Now Entering Silver Hollow

by Anne L. Hogue-Boucher

  Colleen and I are bisexual—guess you knew that about Colleen, but not me. Fuck, I didn’t even know. But, now I do, and you do, too.

  Anyway, sorry that you’re in the hospital. I couldn’t deal with that. Not after the whole Ingers and Gary thing. It’s been too much for me, and I’m no good with stress.

  Hope you’re all right, anyway. Like Gary said, I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment, and I can’t deal with all that heavy shit. I suppose that means I don’t love you, because if I did, well, I’d probably be with you no matter what. But I can’t. I think I love Coleen, but who in Perdition knows. I didn’t love Paul W., but his sister’s another story, you know?

  We won’t be friends after this, but I’m sure that’s fine with you. I hope you find someone who will make you happy. You’re a nice guy, Phil, and you deserve better than this. Sorry I couldn’t live up to your expectations—or anyone else’s.

  I’m sure George will be around to take care of you, like any good friend should be. I wouldn’t know. Everyone in my life’s been a piece of shit, except you most of the time.

  Have a good life.

  —Linda

  It’d be good enough, she didn’t have to be a wordsmith or whatever. She left the bedroom with her suitcase and stuck the note on the fridge with a fat tomato-shaped magnet.

  Now it was time to leave and get better. Linda was a high school graduate, and with Colleen’s money, she could afford to go to school—Colleen said she’d pay for school if she wanted.

  Her feet froze with trepidation. Would she pay for school for Linda to become a celebrity stylist like she promised? It was no joke the woman had connections and knew famous people—Linda saw the pictures, but what if it was just another lie? Just getting used and tossed aside like so much garbage.

  With a look around the entryway cluttered with dirt and stains on the wall, Linda stepped out of the house and slammed the door behind her.

  Once she read a story about a man who went on vacation to Merribelle Island down in the Southeast Territory and then decided he’d never go back to his nine-to-five job. The guy opened a tourist shop and lived in the upstairs part. For him, that was like heaven. Made a great living off selling souvenirs and lived his dream. That’s how this felt to Linda—all of it. She was going on a grand holiday and she was never coming back.

  Climbing into her car, she set the avocado green suitcase in the backseat and started up the engine, taking a deep breath. This was it—soon she’d be at Colleen’s in Grace City, partying in the penthouse with celebs, doing blow and getting her brains fucked out by the talented fingers and tongue of that tall blonde bitch. The part that wondered how long it would last silenced by gold chains and a gag made of silk.

  She turned onto King Street and saw Phil’s van.

  On a whim, she pulled up to the house. Police were around the van, but nowhere near the house. The cops didn’t take notice of her pulling up, either, which was weird.

  She felt a pull in her belly overwhelm her. Have a look around.

  Not the type to disobey her whims, Linda marched right up to the house and opened the door. No one stopped her, or even acknowledged her presence.

  Phil’s now-ex wanted to see where he’d been attacked. That was all she knew. Phil had gone into the house and someone attacked him, according to the doctor who sounded like a snotty bitch. Doctor Kathryn Cross, whose accent and tone of voice that just dripped with condescension.

  “You’re saying that you don’t want to come to the hospital, or that you can’t?” she sounded like she’d heard this before—and she probably did, with Paul and Gary.

  Linda sighed. “It’s not really your business, Doc. How about you just go back to taking care of him and doing whatever it is you do? Why don’t you let the social worker take care of it?”

  There was silence for a moment. “Are there any family members we could contact?”

  “George Postman’s his third cousin.” Linda snapped her gum into the phone and popped a bubble in the doctor’s ear.

  “Fine, we’ll work on our own. You’ve been an enormous help.” The doctor’s voice got far away as she hung up the phone. “No wonder he doesn’t want to go home.” Click.

  Doctors. They all thought they could say and do whatever they wanted, especially the foreigners from Albion. Their uptown accents and the way they looked down on everyone, even if Linda complained about her nothing would happen.

  As she stepped over the threshold and looked around at the crystal chandeliers and gold etchings against wood columns, Linda could tell the house had once been a palatial getaway for socialites and sophisticates. She could picture them drinking champagne from crystal flutes and eating foie gras, snorting coke off of tiny silver spoons they kept in elegant hand-blown vials that hung around their necks.

  Now it was just a rundown shadow of itself. Complete with peeling paint and a musty odor, splintered wood, and tarnished brass. Thick dust hung in the air, illuminated by the weakening light streaming through the windows.

  She walked up the stairs, looking around at what the place once was. The wood groaned under her sneakers.

  A noise—a giggle from what sounded like a little girl, echoed in the hallway at the landing.

  Linda stopped and looked around, curious. Why would a young girl be running around where a person just got attacked? Was she with the cops or something? Maybe it was take your daughter to work day or some shit. She laughed at the thought.

  Even though the coke from the morning had worn off, it wasn’t a big downer this time. Because she would move on to better things soon—and that was an upper on its own.

  Grace City was the epitome of better things. Just 250 miles away, the fashion hub of the world, glitz and glamor, waiting for her to arrive. But first, she was going to investigate. That’d make an interesting story to tell Colleen and her famous friends as they knocked back flutes of champagne and snorted blow laid out on the service table.

  Giggles.

  “Who’s there?” Linda asked.

  “Me,” came a voice, sounding closer this time. Linda laughed and turned a corner.

  There was a little white girl in a pink dress, white tights, and pink Mary Jane shoes to match. Her little red hair was done up in neat side braids with pink bows tying them off.

  “And who is ‘me?’”

  The girl giggled again and ran away.

  “Wait!” She ran after her. What was a little girl doing here? Something wasn’t right, and Linda would make sure this little kid met with the police. “You shouldn’t be in here, it’s not safe.” The protest sounded lame to her own ears.

  She ran down the hall to the room at the end, where the little girl had entered.

  “What are you doing?” Linda asked the girl who was standing there with a large dog, a kind of German Shepherd mix. Mixed with what? A bear? The dog was taller than the girl and looked at Linda with intelligent eyes—the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen on a canine. Not like the huskies with the faded blues, but the aqua of the shallow South Pacific. She swallowed hard and did her best not to make eye contact with it. Her heart rammed in her chest as the animal bared its large teeth at her.

  The animal made no sound, not yet. All it did was snarl. That was enough.

  “My doggie ranned away so I was trying to find him,” the girl said.

  She knew that face, those braids. Linda’s face fell. “I’ve seen you before.”

  A picture popped up in her head: a black and white of that face and those pigtail braids. Where had she seen it? The caterpillar tickles in her stomach, which had been from anticipating her trip to the city were now angry bees in her gut. She was alarmed, but why it was bothering her so much still eluded her.

  “You have?” The little girl asked, her hazel-green eyes shining hard. “No one’s seen me in ages.”

  Linda frowned.

  A memory of a headline flashed before her eyes. A headline from the Grace
City Examiner from when she was a teenager over twenty years ago. She remembered it because the paper mentioned everything but the name of the township.

  PROMINENT BUROUGH FAMILY HOLIDAY ENDS IN TRAGEDY

  GIRL, EIGHT, AND FAMILY DOG FOUND DEAD AT HISTORIC HOUSE

  FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED

  This place. This house. The little girl had her name—Linda Sue. For a while, her friends here had told her it was an omen, that she would die in this house. They’d been messing with her head. That’s what friends did best—but a creeping feeling settled over her after that happened—a feeling that took a few months to escape her teenage mind. Now, it was back in full force. She yelped.

  The dog growled, and the sound made Linda’s ears ring. The girl smiled and giggled again. This time, her laugh was cold—her smile a snarl.

  “Oh, fuck.” Linda said, backing away. “What the fuck is going on?”

  The dog lunged. Linda screamed.

  Outside, the crime scene investigators carried on, hearing nothing.

  Linda’s car sat across the street, empty—not even a suitcase left behind. A tow truck rumbled in as the sun set, taking the vehicle to the impound yard over in the next town.

  Inside Dubbs House, silence.

  NOBODY SLEPT HERE

  “We’re lost,” she said, for what seemed like the fortieth time.

  “We’re not lost. I know where we’re headed,” he said.

  Afternoon silver clouds hung in the sky, unmoving as the car slowed to a crawl. The woman sighed. A typical springtime in the Northeast Territory. With a little more sun, she would have suggested pulling over for a picnic and not letting the sandwiches she made go to waste.

  The blonde grimaced. Once around the circle and back to the General Store. Twice. Three times. A fourth. If there was a hotel, it wasn’t nearby. There was nothing that resembled a bed-and-breakfast there.

  “The hotel is supposed to be near the General Store, off Main Street.” he said, slowing down. “This is Main Street, so where’s the damn place?” The man looked around as if the hotel would appear by magic before his eyes. “There’s the roundabout, and that town hall thing, but no bed-and-breakfast. The lady said ‘left off Main Street.’ Well I don’t see it, do you? Women.”

  “Why don’t we ask?” Jill’s lips pursed so hard the cherry lipstick seemed to disappear.

  Ted growled under his sigh. “Fine. Go ask. Or we can keep driving through Silver Hollow and head right for Nashton Lake. But that means we’ll be on the road for another few hours, which means you will have to drive.”

  His wife gave him a scathing look as he pulled up in front of the General Store, dust kicking up and settling on the yellow walls. She opened the car door, glaring at him again, and set her jaw. The slam behind her punctuated an unspoken opinion, and her heels clicked a staccato rhythm on the old sun-bleached and splintered hardwood porch.

  As she entered the store, the first thing to greet her was a pleasant aroma—a mixture of baked goods, soaps, cosmetics, and spices wafted to her nose. She took a deep breath and smiled at the scent as she approached the counter. The store was quiet, transporting the woman away for a moment to that old town cult in the Southern Territory, where the only noises were the whispers of prayers from the parishioners.

  There was no one in the room, but she spotted a bell with a hand-lettered sign in perfect block print: ‘Please Ring Me for Service.’

  Jill tapped the bell once, a pleasant ding echoing.

  “Hold on, I’ll be right there, Mabel.” Came a man’s voice from the back. “The apple pies are ready, just wanted to keep ‘em warm for ya while I baked for tomarrah.”

  The young girl smiled. Mabel—what an old-fashioned name. How quaint. She heard footsteps and waited, not turning toward the source of the sound.

  An old man, in his sixties or seventies, wearing a well-floured apron that read ‘Haverty’s General Store’ on it in hand-painted stencil, came to the front. His eyes widened and jaw dropped upon seeing the stranger, and for a moment, she thought the man might turn around and hide in the back of the store again.

  “Oh, well, you’re not Mabel,” he said, appearing to recover from his surprise. “What can I do for you, Miss?”

  The tanned woman in the red dress smiled. “My husband and I are passing through, and we’re looking for The Hunter-Kellogg House—the bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said, his voice growing more confident. “Well, you’re looking for King Street. Go all the way to the town hall—follow the circle and take a left out of it. That’s King Street. If you see Maple Street, you know you went the wrong way. The place you’re looking for is the first house on the left, ‘bout a tenth of a mile off the circle. There aren’t any other houses near it, so you can’t miss it.”

  “Okay,” the young woman said, “follow the circle after reaching Town Hall, take a left, and I’m on King Street. Tenth of a mile on the left, can’t miss it. Got it.” She smiled as the elder man nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Name’s Hal Haverty,” he said. His voice was soft and kind. “And you are?”

  “Oh, how rude of me,” she said, a light blush rising to her cheeks. “Missus Jill Braxbury. We—my husband Ted and I—are heading through to Terrace Lake on holiday.”

  “Ah, I see,” Hal said. “That wasn’t gentleman-like, making you get out for directions.”

  Jill laughed. “Oh, he was too embarrassed to come in to ask. I don’t mind at all.” She looked around. “In fact, it gives me the chance to purchase that wonderful-smelling bread you have baked.”

  Hal looked at her as if he didn’t understand what she had said. Then he nodded. “I’ll wrap a loaf up for you.”

  Jill fumbled with her purse while he wrapped a hot loaf of bread in tin foil, then popped it in a paper sack.

  “That’ll keep it warm and moist, the way my Hannah used to bake ‘em.” Hal said, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Jill’s smile faltered.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mister Haverty.”

  “For what? Hannah isn’t dead. Poor girl’s crippled, though. Can’t get around so much with the arthritis.”

  Jill looked into her purse again, face heated. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Most times I charge twenty-five cents, but for you, because you’re visiting, I’ll charge you twenty cents.” He said. Though he didn’t smile, his tone was kind.

  She pulled out two Coolidge dimes and paid the man. Things were cheaper in the country, she thought—and she didn’t believe Ted when he told her that. Guess she owed him at least one apology.

  Jill took the loaf from Hal with thanks. It was like a warm newborn in her arms.

  “Be careful, Missus Braxbury. Have a good day.”

  Her expression twisted for a moment. Be careful? Did he think she’d drop the bread? “I will, Mister Haverty. Thank you. You too.”

  Ted scowled as Jill got into the car.

  “What on earth took you so long?” He was either talking to her, or grumbling because he was being grouchy about having to ask for help.

  “The shopkeeper gave me directions, and you know me—I took a while to get them right. But we didn’t go far enough. You had it right. Take the circle at town hall, make a left, and that’s King Street.”

  Ted gave her a small smile. At least now the bruises to his ego faded. He was so handsome when he grinned.

  She might want to stroke more than his ego later that night. The thought made her neck tense up, and she found it hard to swallow.

  “What’s in the bag? Smells good,” he said.

  “Fresh bread. Can you believe they charge a quarter for it?”

  “Everything’s less expensive in these more rural areas, honey—except what they have to bring in from outside. I told you that.” Ted’s sounded like her father, and Jill fought the urge to roll her eyes.

  “But I only paid him twenty cents,” pride leaked into her voice.

&nb
sp; “Oh?”

  “Yes, he gave us a discount.”

  “I see. Well, it’s because he can’t refuse a pretty dame.” Ted’s face broke into a lopsided smile.

  Jill snorted laughter. “You sound like Sam Shade.”

  “Spade.”

  “Right.” She fell silent and let him drive.

  They followed the street to Town Hall, which sat at the end of the circle. In the center of the circle, a kind of ugly fountain that looked worn and cracked stood. The copper was green and moss grew from it. Jill shook her head. A lion’s head on a man’s body was an odd choice of art.

  Traffic was dead, like a ghost town. There was a gnawing inside her belly that became a pressure, dread expanding. Were they the only tourists there? Even though it was only March, heading into April, it seemed like there should be more people outside on such a warm day.

  “Where is everybody?” Ted asked.

  Jill shrugged. “You read my mind. I guess we were so caught up in finding the place we didn’t notice how dead it was.” Dead. As soon as the word came out of her mouth, Jill shivered.

  They went onto King Street, and the bed-and-breakfast was unmistakable as it loomed in the distance. How did they not notice it before?

  There were three cars parked in the long drive—status vehicles—and one that screamed millionaire with chrome and fine leather seats. They pulled up in their convertible—a testament to Ted making his way up the corporate ladder. Earlier, she wanted to let the top down when they were driving, but Ted said it would rain. It hadn’t.

  Jill glanced around the property. Some of the bushes were struggling to grow buds from a harsh winter. Large trees were getting a head start on spring, growing fat, hanging leaves, though she didn’t know what kind of trees they were. A groundskeeper was busy tending to a row of rosebushes, buds forming in blood red dots against the green. Birds sang greetings from every direction. Without the traffic of the city, they had no competition for noise, and the volume of their songs rang in her ears. She smiled.