The Hollow Places - A Paranormal Suspense Thriller

by Dean Clayton Edwards

  “Get up,” Firdy said, “or I'll -”

  Sarah rose. She was unable to hide her pain but refused to show any sign of weakness. Simon wanted to congratulate her, but the Third was there, riding the thought like a wave.

  He folded himself up. Turned the key. Put himself away.

  The Third was keener than ever. It had wound itself tight and when it released its energy, which was sure to happen soon, he didn't want to be anywhere near its path. Connected as they were, however, it was impossible for him to avoid it.

  *

  The kitchen swayed into focus around Sarah even as Simon marched her through it. She glanced at the cat again. It was real. It was all real. This was really happening.

  Firdy opened the door and they followed him out, the cat bringing up the rear to prevent escape. The foul thing kept its head low and trotted into the gloom. The approaching darkness was its territory. Now that it was away from the grounding decoration of their home, it looked less like a monster, she thought, but more like a killer. The movement of its body gathered shadows. Moment by moment it became increasingly difficult to see.

  Somehow, she knew for certain that she was going to die today. It was the cold on the wind. She was less afraid of dying than she was of how it might happen. She wanted it to be quick. And if they both had to die then she wanted to go before Simon. She knew that that was selfish, but she couldn’t bear to be alone, however briefly.

  Halted at the van, she looked back at the house. She had never seen it so clearly as she did now, knowing that this was the last time she'd see it. She had thought of it as their family home, it had been important to her, but now she saw it as cold, dead bricks, grey in the dark, piled up on each other like the walls of a tomb. Both Simon's window and the kitchen window had been smashed. Since Firdy had arrived, the house had stopped breathing. Now it had finally stopped pretending to be a home. A home was where people lived, not where they waited to die.

  The van's locks clicked.

  “Her first,” Firdy said.

  Simon gestured for Sarah to get in. She couldn’t help hoping that Simon would give her a coded message. She was terrified that he would call her Rabbit again and yet, understanding what that would mean this time, she longed for it.

  “This is our last chance,” she said, as if he didn't know it. Instead of a reply, there was his hand, empty, not so much helping her up as jutting out like a dead branch. She turned away from him so he wouldn't see her tears and pulled herself up into the stinking cab.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Will sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands. The Third had been present all evening, but, unusually, it hadn't seemed bothered with him. Until now.

  He was drunk and it was not best pleased.

  He didn’t usually drink. Not only did the Third want its subjects clean, but alcohol didn’t go well with his medication. After half a litre of Vodka he was well on his way to oblivion.

  Fuck it, he had thought. If I'm going to die tonight, I may as well enjoy a drink. And another. And another.

  It wasn't for certain that he was going to die, but if half of what Firdy had told him was true, it was a safe bet. Three days ago, Firdy had introduced himself and his dog and had talked for an hour without a pause.

  “It's so frustrating having to live like this,” he had said. “Always in the shadows. You don't mind if I sit and talk with you for a while, do you?”

  “No,” Will had said. “Of course not.”

  He had listened as Firdy talked without pause, speaking of the future as a means to rewrite the past. He rubbed his gloved hands together and outlined Will's role in his plan.

  “You're not the only one,” he had said. “There are six others. But only you and Simon have to make the extra sacrifice.”

  “Why does it want my son?”

  “Because you have one. He might be there to make up the numbers for all I know, I don't ask the Third questions, but you should prepare yourself. And him.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Will had asked. He had been chewing on the inside of his cheek and swallowed a mouthful of blood.

  “Because there's nothing you can do about it,” Firdy had said, “and because I've wanted to tell somebody for a long time. I've been carrying it around all on my own; I want to get it out of my head, to see what it looks like.”

  Who better to divulge a secret to than someone who wasn't going to live to repeat it.

  *

  Knowing that he was thinking in circles, he attempted to clear his mind, but he was too pissed. He ran over and over what was going to happen when his ex-wife realised that their son was missing. By quitting the drinking and taking the pills, he'd managed to assuage her concerns enough to create a false sense of security. Tonight he had destroyed any hope of redemption.

  He imagined his ex's panic rising each time she phoned them and got their outgoing voicemail messages.

  “This is the voicemail service for … William Gordon … Please leave a message after the tone.”

  No doubt she would call him a crazy bastard and say that if anything happened to Zak she'd kill him.

  “Zak here. I can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you. Or not. See ya.”

  He imagined police at the station listening to the stored messages, dutifully transcribing them, saving the documents.

  Eventually his ex would turn up at the flat, probably with her sister. It wouldn't be the first time. They’d hammer on the door and the window, but by then it would be too late. He and Zak would already be gone. The neighbours would ignore the noise. They'd got used to the banging and the shouting and the crying. He was the crazy bastard next door after all. Everyone knew it.

  It was as clear to him as if it had already happened. The only variable was whether or not he left a note.

  He had managed to write ‘Vanessa’ at the top of the page. Now he scribbled that out and wrote ‘V’. Then he crossed that out too and rewrote ‘Vanessa’.

  If he was in her position, he’d want to know not to look for the bodies, but how do you put something like that into words? To a mother? How could he leave a note on a scrap of paper that was more suited to a shopping list than this?

  Maybe it was better to go without saying goodbye after all.

  He picked up the bottle of vodka for a hearty swig and felt the Third squeeze, which caused him to drop it. It hit the floor.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Damn.”

  The Third was tunnelling in and out of his mind, its comparative subtlety of recent years abandoned.

  Unable to think, there was nothing more he could do but wait, so he let his forehead drop against the cool surface of the table. He imagined the laminate siphoning confusion from him along with his warmth.

  Later, cheek against the surface, his ear pressed to the wood, he heard waves and, as ever, table or no table, he heard the whispers, almost-recognisable shapes and patterns that folded in on themselves, dividing, disintegrating, like him.

  A growl rose steadily.

  It was the sound of an engine.

  Idling.

  Stopping.

  “Okay,” he told the Third, his palm pressed against his head. “I'm doing it, aren't I? I'm doing it.” He made his way to the rear of the flat, using the walls for support.

  It was silent at the bedroom door. When Zak’s friends were quiet, it generally meant that they were up to something, but with Zak what you saw, or heard, was what you got. He was trusting and upfront. If he wanted something, he asked for it. On the one occasion that Zak had broken something in the flat – the CD changer - he had said: “Sorry, dad, but I did warn you.” Bold, courageous and honest, he was all the things his father was not.

  Will unlocked the door.

  His son was asleep in front of the playstation. He was still holding the control in one hand. The television screen was showing static, a strange lullaby.
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  If he could have taken his son’s place, he would have done it in a moment, but the Third wanted both of them.

  It squeezed again.

  “Okay, you fucking thing, okay.”

  Will didn't waste time with a garbled goodbye. He'd taken care of that on the way here. As far as he was concerned, they had both ceased to exist the moment they entered his flat.

  Someone knocked on the door using their knuckles.

  “Wake up,” Will said and gently slapped Zak's face. “It's time we weren't here, mate.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was a two storey building, purpose-built as two flats, sitting in the middle of a short row of similar buildings. The upper flat had a small balcony with flowers and a hanging basket. A small, black cat tapped its way over the railing and eyed Simon curiously. The lower flat, with which he was concerned, had a small yard, too overgrown and cluttered with black bags to be called a garden. One bag had been gutted, probably by the cat, and its contents – tea bags, spaghetti, fast food containers – lay strewn over the bottom steps down to the door

  After knocking, Simon felt himself sway and grabbed the wall to steady himself.

  Get it over with, he told himself, though he didn't quite know why.

  Get on with it.

  Forget about goodbyes.

  By the time the door opened he was holding on to the wall with both hands to stop himself falling. His shock at seeing Will sobered him somewhat. It had only been a day since he had seen the man at the edge of the cliff, weeping and tripping over his feet in the dark, swinging torchlight left and right, clothes muddy and torn. Today, if it was possible, he looked worse than he had then. His white shirt was saturated with sweat and his skin was eerily pale. Where he had colour, he was blotchy. He looked as if he was about to throw up.

  “Firdy sent you?” Will said. “He's laughing at you.”

  “Are you ready?” said Simon.

  Will reached behind him and a skinny boy in a grey tracksuit approached them. He didn't appear to be into his teens. He had his father's eyes, red from crying or lack of sleep, or both.

  In the hallway, Simon noticed a mess of unopened letters in plastic supermarket carrier bags. There were dozens of bags and cardboard boxes stacked up on top of each other, sinking into the ones beneath. There was a sense of the walls closing in.

  “Where is Firdy?” asked Will.

  “He's in the van.”

  Will's eyes were wide and haunted as he gazed at the two heads visible through the windscreen; Firdy and Sarah.

  Simon smelled the alcohol on Will and realised that this was the source of his nausea. It also explained Firdy’s sloppy driving on the way here. It hadn't just been nerves. Thanks to Will, they were all drunk. Whatever the Third was doing, it had connected them. He could feel Will's nausea, his anxiety, his desire to let go and have this all over with, quickly. Knowing their origin, he reeled away from the feelings and succeeded in maintaining his sense of self.

  He wondered if Will's inebriation was part of the reason for Firdy's self-disclosure with the diary. For better or worse, the truth had emerged. He only hoped that Sarah never found out what happened to their father.

  As Will lead the boy out of the flat, he turned to Simon and said:

  “Did you do what I said? Did you tell her you loved her?”

  “It's time we weren't here, mate,” Simon said and Will backed away from him, from his words. They both looked confused, disappointed and afraid.

  *

  As Firdy slid open the side door, Will strained to see what was in the darkness. They all heard the slither of the thing dragging its rope over the wood panel floor. Its eyes glinted. Otherwise, the back of the van was in total darkness.

  “In,” said Firdy. When neither Will nor Zak moved, Firdy grabbed the boy by an arm.

  “Okay, okay,” Will said. “Let's get this over with.” He shoved his son inside -

  “What's going on, Dad? What's in here? What is it?”

  - and followed him in.

  “It's going to be okay.”

  The familiar lie.

  Firdy shut the door on them, sealing them in darkness.

  “Economy class,” he said. “Room for three more.”

  *

  Sarah couldn’t breathe; her thoughts choked her. She asked Simon to wind down his window, but the wind roaring at them made her demand to have it shut again.

  Firdy wrenched the wheel left and the van lurched. A scream came from behind. Zak, presumably. The sound was muffled. Will, presumably.

  Simon faced forward, relaxed but alert. He appeared to have accepted his part in all this, which frightened Sarah most of all.

  She was the only one who could make a difference. Whatever it was that turned Simon into this thing, this automaton, it could read his mind, but she remained free to think. Whether they lived or died was her responsibility, she realised, and the knowledge weighed heavily on her. She would only make things worse if her plan went wrong. First, however, she needed a plan.

  She tried to reassure herself with the knowledge that a fate worse than death might be waiting for them. It worked.

  The element of surprise, Simon used to tell her, would make up for what she lacked in size. Don't let them see it coming.

  See what coming? she thought.

  A sudden change in direction threw her from her scheming into Simon’s shoulder, who sat steadfastly throughout the turn, having anticipated the bend. The jolt to her shoulder sent shockwaves through her. She felt faint.

  They were off the main road now and Firdy weaved the van through backstreets, over speed bumps and between cars that were parked bumper to bumper on either side. They rolled beneath overhanging branches, around blind corners. After six or seven minutes descending ever deeper into this suburban terrain, Firdy stopped the van and told Simon to get out.

  Sarah wanted to whisper to him that it was going to be okay, that she would take care of this, the way he had taken care of them since their mother died and their father disappeared, but nothing came out. Her eyes were closing.

  “Go to sleep,” Simon said and she did.

  *

  When she woke, they were moving again. It was strangely comforting. As long as they were moving they were okay, she supposed, until she heard wailing behind her.

  It had been muffled, but it was a woman's voice, not Zak.

  Simon’s arms were folded tight across his chest and his head nodded to a slow rhythm, the only signs of his effort to remain calm. His eyes appeared to be fixed on the road ahead, but they were glazed over; not without light, but far, far away.

  Firdy looked up at the moon. There was a sense of pieces being slotted into place. They were all part of his game. His lips had drawn back into something halfway between a grimace and a smile. Sarah hoped that they might be pulled over by the police for speeding and she fantasised for a moment how that might play out, but was disappointed by what she saw. Firdy would go through the motions, politely answering all of their questions until ultimately he agreed to open up the back of the van, at which point he'd release the thing on the rope.

  Nothing could stop Firdy now. He was tapping a drumbeat on the wheel.

  The van bumped up a kerb and stopped sharply.

  “Watch her,” Firdy told Simon and then got out.

  He had parked in a gravel wasteland, flanked by ageing trees, dead grass and dirt. Three storeys of a fire-bombed building loomed over them. According to the fragment of a sign that remained it had once been a tacky nightclub and, judging by wording revealed by the fire, it had once had a life as a warehouse.

  “What now?” Sarah whispered to herself as she watched Firdy walk around the building until he was out of sight. She jumped when Simon answered.

  “I don't know what happens now,” he said.

  “More people?”

  Simon shook his head.

  Without the grumble of the engine, the van was
pervaded by an silence. Gradually, Sarah became aware of voices in the back. She couldn't make out the words, only the tone: urgent, furious, desperate.

  “Who's back there?” Sarah asked.

  They had seen Will enter with his son, Zak, but three others had joined them while Sarah slept. Firdy had collected them from three different locations and had ushered them into the van where Simon stayed to guard his sister, ready to assist Firdy if necessary. As each person approached the van, Simon met with a level gaze.

  There were two men and woman. The men were polar opposites in many ways. The far taller of the two, Jonathan, never Jon or Jonny, had been dressed in a sharp, business suit, as if he was on his way to head office rather than a Transit van and dirt roads. A briefcase and umbrella would have completed his image. His mind, thrumming now in the back of the van, was a circuit board of ones and zeros. He was a man of few desires and made his decisions quickly. He didn't see them as decisions at all. Some alternatives were weightier than others. He went with the flow. It made him an efficient worker for the Third. He had delivered a lot of people and he had no more idea about what happened to them than Simon had. In his mind, these people had glowed until he had turned them off. He had known that his turn would come and now that it was here it wasn't so bad. He saw nothingness in his future. Becoming nothing, he thought, wasn't so bad.

  Simon closed his eyes. He didn't want to know this, but stray thoughts were close all around. Their mental boundaries were dissipating and it became normal for one person's thought to spill into the mind of another.

  The other man called himself Moody. Moody was probably his last name, but it had stuck, not only because of his disposition, but because of his love of all things military. When Firdy picked him up, he had been dressed in combat trousers and an army surplus jacket and, unlike Simon, had also opted for full camouflage. Even now he was imagining that he was being transported in an armoured personnel vehicle and that the driver had paused while the track ahead was checked for mines. In his mind, there were distant explosions.

  He had nobody to leave behind. There had been no obvious leverage to get him here. Firdy had probably convinced him that this was his purpose. Be all you can be. Be someone you can be.

  He was a good soldier, he was a weapon and he was willing to see the night through to its conclusion, no matter how sour for him. He only wished he had been asked to kill more people before the end had come.