Dark Hollows

by Steve Frech

  “You have got to be kidding me …” I whisper under my breath.

  The float depicts the hanging of the three witches in the Old Stone Church cemetery. There’s a mock-up of the Old Stone Church and the Hanging Tree. The witches are played by three of Andrew’s staff, one of whom I recognize as my server from a few nights ago, and they are dressed as sexy witches. Around each of their necks is a noose that is draped over a branch of the Hanging Tree and leads to the hangman, who stands off to the side. He’s played by one of the Iron & Ivy’s barbacks. They are surrounded by short vertical planks of wood that have been painted to look like the slate headstones of the cemetery.

  The “witches” plead with the hangman and the crowd in sultry voices and suggestive puns. “I’ll be good. I proooomise,” one says while leaning forward to bare her cleavage. “I don’t want to be hung,” another witch says, and turns to the hangman. “But I bet you’re hung,” she says with a wink. The hangman pretends to be embarrassed.

  I’m going to win the costume contest, but Andrew Paulini has just won the night. I take in the reactions around me. The more aged citizens of The Hollows look a little stunned. The kids don’t seem to get it. Everyone else loves it. As the float moves down the street, it steadily gains applause and cheers. I scan the crowd, and easily spot Andrew across the street, thanks to his bright green hair. He’s holding a cup of cider, and receiving pats on the back. We lock eyes, and I humbly bow my head. He smiles and toasts his cup in my direction.

  I scan the other side of the street in an attempt to note every smile, every laugh, every wide-eyed stare from every kid, every pers—

  Laura Aisling.

  She’s right there, across the street, staring at me with those unearthly blue eyes. The scar is there, just above her brow. She looks older, as if she didn’t die on the floor of that warehouse. Her red hair flows out from under the hood of her red cloak. There’s a picnic basket in her hands.

  Little Red Riding Hood.

  Her expression is neutral, but as we stare at one another, the corners of her mouth curl into a devious, sinister smile—a smile made all the more unnerving due to the fact that she’s not blinking.

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The shock is so great, my eyes begin to water under my contact lenses.

  She bows her head, turns, and steps behind the row of spectators who are focused on the parade. She’s tall enough that I can see her hood, moving down the sidewalk, behind the gallery of monsters. It all feels like it’s happening in slow motion, in a dream, with the sound of the parade and crowds far away.

  I mirror her movement from my side of the street, desperately trying to keep her in view. I rudely bump into people, who voice their displeasure, but I take no notice.

  This can’t be real. It can’t be, but every time she disappears behind someone and I think that the hallucination is over, she reappears.

  We come even with the Old Stone Church. She turns, and goes up the stairs into the cemetery, her cloak flowing behind her.

  I shoot forward through the crowd. I’m dimly aware of the people around me.

  “Hey! What’s your problem?” someone asks.

  I duck under the twine and dart into the street.

  “Sir! Excuse me, sir!” a volunteer patrolling the street protests, but I keep going. I race in front of a float. The pickup truck pulling the float hits the brakes. Even though it’s only going a few miles an hour, the people on the float lurch forward, and drop to their knees. I continue running, trying to keep the red cloak in view as Laura enters the shadows of the graveyard, and moves off in the direction of the Hanging Tree.

  I reach the other side of the street. The people who have been watching me approach lean out of the way as I duck under their section of twine and hop onto the curb. I can’t see her anymore. The graveyard is too dark. I jostle my way through the crowd to the steps to the church. I take them in one leap and race into the rows of headstones.

  I whip my head left and right, searching for any signs of her. I trip over one of the shorter headstones, bashing my toe, and smacking my knee on another as I stumble. The pain is excruciating, but I’m right back up. I go further into the shadows and graves. There’s no sign of her.

  I arrive at the Hanging Tree.

  She could be anywhere. She could be hiding behind one of these graves. She could have doubled back, and be long gone.

  I spin in place, searching the shadows.

  I stop.

  There, at the base of the Hanging Tree.

  The picnic basket.

  I approach slowly and crouch beside it. I gently slide my hand under the handle and lift. By the weight, I can tell there’s something in it. I glance around, but she’s gone. I slowly open the lid. It’s too dark to see inside. Shaking, I reach into the basket and feel around. There’s something round and fuzzy. I carefully pull it out.

  It’s a chewed, worn, red tennis ball.

  Murphy’s tennis ball.

  *

  The roads are empty as I keep my foot on the accelerator. Everyone is at the Halloween celebration.

  Checking my rearview mirror, I see the reflection of the werewolf staring back at me. I begin ripping the pieces of latex from my face. My phone starts lighting up with phone calls and texts, asking where I am, and informing me that I’ve won the costume contest. The picnic basket and tennis ball sit on the passenger seat next to me. I try to stop myself from constantly glancing at it. I keep praying that it will simply disappear—that this is all a bad dream.

  I glance again, and it’s still there. I focus on it for too long, and suddenly hear the gravel under the wheels of the truck. I look up. I’m drifting off the road. I yank on the wheel to correct myself, but it’s too late, and the truck plows into a mailbox. It flips up into the windshield, sending a small cobweb of cracks in the corner where it strikes, before flipping over the top of the truck. The truck fishtails, and for one agonizing second, I think I’m heading for the ditch. I grip the wheel and try to hold it steady. The tires scream across the pavement, and the truck corrects itself. Adrenaline courses through me. I can taste the bitterness in my mouth. My heart has been pounding since I saw Laura in the crowd. I scream in frustration and punch the steering wheel.

  One last turn onto Normandy Lane, and it’s a straight half-mile shot home. I keep my foot on the gas, topping eighty miles an hour as the house comes into view. I crest the last small hill, and the truck’s tires briefly rise off the road before crashing down again.

  The lights in the house are still on from when I left them on for Murphy. I whip the truck into the driveway, and past the pond, spraying gravel behind me. I bring the truck to a sliding stop in front of the porch.

  The front door of the house is open.

  I leap out of the truck and hurtle up the steps. Tears are starting to fall from my eyes.

  “Murphy!” I yell as I enter the front hall. “Murphy! Here, boy!”

  There’s no answer. No familiar sound of paws across the floor. I check behind the couch.

  “Murphy!”

  I know the horrible truth, but I can’t accept it. He’s not here.

  I run to the study.

  “Murph—?”

  Murphy’s bed has been dragged to the middle of the room. Sitting in the bed is a cheap cell phone and a Polaroid. I walk over and pick them up.

  Murphy stares at me from the photo. There is a hand, reaching in from out of frame, holding his collar. He looks scared. His head is down, but his eyes are looking at the camera, like he doesn’t understand. Every human who has ever come in contact with him has shown him nothing but love.

  There’s a message written in the margin below the picture.

  You can save him, but you can’t save yourself. You left me in that room to rot. Before you sleep, you have to know everything you took from me

  I turn on the phone. There are no contact numbers or any extra features. It’s a burner phone, just like the one I carried around those years when I worked for
Reggie. I assume that this is how she, whoever she is, will communicate with me.

  I walk back to the front hall in a daze, staring at the phone, and stop at the door.

  I tuck the phone and Polaroid into my pocket, and crouch down to inspect the lock.

  It hasn’t been forced.

  I look out into the night, past the light that spills from the open door, to the tree line.

  How? How did she get in without—?

  My eyes drift to the cottage.

  I begin walking. I use the back of my hand to wipe away the tears of frustration and anger. I can’t believe I’ve been this stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t realize the danger I was in from the moment I found the guestbook that morning. Now, she has Murphy.

  I twist the key in the lock, and nearly kick open the cottage door. It’s freezing in here, due to the fact that no one has used it for days. I snap on the light, which allows me to see my breath, as I move through the living room to the hall. I open the closet door and pull the chain overhead. The single bulb bursts to life. The vacuum cleaner stands at the ready, and the stacks of towels are on the shelf, right where I left them. I go up on my tiptoes and feel around the back of the top shelf. I find the ceramic dish, hidden behind the towels, and bring it down. I know the answer, but I take the lid off, anyway.

  The keys are gone.

  This is how she did it. This is how she got into the shop. This is how she got into my house tonight.

  “Fuck!” I scream, and hurl the dish at the wall. It cracks the drywall and shatters into dozens of sharp, jagged pieces.

  *

  The raging fire chews through the dozens of stick dolls.

  The pile is so high, it overflows the circular fire pit. I can feel the heat from the flames on my cheeks as I keep my eyes on the woods. The light from the flickering flames gives the illusion of movement to the trees. I know the glowing ashes drifting upwards are dangerous if they settle onto the roof of the cottage, but I don’t care.

  The last thing I pull from the bag that contained the stick dolls is Laura’s music box.

  I open it. There is still a little tension left in its gears from when I closed it before in the woods. The song begins to play at a slow, tortured pace. The ballerina barely turns.

  I toss it on the fire.

  I watch as the flames reach around the open lid. The notes continue to chime, but they come further and further apart. The ballerina blackens as the intense flames close in. The notes stop, and the box begins to pop and hiss.

  I look out into the woods.

  “You’re there, aren’t you?” I quietly say, then yell, “You’re there, aren’t you?!”

  My voice echoes through the trees. I wait for an answer that I know isn’t coming.

  “You’re not her. You’re not Laura!”

  The flames continue to eat into the ballerina. I keep my eyes on the dancing shadows of the trees.

  “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you need to know this—if you hurt that dog, you had better just kill me … because I will sure as hell kill you.”

  I stand there at the fire for hours until it has almost completely burnt itself out, never looking away from the trees.

  I don’t go back to the house. Instead, I go into the bedroom of the cottage.

  There’s something about being in this room—the room where she’s been, whoever she was. The woman I saw tonight was not Rebecca Lowden. It wasn’t Laura, either, no matter how much she looked like her. It can’t be, but she did look older, like she was the right age. I glance over to the mirror in the corner of the room. The wasted remains of my make-up are more hideous and grotesque than any professional make-up artist could ever achieve.

  I pull myself onto the bed, not giving a damn about getting make-up on the sheets. I don’t care about anything in this cottage anymore. No one is going to stay here, ever again.

  I lose track of time. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, staring at this phone she left me. I don’t think I fell asleep but the pitch black outside the window is transitioning to the deepest shade of blue, signaling that the sun is on its way.

  I’m trying to formulate a plan. I can’t wait for her to call me. I’ll go mad, and I don’t want to play her game by the rules she’s trying to set. I need some sort of counter-play. I can’t go to the police. I can’t explain this to them, but I want help. I want people to be on the lookout for Murphy. In addition to possibly getting him back, it will lead me to her. I’ll tell people he ran away, and was last spotted with a woman who has red hair and a scar. I’ll post flyers around town. It’s all I can come up with at four in the morning after one of the most insane days of my life, and I want to start fighting back, now.

  I need a photo for a flyer.

  When I went to the shelter to pick out Murphy, there was a wall full of flyers for missing pets. While they were filling out Murphy’s paperwork, I stared at the wall. The photos broke my heart.

  “Have you seen any of them?” the woman behind the desk asked.

  “No. It’s so sad.”

  “I know. Hopefully, you’ll never have to use this advice, but just in case your dog ever goes missing, use the best photo you have of them on the flyers. You want people to remember him.”

  “Got it.”

  So, I needed to find the best picture of Murphy I have.

  I know that there’s a ton of them on my computer at the house, but there’s also always a bunch on my phone. I take out my phone and begin thumbing through my gallery.

  It’s painful to flip through the photos. Each one is a reminder that I may never see him again. I clench my eyes shut and drive the thought from my mind. I can’t go down that road.

  The next-to-last photo is the one I took on the porch, the afternoon Rebecca Lowden arrived. It’s the one where Murphy is lying on his back and the cottage is in the background between his open legs. Murphy’s face is upside down. His jowls droop, and his tongue almost touches the floorboards. I laugh and choke up at the same time. It’s a great photo. The only thing out of place is the car in the background, which had just pulled up when I took—

  I sit up.

  I move the photo so that the car is center frame.

  I use my fingers to carefully zoom in.

  It’s blurry, but readable, just to the side of Murphy’s right hind leg.

  My feelings of helplessness vanish.

  A fire ignites in my stomach.

  I have a license plate, and I’m done playing defense.

  Chapter 9

  The sign above the small brick building proudly proclaims:

  Royalty Car Rental

  Where you’re always treated like a King! … or a Queen!

  I’m parked in my truck across the street, watching the front door, and sipping my venti coffee.

  Normally, I’d do everything in my power to avoid giving a competitor any money, but I haven’t slept, I need the caffeine, and their coffee’s not bad.

  “A large coffee, please,” I told the barista.

  He smiled at me. “Do you mean “venti”?”

  “We’re not fucking doing this today,” I replied.

  Once I fiddled with the picture of the car so that I could clearly read the license plate, I went back to the house, and fired up the computer. If I had been trying to find the owner of a car based on the license plate twenty years ago, I would have had to go to the DMV, fill out a form, and wait six weeks for them to get back to me. Now, I can get the results instantaneously online for the low price of $40. Thank God for the internet.

  The car rented by the woman posing as Rebecca Lowden belonged to the fleet of Royalty Car Rental in Hammersmith—a short, thirty-minute drive from The Hollows.

  I went to the Royalty Car Rental’s website. Thankfully, it was a smaller operation, and not some big, national car rental chain, which would have made things much more difficult. On their website, they had a “Meet the Team” section with photos. There was a group photo on the page a
nd then individual photos of the associates with their bios. I needed to find the associate who stood out from the rest—the one who wasn’t really part of the team. I didn’t want the Employee of the Month—quite the opposite. I wanted the one who was possibly the most willing to break the rules if the price was right.

  The horse I picked was a rental associate named Derrick Slauson. From his picture on the website, I’d say he’s in his mid-twenties. In the group photo, his hair and clothes were much less tidy than his coworkers, and his smile was the definition of “uninvolved”. His prematurely aged face also indicated that he was a smoker.

  I arrived in Hammersmith well before Royalty Car Rental opened, hit up an ATM next to the Starbucks, and set up shop across the street with my coffee.

  I watch the staff arrive and go through the front door. The first person to arrive is Mr Martzen, the manager. Everyone else begins arriving a few minutes later. Nine o’clock rolls around and there’s still no sign of Derrick Slauson. I’m worried that he’s no longer employed by Royalty Car Rental, and they haven’t updated the website.

  It gets to the point that I take out my phone and pull up the website to find another target, when a beat-up Saturn turns into the parking lot. Derrick Slauson gets out and hurries through the front door. He’s late, reinforcing everything I had hoped about him.

  Perfect.

  Now, it’s a waiting game until lunch.

  I move the truck, and park in a spot where I can see not only the front entrance, but the side door, as well. I use the time to return some emails and texts, most of which are about the costume contest. Sandy’s written an email. She normally prefers to call or text, so an email is an indication of how worried she is. I briefly write her back to assure her that everything is fine, and that everyone is getting paid while we’re closed. I end the email by encouraging her to enjoy her time off, but I know she won’t.

  There’s not much in the way of customers coming and going from Royalty Car Rental. As lunch nears, I put away my phone and keep a constant eye on the doors. Without the busy work of emails and text messages to keep me distracted, thoughts of Murphy creep into my head.