done. I didn’t respond. In fact, the last time we saw each other was at her school. We had an argument.”

  “An argument? About what?”

  “It was nothing really—just stupid relationship stuff. We had been seeing less of each other. It was one of those, you know, ‘what-exactly-are-we?’ conversations.”

  “And?”

  “We called it off. That was the last time I
saw her. Do you think it has anything to do with her disappearance?”

  He didn’t look up from his notepad as he wrote. “Don’t know. We’re simply talking to everyone right now. You said that she sent you some text messages a week ago where she sounded upset?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you still have those messages?”

  “No, I deleted them.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought she wanted to talk about us, and to me, we were through. I didn’t want to encourage her. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have deleted them.”

  He waved his hand. “It’s okay. We can get them through the phone company.”

  “She also called that night, but didn’t leave any messages,” I added.

  “Do you know what she wanted to talk about?”

  “No.”

  That was an honest answer, but whatever it was, it was important enough for her to come find me at the warehouse.

  “Why didn’t you respond?”

  “Honestly, that night, I rented a movie, got really drunk, and passed out on my couch. I woke up at like, four in the morning, saw the texts, and deleted them.”

  “She send you any more messages?”

  “No.”

  I could feel the weight of his stare as he peeked over his notebook at me. “And you have no idea what she wanted to talk about?”

  I helplessly shrugged without overdoing it. “I hadn’t spoken to her in a month and a half.”

  “When you two fought?” he asked, a little too pointedly.

  “I don’t even know if you could call it a fight. I took it as a breakup, and it wasn’t all that dramatic—like we had both decided that we had had our fun, but it was over.”

  He digested what I said.

  “Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts the night of these texts?” he asked, lightly waving the phone in his hand.

  I shook my head. “No. Just got drunk alone and rented a movie.”

  “What movie?”

  I told him.

  “Any good?”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember much about it. I ended up passing out at some point.”