The Hollow Places - A Paranormal Suspense Thriller

by Dean Clayton Edwards

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Firdy called from the next room.

  It bared its fangs.

  Firdy appeared again, but started up the stairs.

  “Er,” said Simon.

  “Don't move and it won't kill you,” Firdy said as he ascended, one foot facing inwards, one arm hanging limply at his side. He moved quickly, despite his disabilities. Silently too. In a few seconds he was gone and once more Simon was at the mercy of the dog. It had taken up a crouching position from which it could either lie down or charge at him.

  He took a deep, shaking breath, aiming to clear his thoughts. The dog, Firdy and the Creature in his head were all focussed on him; the psychic traffic was strictly one way. He had to hold it together. For Sarah's sake.

  The dog stood and took a step forward.

  Peaceful thoughts. Cracks in the ceiling. One. Two. Three.

  The Fibonacci sequence; one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen …

  Bottles of beer; ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer, if one of those bottles should happen to fall there'd be ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-eight bottles of beer …

  Firdy returned to the kitchen/diner.

  “Empty,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It's all clear. But then we knew that, didn't we? I don't trust you, that's all.” He winced with what looked like a headache rocketing through his skull and then he bent down to gather up the rope, working through the pain.

  “Let’s go,” Firdy said and nodded towards the stairs.

  Simon did as he was told. The dog walked at his heels, barring the exit route.

  There were five doors off the landing. They led to the bathroom, his room, Sarah's room, an airing cupboard and the master bedroom. Firdy gestured towards the master bedroom.

  “This one's locked,” he said. “Why?” Simon didn't answer. “This is where it happened, isn't it?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.” Pain. The fingernails again, raking across his brain.

  Firdy persisted. “This is where your mother killed herself. That's why you keep it locked.”

  “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

  They stared into each other's eyes; probing; hiding.

  Firdy let it go and nodded at the door to Simon's room.

  “In.”

  It was a small space, so it was only ever going to be in one of two states. Tidy or an utter mess. The room exhibited almost military neatness. Firdy might not have believed that Simon slept in here had the dog not been so keen to enter the room, sniffing the bare floorboards and the grey camp bed against one wall. Its tail curled as it did so. Simon thought that it was strangely playful for a beast that was able to rip his face off with one bite.

  It peed on the floor. When it was finished, Firdy checked the rope and collar, which were attached by a single, metal clip and then tied the other end of the rope to Simon's desk, which was to one side of the door. He saw no ink stains on the desk, but found scratches and burn marks, probably from where Simon was making weapons, he thought. He had to remember that there were weapons stashed all over the house and that Simon was dangerous. He was glad he had brought the Dog.

  “The numbers,” Firdy said when the rope was securely fastened. “The counting. The footsteps. The breaths. Are you a Buddhist or something? Let's see how long you can keep it up.” Firdy's eyes narrowed, searching. He thought he almost had something, but it eluded him again. He gave up for now. “Don’t move or he'll rip your head off. The rope won't protect you; it’s to stop him leaving the house if he decides to kill you. Stay still and you'll be fine. I’ll free you when I find your sister.” He stroked the dog’s head. “Do you want to give me that information now?” he asked Simon.

  “I can't,” said Simon. “I don't know where she is.” Once more, he was telling the truth.

  The dog watched Firdy limp out of the room, then it lowered its head and sat like a Sphinx, its bulky hindquarters thudding against the floorboards.

  Simon turned away before panic took him and made him do something stupid. He thought of nothing. The dog sensed deceit and readied itself to spring.

  Chapter Eight

  After the neatness of Simon’s room, Sarah’s bedroom made Firdy’s head spin. He sat on the psychedelic, flowery sheets of the bed, still unmade, and attempted to take everything in. It was the room of someone much more childlike than he had expected, though he could smell a sophisticated perfume and cut flowers, dying lavender in a vase made of an old, white wine bottle. Beneath the various scents he could smell her skin. Like fresh air, he thought. He gathered up a t-shirt that she had slept in and put it to his face. His eye rolled back in its socket.

  Shaking, he put it in his pocket for the Cat. Her sense of smell, should he require it, was much more profound than his and, perversely, better too than the Dog's. She was faster, smarter and more independent. She didn't go on the lead. She was constantly honing her skills and kept her claws sharp. Should he need her before the night was out, she would make a perfect hunter and retriever.

  Sarah's walls were adorned with scribblings and sketches, postcards, notes in varied handwriting, things to do, things to buy, places to go, magazine clippings, supposedly humorous articles about animals or unlikely things that had happened to 'real' people – and photographs.

  Firdy squeezed his throbbing temple.

  On the back of her door, underneath several jackets and an array of scarves, was an enormous poster of the play Chicago, perhaps the result of an opportunistic grab from a bus shelter.

  Every surface – dressing table, desk, chest of drawers – was covered in papers, or items that held talismanic and ornamental value: matchbooks and pens, stuffed animals, an electric glow ball, a fish bowl full of marbles, a crystal figurine of a unicorn with a snapped horn.

  The floor was littered with clothes, clean tops and dirty underwear forming a new layer on top of the carpet.

  “How can people live like this?” he said and lay back on the bed until his vision steadied.

  On the ceiling were stickers, cinema ticket stubs and glow in the dark stars.

  He closed his eyes. He'd have to look at all this to gather clues, but not yet. Not yet.

  When the nausea passed – the headache was constant – he switched on Sarah’s computer, a green and white Mac, hoping to access her email. He knew that there were things called cookies and that he might be able to find some useful information on her whereabouts. While he waited for the machine to boot up, he plucked a photo from the edge of the monitor. Photos would be the way forward. Sarah had plenty for him to look at.

  Simon had more personality in the photo he held than he did in the flesh. Perhaps, Firdy considered, it was taken three or more years ago, before his life had changed. He was standing behind Sarah with his arms wrapped around her waist, his chin resting on her head and his eyes sparkling. Amazing what life can do to someone, Firdy thought. It had scooped out Simon's insides, blown the light out of his eyes, but kept the body running. He was an efficient machine now. An emotional void.

  Sarah, beautiful, was grinning so much it looked like her face could split in two. Her slender hand gripped Simon’s forearm, keeping his protecting arm in place. Her hair was long and shining in the sun.

  The photo had definitely been taken before the change; before Simon had received his first orders. Firdy tossed it onto the table amid Sarah's scruffy college notes and then turned to the photo gallery on the wall beside her bed. She was clearly popular, though she was not the centre of any group photo. Perhaps she was more reserved and more like Simon than she looked. He searched for recurring faces, pried a few from the wall, but the photos were not annotated. No names. No numbers. He suspected that he was going to have to be methodical in order to track her down, but method bored him. The Cat would speed up the search, but of course, there were risks.

&n
bsp; He allowed his eyes to wander again over the perfect faces. Sarah on piggyback. Sarah dressed as a witch. Sarah, Simon and their father, Aubrey, standing outside the entrance to a cave. Pluck.

  In this photo, Simon was standing a little to one side, smiling for the camera, not so good at pretending then. This, Firdy thought, had been taken after the change. At this point, Simon would have known that his life was about to change forever. Aubrey had his arm around Sarah's waist, squeezing her and laughing.

  Wow, thought Firdy; now, that’s thought-control.

  Chapter Nine

  “Geraldine. It’s Sarah.”

  A long pause reeled out, but she had been expecting that.

  “I don't believe it,” Geraldine said eventually. “I took your number off my phone; otherwise I wouldn't have answered.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I just said I took your number off my phone. Why are you asking me how I'm doing?”

  “Making conversation, I guess ... Hello? … Hello?”

  Sarah dialled back. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Geraldine,” she was able to say eventually. “I’m in trouble. I'm sorry I've not been in touch, but I'm in big trouble.” Another silence. “You remember your promise?”

  “I don't believe this.”

  “Choose a friend,” Simon had said. “Someone reliable. One of your best friends. Make them promise to put you up if anything happens to me. You're going to need people you can trust around you. All the time. But I can't know who they are. Find someone reliable, make them promise and then keep a low profile. Don't tell me their name, where they live, what sex they are. They're not to phone the house or your mobile. No email. No Facebook. Cut them off. No contact unless you need their help.”

  To her shame, she had done it. They hadn't been best friends, but they had been getting close. It felt unusual and good. Asking her to promise to look after her in an emergency had cemented the relationship. Geraldine had almost cried. And then, as Simon had demanded, she had broken contact.

  “I've been a bitch,” she said.

  “Maybe,” Geraldine said. “I don't know what I'd do if I saw you again.”

  “Let's find out,” Sarah said. “Look out of your window.”

  *

  Geraldine opened the front door wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown and pink slippers with pig faces. As she stepped outside, however, her expression was serious. Sarah was used to seeing her with and without make-up. The morning after a night out her beautiful molasses sugar skin would be sucked dry of moisture, ashy, her lips cracked. She'd be standing over a pot of coffee in a similarly fluffy dressing gown, inhaling the caffeine fumes for an early hit and trying not to be sick. Although she appeared to be healthier now than she had been on those occasions, there was something unwholesome about her now. It was difficult to say why on a first impression. She had put on a stone or two, but that wasn't it. Her hair was combed out and unglamorous, secured on top of her head by a purple scarf, in preparation for future styling, but that wasn't it either.

  It was late and her eyes were red. Sarah would have expected that of anyone else, but Geraldine had always been full of life, full of energy. Her eyes told a new, sombre story. They used to sparkle and everyone believed that she would become an actress as she wished, because she had an intangible quality that made people want to listen to her. Even when she was murderously angry, she had a light of sorts.

  That all appeared to be in the past.

  “I can't believe you're here,” Geraldine said. “I can't believe you're doing this.” Her voice could be politely described as husky. To Sarah it was something rubbed dry and raw.

  “I'm desperate,” Sarah said. “I've got to get off the road for a while. I could sleep on the floor.”

  Geraldine hesitated. “I'm married now, Sarah,” she said. “Things have changed.”

  “Married? When? Who?”

  “I didn't think you were that bothered. You never answered my calls.”

  Sarah held her head in her hands. Keep it together.

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  “What will he think if he wakes up and finds you on the floor.”

  Sarah couldn't believe what she was hearing. Geraldine giving a fuck what someone else thought? When did that happen? Like oil in water, it changed everything.

  “Can you talk to him?” Sarah asked and Geraldine sniggered then sighed.

  “He's asleep. It's best if he doesn't ever find out you're here.”

  “I'll be silent,” Sarah said.

  “You're good at that.”

  “Look … I am sorry.”

  “You look. I'm going to keep my promise, but in the morning you have to find somewhere else to stay. I don't ever want to see you again.”

  It stung even more than Sarah had imagined. She followed Geraldine into the dark hallway and Geraldine shut the door behind her. Sarah could smell perfume on her dressing gown – Calvin Klein, one of her own favourites – intermingled with a fragrance for a man, something equally expensive, layered with stale cigarette smoke.

  As they ascended the stairs, Sarah following Geraldine's swinging hips, she could smell oil and eggs and sausages and was suddenly starving. She hoped that Geraldine would offer her a snack, but instead she pushed open a door off the landing and said in a low voice:

  “Stay in here. Don’t come out. Don’t come out for anything. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand?”

  She sounded like Simon.

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she said.

  “Do you need to pee?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  It was at that moment that Sarah's phone rang. It began as a tentative rumble in her pocket and then there was a woosh as the ringtone began to sing. She pulled it from her pocket, intending to cut it off immediately, but she found herself staring at Simon’s name on the display, terrified, confused and elated all at once. Geraldine attempted to snatch it from her grip, but she pulled away.

  “Sarah!” Geraldine hissed. In the darkness, Sarah couldn't see her expression and she was glad. She sounded furious and she was right to be, but she could not hang up. She felt connected to her brother again. She wanted to answer the call so he could tell her everything was alright again. Needing to make a quick decision, she decided that it didn’t matter that it might not be safe. It was worth the risk. It's better to regret something you have done, than something you haven't. She'd heard that in a song. That was right, wasn't it?

  “Sarah!”

  Her thumb hovered above the answer button.

  “Give me the phone!”

  It wailed for a few seconds more and then Sarah closed her eyes and disconnected the call.

  “Oh my God,” said Geraldine and shoved her into the spare room. Sarah wanted to explain, but knew that she couldn’t. “Turn it off,” Geraldine said.

  Sarah switched the phone to vibrate.

  “Off!” Geraldine said.

  “It is off.”

  “No noise. Not a sound. Go to sleep. Do not come out until I get you, or I swear to God ...”

  “Okay. I heard you.”

  Geraldine shut the door gently although she wanted to slam it. Sarah pressed her ear against the cool wood, listening to her fluffy slipper footsteps crossing the landing, to the right, followed by the sound of a door brushing against carpet as it opened. A pause and then again, hushing, she closed the door behind her.

  The room in which she stood was about ten feet by ten feet, somewhat larger than Simon's room, but with more items inside. Moonlight illuminated the flimsy curtains and showed her disconcerting silhouettes. She stared at the shadowy objects in an attempt to make sense of them, but the more she examined them the more they seemed like dead things, giant skeletons, animals waiting to pounce. Almost whimpering, surprised at herself, she edged towards the curtain. S
he let out a yelp when one of the things touched her and she slapped her hand over her mouth.

  I'm nearly crying, she realised as she reached the curtain. Tentatively, she drew it back so she could see the room more clearly.

  A cross-trainer, with tea towels and pillowcases draped over its arms. A washing basket. A clothes horse. A TV set with an old-fashioned aerial. Boxes and boxes, labelled with marker pen, stacked up almost as high as the ceiling. A past life. Hidden.

  She hoped to cast her eyes on a fridge, but it didn’t materialise. This room was strictly storage, where Geraldine – or her new husband - had put things that she couldn’t let go of, but wanted to keep out of sight.

  She sank to the floor and let the curtain go, returning the room to its eerie, semi-gloom.

  It had been ten minutes now and Simon hadn't called back. If she hadn't come here, she could have spoken to him, might have been able to turn the car around and head back home. Now she was waiting again, something she was no good at at all.

  In one corner was a pile of sheets, from which she made herself a makeshift pillow. She put her head down and listened to the house as she often did when she was at home. She could hear the buzz of electricity in the wires, the breeze in the trees and somewhere a very late or very early bird was chirping.

  In the hallway, a clock was ticking steadily.

  She removed her jacket, wrapped it around her like a blanket and considered what she would do tomorrow. She shouldn't be alone. She could do some shopping, she supposed. The shops counted as a public place and Simon had left her a healthy amount of emergency money in one of the jacket pockets. That probably hadn't been his intention though. That money would be for transport, food, shelter. Simon things.

  She didn't want to be alone tomorrow. An entire day of fear and loneliness loomed. She clutched her phone to her chest so she would be certain to feel it if Simon called again. She knew she wouldn't sleep until she heard from him.

  Chapter Ten

  As slowly as he could manage, Simon adjusted his kneeling position to prevent himself losing the feeling in his legs. The dog raised its head. The beast was comfortable and its eyes were closing, but every time Simon thought it might be asleep it moved; his thought stirred it on each occasion.

  He continued to keep his thoughts benign, but it was difficult, because he was exhausted and wanted to sleep too, even if only for a few minutes. It was tempting. Blinking became a dangerous operation as opening his eyes again now required significant effort.