Dark Hollows

by Steve Frech

  “Then I will just have to call the police,” she counters.

  “Be my guest.”

  The blink, again. Her body tenses. I’ve called her bluff. No way is she going to call the police and I know why.

  Out of options, she decides to take the risk.

  “Rory, Michael; get this man out of my building.”

  Seemingly itching for a fight, they step around her and move towards me.

  “You can’t call the cops because you’ll be shut down,” I say, backpedaling so I have time to get my words out before they’re on top of me. “If you kick me out, I’ll make a scene and call the cops from the parking lot. I’ll tell them that you let me in. Sacred Heart will close.”

  I keep my eyes on her as Rory and Michael approach.

  I think it’s Rory who gets the first hand on me, and he knows how to restrain someone. In a movement seemingly too quick for someone so big, he has one of my arms behind my back and his tree trunk of a bicep across my chest. I’m totally immobilized. He tightens his grip, crushing my lungs.

  As the air races out, I’m able to wheeze, “Or this can all go away …”

  *

  “Sit down,” Dr Cavanaugh says.

  It’s more of a civilized demand than a polite request.

  I sit in the chair in front of her desk in the office behind the reception area. Rory and Michael stand by the door, slightly more relaxed, because I complied with Dr Cavanaugh’s request to accompany them silently to the office.

  Dr Cavanaugh walks around the desk and lowers herself into her own chair.

  “Now, Mr Reese, you want to tell me what this is all about?”

  I nod to Rory and Michael. “They should probably wait outside.”

  “Not a chance,” Michael says.

  “We’ll keep the blinds open. They can stand by the door. They see something you don’t like; they can charge in here and beat the shit out of me … but I’m doing this for you, Dr Cavanaugh.”

  She considers and nods to them.

  Reluctantly, they step outside and close the door, but peer through the glass, watching us intently.

  I turn back to her. “Listen, I’m really sorry about this. I truly am.”

  “Mr Reese, I was trying to help you. That’s what we do here. I’ve run this facility for ten years. These patients need Sacred Heart and you’re threatening to shut us down because I was trying to help you.”

  “I know. What I did was shitty. I fully admit that.”

  “So … why?”

  “Because I need something, and yes, if I don’t get it, I’ll have to tell the authorities that you let me in, illegally. The medical board will come down hard on this place. It’ll cause all types of problems. Problems you probably can’t afford. You’re strained enough, as is, right? Why else would the Head Administrator be manning the front desk? The worst of it is, you’ll be fired, and I’m assuming Sacred Heart can’t survive without you. But I promise, this can all go away.”

  “You promise?” she scoffs.

  I nod.

  I hate this. I hate the pain I’m causing and if there was some other way, I would take it, but there’s not.

  She sighs. “What do you want?”

  “I need to see the records of a former patient.”

  She processes my request with an offended look. “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Then, no.”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “I can’t do that. We have to protect our patient’s priv—”

  “You can protect the well-being of every patient in this building. I’m not going to print anything or take anything with me. There’ll be no evidence I was here … just let me see the file. That’s it.”

  For the first time since she sat down, she looks away from me in disgust. Finally, she shakes her head. Her shoulders slump. She reaches over and taps some keys on her computer.

  “What’s the patient’s name?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No. You can’t know who it is. I want you to pull up whatever program you use to access your records. I’ll do the search while you stand over here.”

  She sits back in hopeless frustration. “I can’t have you pulling up records about our patients.”

  “Ten seconds. That’s all I ask. After I look at the file, I’m going to walk out that door and you’ll never see or hear from me, again. Sacred Heart stays open, and it’s like none of this ever happened. If you ever think I broke this agreement, you’ve seen my ID. You know my name. You know where I live. Call the cops. Simple as that.”

  She stares at the top of the desk, then stands up and goes to the window. She gives the worried Rory and Michael a reassuring nod and pulls down the blinds. She turns back to me and motions to the computer.

  “Get it over with.”

  I get up and go behind the desk.

  She waits with her arms folded.

  The program on the screen is pretty straightforward. There’s the logo for Sacred Heart and two search fields: one to search by patient name and one to search for by case number.

  I type “Rachel Smith” into the first search field.

  The result is instantaneous. On the cover page is her name, date of admission, and attending physician. I scroll down. There are scanned handwritten notes, as well as pages of transcribed notes. I continue to scroll down, catching snippets like “obsession”, “limerence”, “highly intelligent”, “readmitted”, “fixation”, “self-mutilation”, and more.

  “Your ten seconds are up, Mr Reese.”

  I ignore her and keep scrolling. There are so many pages.

  “Mr Reese?”

  Finally, I reach the page I’ve been searching for; the release report. It’s dated a few months ago.

  Rachel Smith

  Born 8/17/87

  Admitted for Suspicion of Relationship Obsessive Compulsive Disorder + Limerence.

  Released to custody of parents William and Kelly Smith

  1148 Kingsbrook Road, Maidstone, Vermont.

  Approved by Dr Brian Nguyen

  Dr Cavanaugh steps forward. “Mr Reese?”

  “Done,” I say, and click ‘back’ on screen, which returns me to the program’s home screen. My last act is to quickly go to the file menu, highlight the ‘search recent’ option, right click, and click on ‘clear all’.

  Dr Cavanaugh comes around the desk.

  I hold up my hands and step away from the computer.

  Immediately, she goes to the file menu and pulls up the ‘search recent’, trying to find who I was looking for, but it’s gone.

  I walk over to the blinds. Rory and Michael are still there, about to spring into action, but I hold up my hands.

  I look back at her. “No one knows what happened. You’ll never hear from me, again … And for what it’s worth, I am really sorry.”

  She stares at me in disbelief.

  “Mr Reese, I don’t care how sorry you are.”

  She’s right.

  There’s no use trying to defend myself.

  I go out the office door, past Rory and Michael, through the main doors, and into the biting cold.

  Chapter 15

  I push the envelope of safety for the entire ride to Maidstone. Night is falling, and the cars on the road are starting to thin. I’m getting closer. I can feel it.

  Maidstone is a small town that sits near the border with New Hampshire. The sign by the road welcomes me to the town, and announces a population of two thousand, two hundred and twenty-seven. Below that reads, “+1 now that you’re here!” There is no downtown, or any sign of a town, for that matter—just scatterings of buildings.

  I follow my GPS down roads that twist and turn through the trees. Occasionally, a gravel driveway pops out of the woods, connecting to the road.

  The GPS announces that my destination is up ahead. The only possible option is a red mailbox sitting at the end of a seemingly random driveway reaching out of the forest. I turn into the drive a
nd can see lights burning amongst the trees. I roll forward, and just as the view of the road is obstructed by the trees behind me, the house comes into view. It’s a split-level with gray siding and a red roof. All the lights in the house are on. It would be charming if I weren’t so on edge. There’s a detached garage next to the house. The door of the garage is up and I can see a Chevy Malibu inside.

  I park the car in front of the garage. I’m having déjà vu from my trip to Laura’s mother’s house in Thistleton. I remember the wind whipping against the side of the house, but here in the woods, it’s total silence. There’s no chirping of insects or call of birds from the forest. It’s too cold.

  I walk to the porch and look through the window, into the living room. The lamps on the end tables next to the couch are on. There’s a painting of a ship at sea above the mantel of the fireplace. There’s a television in the corner, but aside from the lights being on, there’s no signs of life.

  I go to the front door. I’m about to press the illuminated doorbell button, but stop when I see the door is slightly open.

  I knock, and gently push it in.

  “Hello? Is anyone h—?”

  As the door opens, the smell washes over me. I know that smell. I know it from the basement of a warehouse. My eyes burn with tears. I turn and wretch. Had I anything in my stomach, it would have come up. I move away from the door, lean on the porch railing, and take in large gulps of air. I can still taste it in my throat and nose—the smell of rot and decay.

  A horrible thought takes hold—Murphy.

  I press my sleeve over my mouth, take a few deep breaths, and step through the door. My heart is pounding in my chest. Even though I’m taking short, shallow breaths with my sleeve over my mouth, the stench is still overpowering. To the left is a set of stairs that lead to the second floor. The living room is on my right. Straight ahead is the kitchen. Through the kitchen opening, I can see a window looking out at the forest. In front of the window is a table, upon which rests a piece of paper. I slowly walk into the kitchen. I make as little noise as possible, and dart my eyes from left to right, remaining alert for any sudden movements.

  The kitchen is spotless. The counters are bare. The sinks are empty. There’s no sign of the source of the smell.

  I keep my sleeve pressed over my mouth as I take the piece of paper from the table.

  I watched you walk into that place and I came here. I’ve had to speed up my plan. I don’t know how you found me, but if you found that place, then you finally know. You understand everything. My parents tried to stop me from doing what’s right. They’re upstairs, asleep. You know what you took from Laura and I. Now, you understand what you’ve done, and what I’ll do to make it right. You killed us, and left us in that room. I’ve brought Murphy home. He’s waiting, and it’s time for you to sleep.

  —R&L

  I race out of the house. I’m not going to check on her parents. I’ll take her word that they are “asleep” upstairs.

  *

  The drive home should have taken an hour. I cover it in thirty minutes. I have no regard for speed limits or double lines. The burner phone sits on the passenger seat. I keep willing it to ring.

  I reach the edge of my driveway and swing the car in at a dangerous clip. All the lights in the house and cottage are off. I skid the car to a stop next to the porch, grab the burner phone, and leap out. I vault the porch steps, practically kick in the front door, and throw on the lights.

  “Murphy!”

  I race through the house, hitting all the lights, and frantically shouting Murphy’s name. I do a complete circuit, and wind up back in the living room. Every room has been searched, every light is on. There’s no sign of him or Rachel. I go to the windows and scan the trees.

  The burner phone rings in my hand. I quickly answer.

  “I played your stupid game! I know who you are, Rachel! You said you brought him home.”

  “I did bring him home,” she whispers.

  A light in the cottage comes on.

  “It’s time to sleep.”

  Chapter 16

  I step out onto the porch in a daze, and stare at the cottage. The light spills through the open front door and onto the porch, but the curtains are drawn.

  It’s waiting like a spider in a web.

  I take out my phone and dial.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  “My name is Jacob Reese. I’m at 213 Normandy Lane. There’s a woman here who is mentally unstable. I need the police.”

  “Where is she, now?”

  “There’s a cottage on the property. She’s in there.”

  “Do you know who the woman is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m outside.”

  “Is she threatening you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she have a weapon?”

  From inside the cottage, I hear a plaintive bark.

  “Sir?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Sir, I need you to stay on the line with me. I’m sending police and an ambulance. Do not try to—”

  I hang up the phone, and begin walking.

  The gravel of the driveway under my feet sounds a million miles away.

  I walk past the fire pit and onto the porch. The open door looks like a glowing portal.

  I step through.

  Rachel.

  She’s standing in the middle of the living room, dressed in her Little Red Riding Hood costume. Murphy sits by her side. With one hand, she’s holding his collar. In the other hand, she has a gun, pointed at his head.

  She’s smiling at me, not in triumph, but in a creepy, sweet “I-told-you-so” manner.

  Murphy looks okay, but he’s scared. He doesn’t understand the gun, but he can sense that it’s not a toy. Murphy yaps at the sight of me, and tries to move. She holds him in place.

  ‘Please, Murphy,’ I mentally plead. ‘Be a bad dog, for once. Bite her. Attack!’

  I know he won’t, because I’ve trained him so well.

  “Hello, Jacob,” she says, eyes glistening in the soft glow of the lamps.

  I hold up my hands. “I’m here. Let him go.”

  She keeps the gun pointed at his ear. Murphy’s big brown eyes look from me to her in confusion. Her smile widens. “You took everything from us. Why shouldn’t I take everything from you?”

  “Because the dog has nothing to do with this. You have some warped view of fairness, but he did nothing to you.”

  She considers my words, and then nods to the corner of the room.

  “Stand over there,” she says.

  “Let him go first.”

  She presses the gun more firmly against his ear.

  “Okay!” I shout. “Okay …”

  Still facing her, I step sideways into the corner, making any escape through the front door impossible before she got off a shot.

  “There,” I say, coming to a stop. “Let him go.”

  She hesitates, enjoying my panic. Again, she presses the gun to Murphy’s ear.

  “Rachel, let him go, now!”

  She smiles, and releases his collar.

  Murphy instantly darts out the front door, and begins barking in the yard.

  Rachel points the gun at me.

  The hair, the scar, the contacts. She looks so much like Laura, it’s uncanny. Her peaceful gaze makes it terrifying.

  “Rachel, put the gun down.”

  “You have to pay for what you did to us.”

  “Rachel, there was no you and Laura.”

  “I loved her. I loved her more than anyone, and she loved me. We were going to be happy. I would make her understand that, and you took it away.” Her voice is calm but forceful.

  “It was a mistake, Rachel.”

  “You have to pay. You have to sleep.”

  “Rachel, stop! Your parents—”

  “They didn’t want me to make it right!” she snaps, causing me to start. Her calm d
emeanor has cracked and is replaced with simmering rage. “After they took me from school, they tried to make me forget Laura, but they didn’t understand. They kept me there for over a year. They didn’t understand. I played along with the doctors so they would let me out. After you killed Laura, they sent me back to that place—that hospital. I was there for years, and you … You were free. When I got out, I wanted to make it right. I had to make it right. My parents didn’t want me to make it right. They said they were going to send me back to that place, again. I couldn’t let that happen. Not again. I had to make it right—for Laura.”

  Just like in that warehouse, when Reggie was pointing a gun at me, I’m looking for any opportunity, any sliver of a chance to act, but she’s too far away for me to make a move for the gun. She’s also too close to miss. I have to keep her talking.

  “Rachel, it’s okay. We can—”

  “It’s not okay! When you sleep, it will be okay! You killed us!”

  “You’re not Laura!” It was my turn to snap, but it only enrages her more.

  “We were the same! We were one person, and you killed her!”

  “Rachel, I didn’t kill her.”

  “You did! You shot her! You killed us!”

  I hold up my hands, pleading with her. “No, Rachel, listen, I didn’t—!”

  “Stop lying!”

  “Rache—!”

  “STOP!”

  Something starts clicking in my head. How does she—?

  “You can’t lie to me,” she says, trembling with anger. “You shot and killed us. You sat there on the ground, with the gun in your hand, and watched us die.”

  My head is spinning. Something doesn’t add up.

  “You have to understand what you did. You have to take responsibility. You have to admit that you shot us, and then sat there on the ground, and watched us d—!”

  It clicks.

  “How did you know that?” I ask.

  My question throws her. I’m not angry. I’m not panicked. I’m not thinking of the gun or Murphy. It’s a simple, sincere question.

  She stares at me, while keeping the gun aimed at my chest, but doesn’t answer.

  “How did you know that?” I ask, again.

  She continues to stare.

  Anger starts to creep into my veins. “How did you know that I sat there on the ground, with the gun in my hand, and watched her die? I’ve never told anyone about that. So, how could you possibly know?”