He was forced to sell off half his property.
But he kept the anger and frustration buried deep as the bodies in his front yard.
All too soon there wasn’t enough farm left to farm. He got a job at the recycling plant, sorting plastic bottles. He was mired in rancid soft drink residue eight hours a day five days a week. Hank Fenster, who drove a forklift at the plant, befriended Frank. With two weeks on the job, they were relaxing one evening after work at the Echo Hollow Tavern.
“Nothing but a bunch of kids running that plant,” Frank said, draining half his beer. “Every one of them got a college degree, but no common sense. They push us around like we’re nothing. It’s like they think I got no pride, that I’ll just take anything offa them.”
“Ain’t it the truth, though?” Hank asked through a mouth full of beer nuts. “I mean, you’re just like me, ain’t you? I know I couldn’t afford to lose that job.”
Frank thought about quitting, but with Rachael’s medicines and doctor’s bills, the repairs to the plumbing and the antiquated tube-and-knob wiring in the farm house, not to mention the debt his father had been so generous with, he knew Hank was right: like it or not, he was stuck.
Frank stared into his empty beer glass and whispered: “One day I’m going to take my hunting rifle down to the plant and blow all them snot-nosed kids away.” He was kidding when he said it and laughed, but when he stepped out of his car with his hunting rifle a month later to actually do it, Frank was a man possessed by a life-time of anger denied. In the mail that morning he had received a letter from his supervisor at the plant, explaining how his wages and benefits would have to be cut back or they’d have to let him go.
The bastard couldn’t even say it to my face, Frank thought.
His actions that morning were mechanical and dream-like at the same time: before leaving for work, he went into Rachael’s bedroom, kissed her on the forehead, put a bullet through skull, and then headed for work. Hank, just arriving for his shift, saw him in the parking lot, tried to reason with him, and finally tried to stop him. After shooting Hank, Frank paused only long enough to register the surprise on his friend’s face, surprise that he realized he shared.
What the hell have I done? I should go home!
No—the bastards had to die, if only to pay for Hank’s life.
Frank burst through the front entrance to the plant, headed for the administrative offices.
Alerted by the shots fired in the parking lot, the security guard stood just inside, his pistol drawn. Frank had forgotten about him.
“Drop it,” the guard demanded.
If I stop now, Frank thought, maybe I won’t get into too much trouble. Then he focused on the pistol in the guard’s hand. It was such a pitiful little thing, not nearly as powerful as his deer rifle. He raised the barrel toward the man and put a hole in his stomach.
Frank killed three more people on his way to the administrative offices; once he reached his destination, he shot everyone who stood between him and the supervisor’s office.
The supervisor got special treatment; Frank blew apart both the man’s knees, and then stood over him and shoved the barrel of the rifle into the man’s mouth.
“A man works his whole life away,” Frank spat at the supervisor, “he reports to work on time and punches the clock and works without complaint and doesn’t never call in sick no matter how bad he feels, and what does it mean? Can you tell me that, boss-man? What does it amount to when little snotty-ass college pricks like you make him feel embarrassed by what he is, ashamed at his lack of education, humiliated because he can only provide his family with the things they need and never things they want?”
The supervisor had wet himself, red-faced, and shook his head as his eyes filled with tears.
The terror in the man’s eyes made Frank feel good; for once in his life, he wasn’t powerless.
“It ain’t so bad when you’re in here,” he went on, ignoring the supervisor’s whimpering. “It’s when you’re outside that it bothers you, you know? Because you’re marked, if you know what I mean. You might be all dressed up at a nice restaurant or buying groceries or just out getting your mail and folks, they look at you and know right away what you are, what you’ve always been, and that’s a worker, a laborer all your life, and they know this because you’re marked. The work marks you, the not-enough money marks you... and little college shits mark you because they look down their noses at you and make you feel like dirt, and soon enough you start acting like dirt and then you wake up one morning and find out that dirt’s what you’ve become...and that’s just what you want, ain’t it?”
The supervisor shook his head as much as he could; Frank pressed the barrel down harder and heard some of the man’s teeth crack.
“… ittle … rl …” mumbled the supervisor through what was left of his mouth.
“What?” Frank pulled the barrel from the other man’s mouth. “What’d you say?”
“The little girl.”
“What little girl?”
“Leigh.”
“I don’t know no little girl named Leigh.”
The supervisor nodded toward a window. “Sure you do. She’s right out there in the street.”
Frank looked over there, as well. “You mean in front of the house that’s burning up?”
“Yes. Do you see her?”
“I see her. She’s drawing something with chalk.”
“Bang. Bang. Bang,” said the little girl.
Frank looked at her, looked at the figures she’d outlined in chalk, looked at the burning house where the flames now stood frozen, and then, finally, looked at his empty hands.
“Shouldn’t I be carrying something?” he asked her.
5. So It Was Decided
Her name was definitely Leigh. She was eleven years old when her father raped her, beat her unconscious, and then tied her hands behind her back with duct tape before wrapping an electrical cord around her neck and hanging her in her bedroom closet. He then killed his wife but the police still haven’t found the body. He threw a bunch of stuff into the trunk and backseat of his car and hightailed it out of town. It was all such a terrible thing.
It is nearly ten p.m. now and many of those gathered here are getting tired. Each person extinguishing their sacramental candle, the group begins to disperse, all of them still thinking about the last horrifying minutes of Leigh’s life, poor little thing, and maybe those who gathered here will arrive home and hug their children a little tighter than usual, wanting to never let go, and maybe these children will hug back and kiss Mommy or Daddy’s cheek and say I love you, too.
Virginia says goodnight to Arlene and the two women go their separate ways.
No one has thought to extinguish any of the candles on the steps and porch of poor little Leigh’s house. Soon enough the scene is deserted, excepting us, and we move away from the candles and toys and cards, rising toward the upstairs window once again. Looking into the empty room, we note that the funnel cloud of dust is gone, as is the meat cocoon. But from somewhere in the shadows we hear a soft but nonetheless distinct sound: that of a child crying.
A gust of wind, and beneath us the tissue paper around the flowers flutters backward, just enough so that a small section of it dips into the burning candle beside it. Moments later, the flowers are aflame, and it takes little time at all before all of the candles and toys and cards of sympathy are all burning bright.
We look back into the empty room and are startled to see Leigh standing a few feet back from the window, staring directly at us. She is trembling, her body covered in a sheen of afterbirth that both catches and reflects the light from a streetlamp, making her appear nearly translucent. Her saturated strawberry-blonde hair hangs off her scalp, straggling down to her bony shoulders, and when she moves closer to the window, we see that her skin is the color of a gravestone. The fury in her eyes is unmistakable. And we know that she can see us. We are no longer those who can only look.
Fr
om somewhere down the street, we hear the sound of a loud automobile engine. The car reveals itself a few moments later; it is an older model Mustang, a convertible with its roof down. Two teenaged boys are sitting on the back of the car, their feet cushioned on the backseat. The driver is alone in the front seat. The car slows, pulling up to park in front of the house. The three teenagers get out but the driver leaves the engine running. He is carrying something is his right hand, something red and square and—judging by the way he keeps adjusting his shoulder—rather heavy.
—So this is it, huh? The house where that little girl was killed.
—She was raped first, is what I heard.
—Me too.
—Well, at least some of this shit’s already burning.
A sloshing sound, drunken words, and we watch in fascination as the driver hoists the gas can up onto his shoulder and then throws it forward. It shatters the downstairs window, splashing a trail behind it that the flames are only too happy to follow. One of the girls in the backseat hops out, pulls something from her purse, and scribbles the words fuck death on the sidewalk in front of the house; fuck is written in white chalk; death is written in red. She throws the chalk aside and joins the others as they run back to the car and, with the sound of squealing tires and the stench of burning rubber, flee the scene.
Three minutes later the house is nearly engulfed in flames. Leigh is still standing at the window, staring at us, her eyes beckoning, commanding us to observe what is in her mind and heart.
This isn’t fair, she thinks. It isn’t fair that all of you went away. You were the ones who beat me. You were the ones who drowned me. You starved me. You choked me. You raped and burned and tortured me. You wrote the stories of my life. You gave me life only to kill me over and over again.
She is not of the dead, nor is she of the living; she is a thing created wholly out of perception, grief, anger, and belief. She is a small fracture in the structure of the multiverse. She has no identity save for that given to her by the vigil group. Her past—pasts, we should say—was also given to her by the vigil group.
You gave me life only to kill me and then give me life and then kill me over and over again. And it isn’t fair. I never knew what it was like to be alive, to run and laugh and fly kites and blow out birthday candles and hold my first puppy and blush after my first kiss, you took that from me, and then you went away.
The smoke and flames surround her, and at last we hear the sound of sirens.
Leigh smiles.
I’ll show you what it’s like, she thinks. You’ll know how it feels. I know all of you, I know your children’s names. You did this to me. Now it’s my turn.
The flames do not harm her. She seems to draw strength from them. We cannot move away quickly enough. We must now find another place from which to watch and observe what Leigh will do to those who so unfairly did this to her.
Now it’s my turn.
Perhaps we can find refuge on another age, in another story, in a different book. Somewhere in the white spaces between words. We can watch safely from there.
You gave me life only to kill me over and over again.
We whisper goodbye to her.
I’ll show you what it’s like.
And it is here that our part in the story comes (almost) to an end.
Should you believe any part of this to be untrue, then perhaps you are one of the people who, one night not so long ago, stood outside an abandoned house holding a lighted sacrament candle and creating a wretched, ugly, painful, and perpetually unfair past for a little girl who did not exist until you gave her a name, gave her death (which was her life), and then gave her life (which was her death).
We can watch what happens to you. But you will not see us. As for yourself, you can only listen now ….
Requiem: Audio Snuff Files
Before each call is replayed, there are these words from the dispatcher: “Nine-one-one, where is your emergency?”
… house across the street is on fire and someone’s screaming—there’s a fire and it sounds like somebody’s shooting a gun—can see him walking through the smoke, sweeping his arms from side to side—little girl in the street, she’s laughing and dancing in circles—the fire’s so bad the whole goddamn thing’s collapsing—ash and sparks and smoke everywhere—Jesus Christ he just killed two little kids, just walked right up to them and shot ‘em in their heads and now he’s heading toward the house next door—where are the fire trucks—how long does it take for a fuckin’ ambulance to get here—the signing girl, she’s … ohgod … she’s picking up part of a little boy’s body and she’s … she’s dancing with it—still shooting, I think it’s some kind of semiautomatic, maybe an AK-47 or something like that—old woman is still alive, she’s crawling across the lawn and she looks so bad—some of the fire is spreading to the other houses and everybody’s running into the street—running around—so much noise—can’t see anything—bangbangbang is all I can hear—ohgod, please don’t shoot me, please don’t—believe something like this could happen here—get some help here, please—he walked right past the little dancing girl, he didn’t shoot her—singing’s getting louder and her laughing is even louder than the gunshots—help us help us help us—people are falling dead in the street—goddamn chalk outlines, people’s dead bodies are dropping right into these goddamn chalk outlines and they land just like the outlines are shaped—so much noise—so much gunfire—so much blood—so much screaming—can’t breathe from all the smoke—so much smoke—so much death—helpushelpushelpus—how—why—can’t believe this is happening—just killed my husband right in front of our house—can’t believe this—why—we’re good people—decent people—we didn’t do anything—why—two little kids on fire, they just bolted into the street and the ambulance ran right over them—scattered in pieces—a hand on my lawn and its fingers are moving, burning—where’s Mom, where is she—we’re good people—we didn’t do anything to deserve this—we didn’t—we didn’t—we didn’t do anything—can’t imagine what would make someone do this—can’t imagine why—can’t imagine what would make someone
In Hollow Houses
Introduction by Lisa Morton
I should maybe begin this introduction with a disclaimer: Gary Braunbeck is not only one of my favorite writers, he’s also one of my favorite people. Gary the human being (or, for those of us lucky enough to have made Gary a part of our own lives, Gary the friend) is like Gary the writer: Richly empathetic, deeply observant of both life’s beauty and ugliness, genuinely horrified by everyday evils like casual violence and abandoned children, more interested in society’s damaged castoffs than those at the top. If you’ve read Gary’s extraordinary nonfiction collection To Each Their Darkness, you probably know why he’d have a special fondness for these damaged characters—because he’s suffered some pretty serious damage himself. Gary, however, is stronger than his characters because he found his own road to recovery, without benefit of an extraordinary guide. His recovery is his art.
“In Hollow Houses” wasn’t the first Gary Braunbeck story I read, but it has all the same properties that captured me with my first taste: It’s squarely situated within the horror genre, but has the Big Ideas found in the best science fiction (if you’re anything like me, one of your responses after reading a Braunbeck work might be, “How does somebody think this stuff up?”); the protagonists are impoverished and handicapped, while the antagonist is someone so caught up in their own need that they lack any capacity for human compassion; and the horror—because that is Gary’s first and foremost genre of choice—is visceral, the kind of stuff that pricks your skin until it gets in and burrows.
This story was originally written for an anthology called Whitley Strieber’s Aliens. “In Hollow Houses” could be taught in a master class for writers on how to take someone else’s toys and make them your playthings. The story includes all the tropes of a standard alien story—abductees, men in black, experimentation, invasion—but Gary has turned
all those tropes so far around that you almost have to read the story twice to get aliens out of it at all. The aliens at center stage here aren’t little green men but little broken people. When I asked Gary to tell me about this story, he said, “At its heart I like to think it’s about loneliness and how redemption can be found even in the most squalid of circumstances.” The next time I hear some other writer say they can’t create within someone else’s universe, I want to hand them this story, hold up that sentence, and dare them to tell me that “In Hollow Houses” is not a classic Gary Braunbeck story, an exquisitely rendered work about how all of us aliens get through life, told by somebody who knows.
I am very proud to call Gary Braunbeck both a fellow horror writer and a good friend, and I’m also proud of being given the opportunity to introduce and share “In Hollow Houses” with you. This is fiction that gives us all a chance to look up out of the gutter and into the stars.
In Hollow Houses
“Still there are moments when one feels free from one’s own identification with human limitations and inadequacies. At such moments, one imagines that one stands on some small spot on an unknown planet, gazing in amazement at the cold yet profoundly moving beauty of the eternal, the unfathomable: life and death flow into one, and there is neither evolution nor destiny; only being.”
—Albert Einstein
“Heaven wheels above you displaying to you her eternal glories and still your eyes are on the ground.”
—Dante
I
Down in the Rusty Room where Buddy lived these words had been written on one of the walls:
someone come
i’m tired of naming things
and then forgetting their names
the voice in the sky is
loneliness
and the night is
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