Dark Hollows

by Steve Frech

  “Where did you rent it from?”

  “On pay-per-view.”

  He made a note on his pad. I assumed it was to check my cable records.

  What am I doing? I thought. This wasn’t me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I worried what might happen if I told him what really happened. Would Reggie’s guys come after me? Would I be held responsible for Laura’s death? I sure as hell was responsible for Reggie’s death. It seemed the panic and guilt in my head was detached from the tone and actions of my mouth, which had no problem lying to this detective.

  “Did you have your cell phone on you?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Why?” I asked.

  “No reason,” he replied.

  I knew the reason. They could check cell tower records to see if I was telling the truth, assuming that my phone and I were in the same place. Laura and Reggie’s phones were off, making them untraceable. The instinct had seen to that.

  He wrote one more note in his pad and glanced at me. “Is there anything else you can think of?”

  “No. Not at the moment.”

  He took out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to me.

  “Well, if you think of anything, give me a call,” he said.

  I took it. “Thanks, and if there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

  “Thanks. We’re still looking, but with every day that passes, the odds go down. We’re still trying to establish when exactly she went missing, but it looks like your texts may be the last time anyone heard from her.”

  “I … I don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m sorry I didn’t answer those texts. I have no idea what she was worried about.”

  He shrugged. “No way to know, now.” He closed his notepad, and leaned back in his chair. “You have any theories about where she could be?”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. You knew her.”

  The question threw me a little. I wasn’t sure if my confusion was a good thing or a bad thing. “I’m still trying to process it. I mean, I only heard about this a few hours ago.”

  “If you had to take a guess—anything you know of that would cause her to disappear or maybe run away?”

  The second he said “run away”, the instinct clicked.

  “The only thing I can think of, and it’s only because you asked, is her mother. She said that her mother was very controlling, and that they did not get along—and, please,” I quickly added, “I’m not saying I think her mother did something to her, but if you think she may have run away, she may have done it to get away from her. I don’t know. She might pop up somewhere far away from here.”

  The slight change in his expression told me that the same exact thought had crossed his mind.

  A wave of guilt made me sick to my stomach, but I continued.

  “Have you met her?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” was all he would say before standing from his chair. “Well, thank you for contacting us, Mr Reese, and for answering my questions.”

  “Of course,” I said, following him to the door.

  “If you think of something to add, give me a call.”

  “I will,” I said, opening the door.

  He stepped onto the porch and turned to me. “Also, let us know if you plan on going anywhere, okay? We may want to ask you some more questions.”

  “Sure.”

  “Again, thank you for your time.” He extended his hand. I grasped it. “Feel better. Load yourself up on those saltines and Sprite. It’s what my mom did for me when I was sick, and I swear, it would cure cancer.”

  I managed a chuckle. “Thanks. I will.”

  “Have a good night.”

  “Good night, Detective.”

  He walked away.

  I closed the door. The instinct left and the ball of guilt grew heavier in my stomach. I barely made it to the bathroom before I began vomiting uncontrollably.

  That night, I had my first nightmare about the door in the basement of the warehouse.

  *

  Weeks passed.

  My wounds healed, but from time to time, I would feel a sharp pain if I turned too quickly, or sometimes, for no reason at all. I tried to convince myself that it was just a phantom pain, but it would not go away.

  The search for Laura continued, but there were no new leads. I constantly watched the news for any updates. Over time, the coverage grew further and further apart. There was no new information to keep the public’s interest. Detective Laurie called a few more times, but only to ask me if I had anything new to add. I told him that I didn’t.

  Ironically, the more and more it looked like they weren’t going to find Laura, the worse the guilt consumed me. The instinct wasn’t there to banish it. It was simply a constant crushing guilt.

  I felt like a prisoner. I couldn’t move on while the investigation was still open out of fears it would raise a red flag to Detective Laurie, but it was torture. I was waiting for my door to be kicked in at any minute and to be dragged off to jail. The nightmares continued.

  I tried to wall up my guilt—to distance myself. I began to treat the whole thing as if it had been some other person who had allowed Laura to die on that floor. In those moments where I did permit myself to recognize what I had done, and what I was doing by covering it up, the guilt was all-consuming. I would throw myself out of bed in the middle of the night with the intention of calling the police to confess. I would begin to dial Detective Laurie’s number but stop. I would sit there staring at the phone until I returned to bed, only to be haunted by nightmares of that door.

  My savings dried up. I pleaded with my bank to give me some more time on the remainder of my student loan. They agreed but only after raising my interest rate over a longer period of time.

  I had to get a job.

  I didn’t have much in the way of a résumé, so I got one of the only jobs I could—a barista at a coffee shop. The work sucked, but I was one of the better employees. I was trying to keep myself squeaky clean and worked as many hours as I could. I became a manager, which was a meager upgrade in pay. I would bristle as I watched the place take in money, hand over fist, and dole out pennies to the employees.

  I was miserable and saw nothing but misery in my future. There was nothing I could do until I was rid of this guilt.

  Then, one night, after a full year had passed, I was watching the news. They had just wrapped up a story about the Middle East, when the camera went to one of the anchors, and the photo of Laura appeared over his shoulder.

  “And a final update on the case of the missing Wilton University student, Laura Aisling.”

  I sat up on the couch, wincing at the pain in my side.

  “With no new developments for months, Addison County officials have decided to close the case. The tip line will be discontinued, but the police still urge anyone with information to call the sheriff’s office. We reached out to the Addison County Police Department for any further comment, but they declined. We did, however, contact Laura Aisling’s mother, and she had this to say …”

  The image cut to the same woman I had seen before, standing in front of the woods. This time, she was standing on the front steps of a home. It was clear that Laura’s disappearance had taken a toll on her. Her wrinkles were deeper. Her hair had thinned, and her eyes had sunken in their sockets.

  “I’m not going to give up,” she said, defiantly. “I know the Lord will bring my angel back to me, and I have everything ready for her return. We’ll be a family again.”

  It cut back to the anchor.

  “Again, if you have any information on the whereabouts of Laura Aisling, you can call the Addison County Sheriff’s Department at the number below. That’ll do it for us tonight here at Channel 7. Thank you for joining us. Stick around for an all-new episode of—”

  I turned off the television.

  I went to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the fridge. I sat at the table, staring at the chair Detective Laurie had occupied. I should have been relieved. I had made it,
but I felt worse than ever. I knew it would never truly be over. It would always be there in the shadows. The nightmares would continue, as would the guilt and the fear … unless I decided to end it.

  For the next few days, I walked around in a fog, trying to formulate a plan. I was going to confess. I tried to research what I would be looking at as far as jail went. It caused me to hesitate, but I steeled myself to the fact that it was the only way to move on with my life.

  Then, I got a call from my father, telling me about my mother’s failing health. I was so stunned, that I sat there, speechless, with the phone to my ear.

  Everything happened so fast with their passing, I put my plans on hold until after the funeral.

  Then came the reading of the will.

  I sat in their lawyer’s office, as he read the declaration that I was to receive everything.

  “To our son, Jacob,” the lawyer read, “we know that things have not always gone smoothly between us, but we could not be prouder of the change you have made in your life. You have proven yourself responsible and know that we love you. We hereby leave the entirety of our estate and all financial holdings to you, Jacob …”

  The lawyer’s voice trailed off.

  They left me everything.

  In an instant, the guilt and the instinct returned but seemed to speak with one voice. This was a chance, the only chance, I’d ever have to make something good of my life. If I confessed, Laura would still be gone, and what would it do to her mother to find her daughter’s decomposing body in a room full of dead addicts and dealers? Wouldn’t she be better with the fantasy that her daughter was somewhere happily living her life? And if I confessed, where would the life savings of my parents go? I could pay off my student loans and start a new life, a life that I could do some good with.

  Before, I only thought the guilt would go away by serving my time, but now, I saw a way to pay my penance by taking this opportunity and making myself a better person. That was the only way something good could come of this. Yes, I had done something horrible and I would still live with it every day. Nothing would change that, but I could try to be the person I always should have been.

  As I made my decision, I faintly heard the lawyer talking from behind his desk.

  “Jacob? Are you okay?” he asked. “Jacob—

  —Jacob?”

  I look up to see Reverend Williams standing next to the pew, staring at me. I glance around. The church is empty.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “I am so sorry. I promise you, I wasn’t asleep.”

  He smiles. “No. I know. Your eyes were open, but you were really somewhere else.”

  “Yeah … Also, I’m sorry for saying ‘Oh my God’ just then.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve heard worse. Mind if I sit?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  I scoot over and he sits next to me. He fidgets with his knees in the cramped space.

  “Ugh. I spend so much time up there, I forget what it’s like out here.” He gives up and slouches. “I guess this is a good reminder to keep the sermons short.”

  “It was a good sermon.”

  “Thanks. Where did I lose you?”

  “Somewhere around werewolves.”

  “Ah.”

  “No, it really was good. It got me thinking. That’s all.”

  “Well, mission accomplished, I guess.”

  We stare at the figure of Jesus on the cross, hovering above the altar.

  “Everything all right, Jacob?”

  “Sure. Fine,” I answer without a hint of conviction.

  “I saw that Groundworks is closed.”

  “Burst pipe.”

  “Mmmm … but that’s not what brought you here today, is it?”

  “No. I just felt like it had been a while since I went to church. It was time.”

  “A ‘while’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jacob, when was the last time you went to church?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I see …”

  We sit silently, for a moment.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, Jacob?”

  “Nothing.”

  He sighs. “Jacob, I’ve been at this long enough and I can tell you, there are three types of churchgoers—those who go every week, those who go on the holidays, and those who go when something is tearing them up inside. I’ve never seen you here at Christmas or Easter, so I’m guessing you’re in the last category.”

  “I’m just trying to figure some stuff out.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “You can try.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start. I—”

  I almost start to talk. I want to tell him. I can feel it bubbling up inside me. I want to get it out. I understand confession. I understand the urge, but I tamp it down. I can still get through this. I’m not going to tell him, but a question suddenly seizes me.

  “Reverend?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think God punishes us for our sins?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “… I don’t know, yet.”

  “As someone who has been doing this job for, oh, twenty-five years or so, do you want to know what I think?”

  I nod.

  “I think more often than not, God lets us punish ourselves for our sins.”

  My head drops in contemplation.

  “Jacob, you can tell me. No matter what it is, I can try to help you.”

  “Thanks, Reverend, but I don’t think you and I are there, yet.”

  “You know, in this place, it’s never just you and I,” he says with a tilt of his head to the crucifix over the altar.

  “I don’t think God and I are there, yet, either,” I reply.

  Chapter 8

  Halloween has been my favorite night of the year for the past six years running.

  The first year I decided to dress up and join the fun, I went as the Headless Horseman. I bought my costume at one of those stores that pops up mid-September, and then disappears two days after Halloween. It was cheap and flimsy. The cloak was vinyl, as were the overlays for my shoes that were supposed to make them look like boots. The “coat” that came with the costume was made of felt and durable for one night only. The buckles that were supposed to look like brass were made out of cheap plastic. There was also a plastic sword that even a child would have been embarrassed to have.

  The worst by far, was the black cardboard apparatus that was supposed to create the illusion that I was headless. It was simply a box that went over my head, with small squares cut into it for my eyes. The holes were covered by black, mesh fabric. Driving to the festivities, I thought that the costume was perfectly fine—albeit a little cheesy—but I had paid $100 for it, so it had to be good, right? Once I arrived in town and saw the costumes of the other Main Street business owners, I came this close to getting back in my truck and driving home.

  Sally and Emmett Irving, who own the flower shop two doors down from Groundworks, went as Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein. It wasn’t an entirely original idea for a couple, but they had gone all out. She had the wig with the high hair and white stripe running through it. She also had the pale make-up with the puckered lips, and wore a white dress that draped from her body. She looked like she had stepped right off of the screen. Emmett was unreal. He had traveled all the way to Boston that morning to have his make-up done by a special effects company. Everything from his square forehead to the bolts in his neck were amazing. Even up close, it was fantastic.

  Maggie Vaughn, owner of the Elmwood Hotel, was dressed as a witch, but it wasn’t some generic witch, like the one Reverend Williams had displayed in his sermon with a pointy hat and black smock. Nope. She had a stringy wig, hunched back, and wore rotted-looking clothes. She wore sallow-toned make-up, and had applied warts everywhere on her face. The final touch was yellow contact lenses. I didn’t even realize who she was until she broke charact
er. I had been speaking to her for ten minutes, wondering, “Who the hell is this crazy woman?” when she stood up straight and said, “For Christ’s sake, Jacob. It’s me, Maggie.”

  There were vampires, zombies, a Freddy Krueger, and every single time I saw a new costume, it put mine to shame.

  The final blow was the arrival of Andrew Paulini, the owner and operator of the Iron & Ivy gastropub.

  A small knot of us Main Street business owners were gathered on the sidewalk, admiring the costumes and waiting for the parade. Behind me, I suddenly heard the sound of boots, accompanied by the jingle of spurs.

  Doug Leontes, a banker at Citizen’s Bank who was dressed as a pirate, looked over my shoulder and gasped, “Oh, wow …”

  We all turned and … just … damn.

  He was the Headless Horseman, and I mean he was the Headless Horseman. His heavy, leather boots thudded on the sidewalk, and the spurred heels clicked against the concrete. An actual sword and sheath hung from his hip. He wore black gauntlet gloves, and in his left hand, he held a real jack-o’-lantern. Inside was a flickering LED light that perfectly mimicked the light of a fire. The real brass buckles on his doublet coat glittered in the light of the gas lamps. His black cloak billowed as he walked. The collar of the cloak was turned up, and this is where his costume was genius. Over his head, he wore a black stocking, but he, or someone with some artistic skill, had painted the stocking to match the red lining of the turned-up collar, with a black hole painted at the base. From any slight distance, in that light, the effect was flawless. It looked like the man had no head.

  He won the costume contest that year. He also won it the year after that, when he went as the Terminator, with amazing latex pieces that made it look like there were rips in his skin with machinery underneath.

  After that night, I vowed that I was never going to half-ass my Halloween costume again. I went as V from V for Vendetta one year, and a demon the year after that. The demon was frustrating, because I had to order the kit and apply the latex pieces myself. It required hours of watching tutorial videos on YouTube, but it paid off. I won my first title that year, breaking Andrew Paulini’s reign. Since then, we’ve had a little bit of a good-natured rivalry.