Dark Hollows (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 4)

by Scott Langrel

“What I’m not into is getting hacked into a million pieces,” Pru said. “It’s a stupid idea, Rena, and I want you to forget you even mentioned it.”

  “Fine,” Rena said dramatically, indicating that her feelings had been hurt.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. You sure you don’t feel like coming over?”

  “Tomorrow,” Pru said. “I’m just going to lay around here today.”

  “Suit yourself. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Pru hung the phone up and stared at it. She would have felt a lot better if Rena had told her that the poor guy had been shot. Demons, as a general rule, didn’t use guns. Regular people used guns.

  A demon, on the other hand, might happily rip someone to shreds. Of course, there was no way of knowing for certain if the demon she’d seen the night before had been involved in the man’s death. It might all be purely coincidental.

  But she was willing to bet that it wasn’t.

  She checked the clock. It was almost noon. McCoy would probably be calling back soon. Pru thought that he would make the trip; she’d heard the concern in his voice when they’d talked earlier, or at least she hoped she had. Pru was pretty sure that McCoy wouldn’t leave her hanging, and she would feel a lot better just having him nearby.

  Her stomach growled, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten yet. It wasn’t like her to skip breakfast; her nerves were obviously more frazzled than she’d thought. She walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The day, bright and sunny, seemed full of assurance that nothing evil could be lurking in its brilliant perfection.

  Pru sighed. If only that were the case.

  She turned and went to the kitchen in search of something to eat.

  ***

  The man on the motorcycle watched the girl in the window until she disappeared from sight. He’d gotten only a brief glimpse, but he was certain that it was the girl he was looking for. The house looked right, too—a neat two-story duplex, typical of mining towns, which had been converted into a single-family dwelling. Of course, all of the other houses looked pretty much like this one, but he was sure it was the right one, nonetheless.

  He hadn’t seen any sign of the mother, and there was no car in the drive. She was probably at work. He didn’t think that the father was still in the picture, but it was impossible to know for sure. He would have to be careful.

  Speaking of which, sitting in the middle of the street on a Harley while dressed in full leathers in eighty-five degree weather made him stick out like a sore thumb. He didn’t need any unwanted attention. Putting the bike into gear, he eased past the house and made a left at the next intersection.

  The only motel in the area was located a few miles out of town, on the road which led back to Interstate 75. The location wasn’t ideal; he would have much preferred to be closer to the girl, but it simply wasn’t an option. He’d just arrived in town and hadn’t had a chance to explore it in any depth. Maybe someone in town had a room to rent. That would work better, and he thought that he would check around later. Just now, though, he needed a place to crash. He’d been riding nonstop for twelve hours, pausing only long enough to refuel the bike and scarf down greasy, roadside food. He was beat.

  In the motel lobby, he requested a room for the night and paid with cash. The clerk, a slightly overweight girl in her mid twenties, smiled incessantly and made doe eyes at him. She was pretty, but he pretended not to notice. He couldn’t afford to be distracted until his business was completed.

  Leaving the disappointed girl, he returned to the motorcycle and retrieved his meager belongings from the saddlebags. He had requested a non-smoking room on the ground floor, and he swiped the key card and pushed the door open. Cold, air-conditioned air drifted out of the room, luring him inside like the irresistible song of a siren.

  He threw his bags into a chair and removed his leather jacket, relishing the coolness of the dimly-lit room. The chaps were the next to come off, and then the heavy work boots. Finally, he took his long, dark hair out of a ponytail and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress was a bit firm for his liking, but he wasn’t complaining. At the moment, it felt like pure heaven.

  Something poked into the small of his back and he realized he hadn’t taken his gun out. Reaching behind, he removed the .45 and placed it on the nightstand beside the bed. It was the only firearm he owned, but it most likely wouldn’t be the only one he would need. As always, though, he would have to improvise. If he constantly hauled everything he might need with him, he would have needed a moving van instead of a motorcycle.

  He knew that it would not take long for sleep to overtake him. He was young, and in good physical condition, but he had his limits. The past couple of days had taken their toll on him. But it was always like that; he never knew exactly where he was going until the last minute, and he was always in a rush to get there. He hadn’t asked for the life he was leading, but neither did he shy away from it. It gave him satisfaction, and it gave him a purpose. For now, at least, he needed little else.

  As he drifted off, images of the girl passed before his mind’s eye. The girl silhouetted in the window of her home. The girl laughing as she dove into a pool. The girl sitting at the dinner table with her mother, talking animatedly about something or other. The girl with an older man in a straw cowboy hat.

  The girl lying bloody at the bottom of a wooded ravine, her young body mutilated almost beyond recognition.

  And, just before sleep completely took him, the voice that always accompanied the images, repeating its mantra over and over:

  She lives. At all costs, she lives.

  Chapter Four

  McCoy sat his bags beside the front door and studied them. He wouldn’t need to pack heavily; it was only a three hour drive to Patton’s Point, and he wasn’t planning on staying for more than a day or two. He had his knapsack packed with everything that he could foreseeably need to deal with the most common ranks of demons, which tended to be lower to mid-level entities. Demons of the higher orders were much rarer, and though he had successfully dealt with them before, it wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed doing. His last tussle with a major demon had left him with a severely damaged leg and had almost cost him his life.

  He’d spoken to Pru earlier, and all of the arrangements had been made. Pru had also told him about her friend’s account concerning the condition of the dead film crew member’s body. McCoy had decided not to share that information with Amanda, since she was already pissed that she couldn’t make the trip with him.

  “Did you pack underwear?” Amanda asked as she came out of the kitchen. “You’re always forgetting underwear.”

  McCoy started to answer, thought about it, then casually returned to the bedroom to retrieve a couple of pairs of boxers.

  “I figured as much,” Amanda said smugly as McCoy returned and stuffed the boxers into one of his bags.

  “Yeah, well they sell drawers at the dollar store. I’m more concerned with packing things I can’t pick up at Wally World.”

  Amanda leaned against the entranceway to the kitchen and sighed heavily. “I wish there was some way I could get out of work and go with you,” she said. “I’d love to see Pru.”

  “We can make another trip up there later,” McCoy said. “I won’t be gone long. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two to sort this out and make sure Pru’s safe.”

  “Promise you’ll be careful, Finn.”

  “When am I not?”

  “About half the time, at least. I’m serious. You haven’t gone up against an actual demon since that mess with the Sluagh in Shallow Springs, and you remember how that went.”

  “Of course I do. The demon went down.”

  “Only because the Fey intervened,” Amanda pointed out. “Otherwise, we’d both be pushing up daisies right now.”

  “That was a high-level demon,” McCoy said dismissively. “And one that specifically had it in for me. Chances are the one that Pru saw isn’t much more than a gutter de
mon.”

  “Well, what about that man who was murdered?”

  “There’s no proof that anything supernatural was involved there. People kill people all the time. It seems to be one of our favorite pastimes.”

  “But they’re filming a documentary about the Goat Man,” Amanda persisted.

  “Which is no more real than Santa Claus. There’s no such thing as the Goat Man, Amanda.”

  “That’s what you thought about the Dobhar-chú.”

  As usual, McCoy saw that he was losing the argument.

  “Okay. Let’s assume for a moment that the Goat Man is real, and that it killed that man. I’d still have to go and take care of it. I’m a handler. It’s what I do.”

  “Yeah. But I’m usually there to watch your back,” Amanda pouted.

  McCoy walked over and ran his fingers through her long, blonde hair. “I promise I’ll cover all of the bases,” he said gently. “After all, I did manage to survive for over forty years before we met.”

  “Which is still an unexplainable miracle, if you ask me.”

  McCoy chuckled. “Be that as it may, I do have some experience in these kinds of things. Besides, Pru will be there, and her senses are as good as mine. Maybe better.”

  “She’s also a thirteen year-old girl,” Amanda reminded him. “And she looks up to you. Don’t go putting her in any dangerous situations.”

  “Who, me? Caution is my middle name.”

  “Right. You’d better keep me updated.”

  “I will. And, if for some reason I’m still there on Friday, you can drive up after work.”

  “You’d better believe I will. And now, I’ll be able to drive my own car.”

  “That you will,” McCoy agreed. “Speaking of which, I’d better get my new ride loaded up. I want to make it up there before dark.”

  “I’ll help you carry your bags out.”

  McCoy took one last look around and went through his mental checklist again. Surely he had everything he might possibly need. Performed correctly, a low-level demon was a cinch to banish. The trip would probably end up being more of a social visit than anything else.

  Probably.

  ***

  “It just doesn’t settle well with me,” Trevor Baxter remarked as he hopped deftly over a fallen log. The aluminum tripod he was lugging was bulky, but not overly heavy. Mark Sanchez, who was carrying the actual camera, had gotten the worst end of the deal as far as weight was concerned.

  “Look,” Mark said, breathing heavily from the combined exertion of carrying the camera and the hike up the steep incline, “I’m not crazy about Caleb, either. I think he’s a pretentious prick. But it’s his gig, and he gets to call the shots. We’re just in it for the paycheck, bro.”

  “Maybe so. But I can’t get over the fact that he’s going to use poor Randy’s death to promote the film. That’s just cold, man. I mean, Randy was a bit of a dweeb, sure. But I swear I could see dollar signs in Caleb’s eyes the moment we told him what had happened.”

  The two were making their way back up to the ridge where they’d discovered Randy Peterson’s mutilated body the night before. Neither was overly happy about it, but Caleb hadn’t minced words when he’d told them that it was either his way or the highway. Had it been dark, they still might have balked. But the sun was still high in the sky, and they were both young and muscular. Besides, Mark had a .38 snub-nosed revolver that he’d borrowed from his father tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

  “What does he think he’s going to catch on tape, anyway?” Trevor asked. “Whoever killed Randy won’t be stupid enough to come back.”

  “Maybe he thinks it really was the Goat Man,” Mark offered.

  “If he does, he’s even more deluded than I thought. It was some local redneck, pure and simple.”

  “Then why wasn’t Randy’s wallet taken? Surely any Billy Bob local would have at least checked for cash or credit cards.”

  “Because whoever did it wants it to look like the Goat Man did it, for whatever reason. I swear, if Caleb hadn’t still been at base camp when we left last night, he’d be at the top of my list of suspects.”

  “Caleb?” Mark laughed. “He doesn’t have the balls for something like that.”

  “Maybe not. But he might have slipped some local meth-head a hundred to do it for him. It’s no secret that he and Randy didn’t get along, and Randy’s death will generate the kind of publicity you just can’t buy.”

  Mark thought about it. “That kind of makes sense in a way that I wish it didn’t. Caleb didn’t seem to be too torn up about it; you’re right about that.”

  “All I’m saying is that we need to watch each other’s backs until this shit is over with,” Trevor said.

  The pair lapsed into silence as they continued their ascent to the ridge. The air was hot and muggy; not even the slightest breeze stirred as they made their way up the steep mountainside. All around them, birds sang and called from the tops of the trees, and squirrels performed aerial acrobatics as they chased one another through the lush, green canopy. Mosquitoes and no-see-ums constantly dive-bombed the men, causing them to wave their hands in front of their faces in an attempt to clear the way.

  “I gotta take a breather,” Mark said as they neared the top of the ridge. “This camera bag’s cutting a gulley into my shoulder.”

  “Sure,” Trevor agreed. “Let’s take five. Or ten. As long as we’re out of these woods before dark, it’s all good with me.”

  They put the gear down and sat upon a small rocky outcrop which seemed to jut out of the side of the mountain. Mark rubbed his shoulder vigorously.

  “You want me to haul that the rest of the way?” Trevor asked.

  “I wouldn’t fight you over it. There’s a lot of gear packed in there. Camera, batteries, wireless transmitter…and a cement block or two, judging by the weight.”

  “No problem. It’s only another five-minute hike to the top, I think. See? You can just make out the trestle over there.”

  “Yeah, I see it. Dude, I don’t want to come across as a chicken, but it’s spooky up here even in the daytime.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Trevor agreed. “Guess us city boys aren’t cut out for the great outdoors. You couldn’t pay me enough to spend the night up here alone. Especially after last night.”

  “I figured the local law would shut us down for sure,” Mark said as he stared at the derelict trestle. “Tell you the truth, it wouldn’t have hurt my feelings.”

  “They wanted to. I heard the sheriff arguing with Caleb. I couldn’t make out everything that was said, but I got the feeling Caleb has some pull with someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. But it must be someone with more stroke than the sheriff, ‘cause he ended up backing down.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t doubt it,” Mark said, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He offered one to Trevor, who shook his head. “I think Caleb comes from money. He sure doesn’t look the part of the starving artist.”

  “Yeah. I don’t think he’s worked an honest day in his life. How he ended up with a hottie like Claire is beyond me.”

  Claire Keller was Caleb’s assistant. A slim redhead with a bubbly personality, she liked to introduce herself as the film’s associate producer, but everyone knew that Caleb was banging her. Caleb liked to flaunt it when she wasn’t around, but had enough sense to keep quiet in her presence.

  “Money talks,” Mark said, taking a long draw off the cigarette. “She won’t even give me the time of day. And I’ve tried.”

  Trevor smiled and nodded, then turned and looked up the path toward the top of the ridge.

  “You hear something?”

  Mark shook his head. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” Trevor listened for another moment, then shrugged. “Guess it was a deer or something. I don’t hear it now.”

  “I doubt it was a deer,” Mark said, looking worriedly toward the ridge. “I used to go hunting with the old man
. Deer don’t stir about during the hot part of the day.”

  “Maybe a fox, then.”

  “No, they’re primarily nocturnal.”

  “Dude, what are you—Marlin Perkins? For a city boy, you sure know a lot about animals.”

  “Like I said, the old man was into it. Listen. Hear that?”

  Trevor paused. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly.” Mark gave Trevor a nervous glance. “What happened to the birds? They were making a ruckus a few minutes ago.”

  Trevor listened again. Sure enough, the woods were silent. Even the mosquitoes seemed to have vanished.

  “Shit. I don’t like this, man. What should we do?”

  Mark pulled the .38 from his waistband. “Let’s give it a minute,” he whispered. “Maybe we spooked the birds. Let’s just see if we hear anything else.”

  They sat as still as statues, neither daring to make the slightest noise. Far overhead, a single engine plane rumbled through the sky, though it was invisible above the canopy.

  “Let’s move,” Mark said suddenly, rising.

  “Which way?”

  “The hell out of here,” Mark grunted. “Screw this. Something’s not right here.”

  “What about the equipment? Caleb’ll have a fit if we leave it.”

  “Grab it if you want. I’m leaving, and I don’t want anything slowing me down.”

  Mark began to head back down the path, gripping the revolver in his hand. Trevor hesitated, looking back and forth between Mark and the camera equipment. If they went back to base camp without setting it up, they would be toast. Trevor didn’t know about Mark, but he needed this paycheck. Badly.

  On the other hand, he didn’t want to end up like Randy, carved up and dead in a wooded ditch. He finally settled on the safest plan, which was to grab the gear and catch up with Mark. Caleb would be annoyed that they didn’t set the camera up, but he would be furious if they returned without it.

  Scooping up the bag and tripod, Trevor started back down the steep incline. Mark was already out of sight, hidden by the thick underbrush.