The Hollow Places - A Paranormal Suspense Thriller

by Dean Clayton Edwards

  The woman was the most focussed of the passengers. All her thoughts were edged with a desire to escape and the knowledge that what was happening to her was not fair. She had done as the Third had asked, despite her growing distress, and yet she was here anyway in the back of the van with that thing. She had to get free. She had to get free. This wasn't fair. She had a little girl named Olivia; she was only three years old. She had to get free.

  Her anger raged through her like a forest fire. It flickered through them all.

  “How many of us are there?” Sarah asked.

  “Four like me,” Simon said. “We're all connected. And there's the boy, Zak, like you; dragged into this by no fault of his own.”

  “It's not your fault,” Sarah said. “It's not.”

  A tumble in the back made the van shiver.

  “They're talking about escaping,” Simon said, staring out at the gutted building. “Any second now, they'll ask me to help.”

  A bang rattled the metal wall that divided the rear of the van from the cab. The woman Sarah had heard earlier yelled:

  “Get me out of here. Let me out. You in the front. I know you can hear me. You've got to let me out of here.”

  “Maybe she's -”

  “They can't run,” Simon snapped. “There's nowhere to run to.”

  It doesn't matter, she realised. It didn't matter that there was nowhere to hide. She would run and this time she would keep going for as long as she could, because even an hour more might be enough to prevent Firdy seeing out his plan for them.

  Before he could stop her, Sarah slid across the van into the driving seat.

  “No, Sarah.”

  Her hand found the handle.

  “The cat will find you,” Simon said and reached for her, but she slipped away from him.

  “I have to go,” she said. “For all of us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Beyond a litter and glass-strewn alley, two young men eyed Firdy and sucked their teeth. Their dog, a muscular Staffordshire Terrier, strained on its lead and barked. The man holding the lead yelled at the dog to shut up, while the other laughed and said:

  “Good boy! No offence, mate.”

  Firdy kept his head down. He had never been one for confrontations. He didn't have the heart for it, but people – and their dogs - took a dislike to his appearance. In the past, that had served as reason enough for people to spit in his direction, to call him a freak, to shove him from behind in the hope that he'd topple. That was why he only came out at night when he was able, with the spiders and the rats and the slugs.

  He followed a one-way street that took a winding route downhill towards a row of unhappy tenements, differentiated only by the colours of their doors. The standard was brown and while some people had opted for new paint jobs, new windows, new knockers, this had evidently happened a long time ago. The sea air had done the buildings no good at all.

  Each house had been converted into flats, with separate doors for upstairs and downstairs. Aside from their coastal location, individual access points had been a major factor in Firdy's decision to live here. Also important was that his flat had been unoccupied for at least a couple of years.

  Pretty much in the middle of the row, Firdy shouldered open a red door and squeezed inside.

  Nobody had challenged him when he moved in, although he had heard a couple of neighbours refer to him as 'the junkie'. He was quiet and he didn't have loud parties, unlike the people living beneath him. Those who had noticed him at all were probably aware that he was squatting, but, like him, nobody made a fuss about it.

  A few others had shown an interest in squatting the place themselves. The first time it happened, Firdy had simply told them that it was taken and asked them to leave. They had. On the other occasion, he had summoned the Dog. They left too.

  He had tried to think of the dog's death as collateral damage, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it had been personal, that Simon had enjoyed destroying something that belonged to him. Considering what would happen tonight, perhaps that was fair. He shouldn't begrudge him a small victory. But he did.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he glanced at the living area on his way to the 'kitchen'. Against one wall was a sofa, basically a cheap wooden frame with tough, fibrous material stretched over it. He had seen these before, always in the cheapest rental properties. Despite its severe angles, it had turned out to be better for his back than the bed and it was just long enough, so he sometimes slept there instead of in the bedroom.

  This is not going to be an issue anymore, he thought, looking at it for the last time.

  He had set up a small, battery-powered television on a table made from bricks and a broken palette. Television hadn't afforded him much in the way of release though. It provided noise, but not distraction. It marked the hours, but didn’t rush them along. In the end, he’d only seen the worst traits of the worst kinds of people. Their willingness to be humiliated and tortured in return for popularity dismayed him. He had often asked himself what he would be prepared to do to be a part of a group. He was answering that question now and he admitted that it frightened him. He wasn't so different from them after all.

  He sat down in the kitchen and pulled his ‘collected works’ from his jacket pocket. The book felt strange now that Simon had touched it. The magic of it had dissipated somewhat. He had considered the words a spell that would somehow set him free, but he didn't believe it anymore. Now it was only a journal.

  The Third had made him and the Third would set him free. Not the book.

  He flipped through the pages, his handwriting jumping out at him.

  ALL DEAD

  ONE BY ONE

  CAN'T HIDE

  IT'S OVER

  He turned the pages until he reached the first blank one, thinking that it would be fitting to finally make a personal entry. Although he was an amalgamation of strange thoughts and ideas, the dreams and nightmares of people he had never met, a part of him was individual. Over the years, he had assembled abstract pieces, sharpened up hazy recollections and tested memories, and still there was a gap into which none of these things fit and that gap had named itself Firdy.

  After tonight, he was unsure how much of him would be left. Perhaps there was only so much to go around. Maybe the soul was finite after all. The Third seemed to think so.

  He picked up his pen to add his voice to the semi-permanent record. An anologue clock punctuated the seconds and then the minutes. The words had come easy when the thoughts had been someone else’s.

  'I am Firdy,' he wrote and to his dismay the letters came out in long, spidery ribbons. He stared at the scribble, unable to go on. This mess was what happened when his hand and mind were unguided.

  His fingers ached from squeezing the biro. He had anticipated a deluge, but a lifetime of guarding his thoughts had helped render him incapable of letting go.

  Deep inside, on the surface, all around, The Third grew increasingly impatient. She was almost ready to take over and his free will was about to come to an end.

  A couple of minutes more would have been useful.

  It was like not being able to pee while standing at a urinal next to a taller man. If only he would go away.

  He wondered whether The Third was that man.

  Or Simon.

  Maybe someone inside, or someone he had yet to meet, or someone he had yet to be.

  FIRDY. IT'S TIME. I'M READY FOR THEM.

  In a final bid to focus he projected himself into the future. He imagined himself walking out of the icy water, naked; new body, new mind. In that circumstance, he thought, in a week, a month, a year from now, if he found himself compelled to come here and pull up the floorboard near the socket in the bedroom, what would he want to know about his previous existence?

  After a moment's thought, he tore a page from the book. And then another. Then another.

  Nothing, he thought.

  He ripped page after page from th
e book and then set to work on the individual pages, tearing them into halves. When it was done, his fingers felt as though they were on fire, but he took comfort in the knowledge that tomorrow he would have new hands, new arms, new memories; perhaps no more nightmares.

  NOW, FIRDY. NOW. NOW. I'VE MADE EVERYTHING READY.

  He felt the Third shift and was more aware than ever of his cargo in the van: Will, Naomi, Ian Moody and Jonathan. He felt the Cat, waiting, watching, wanting them. Most of all, he felt connected to Simon. It didn't frighten him anymore.

  Despite their differences, every one of them shared an eagerness to move things on to the next stage, in one way or another.

  He put his head around the bedroom door. Sheets of cardboard clung to the bay window. A broken bulb hung from the ceiling. Damp crept up and down the walls, meeting in the middle wherever it could.

  There was nothing to take with him. Even the loose panel where he had been intending to leave his memoirs seemed nothing special now.

  It was time to be reborn.

  He skipped down the stairs, then paused at the front door. He took a deep breath, surprised by his hesitation, then walked out into the night for the last time, his head pounding.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sarah thought she could slip away, but Simon snatched her by the forearm. He held her effortlessly. Despite the pain in her shoulder, she pulled away, not only with her desire to be free but with revulsion.

  “This is our last chance,” she said. “Let me go.”

  “This isn't the way,” Simon said.

  “I've got to try,” she said. “Someone's got to do something.”

  Simon sighed. He seemed to change his mind and as if illustrating his decision, he released his sister. She had been pulling so hard that she slammed into the driver door.

  She didn't waste time saying goodbye. She threw open the door and swung her legs out.

  Firdy offered her his hand.

  “Out,” he said.

  He had removed his glasses and Sarah saw his eyes clearly; one large and brown, the other nothing but a milky slit with a grey dot in the centre.

  She slid down to the ground. Like sewage.

  Layer by layer, she succumbed to the cold.

  Without an exchange of words, Simon hopped out of the van on the passenger side, took Sarah by the wrist and they joined Firdy at the rear. Simon gripped her so tightly that he was restricting the blood to her hand. She knew that he wouldn't loosen his grip unless she stopped trying to pull away, but she couldn't help herself.

  Firdy unlocked the rear doors and pulled one open. The smell of piss. Sweat. Meat. Vomit.

  “Out,” he said.

  One by one, his cargo clambered out of the van, Zak first, blinking and rubbing his face. He had his hood up and was doing his best to appear calm, but he was clearly terrified. Firdy thought that he was impressionable, but easy enough to control. He'd let the Cat do something to one of them and then he'd be no trouble at all, like his father, who came next, shambolic and dishevelled, hair unkempt now as he climbed down from the van. His trousers were wet with piss and he stank accordingly.

  “You're a fucking disgrace,” Firdy wanted to say, but his jeans hadn't reached this hour unsullied either; he swallowed bile and told him to keep moving.

  Jonathan stepped out next, in polished shoes and a crisp business suit. There had been no chasing him from town to town. Firdy had sent him a message and he had replied to say he would be waiting. In his office, he would have fit like a knife into a block, but now his brushed hair and immaculate attire couldn't have been more out of place.

  It didn't matter. It was what was under the clothes that counted.

  The man moved slowly and apparently without fear, in the manner of a remorseless serial killer being prepared for his execution.

  That's what he is, Sarah thought. They're serial killers. They're Simons.

  Effectively, Ian Moody was the opposite of Jonathan. Dressed from head to toe in army gear, he would draw attention to himself everywhere but the forest. He sat on his bottom and slid out of the van. He was muscular and squat, but his boots gave him an inch or two on Firdy. Firdy hoped that the Third would discount any information about his size in favour of his deep skin tone. He didn't want to get burnt every year.

  Naomi climbed down last of all. Her eyes flicked between Simon and Firdy and her anger was clear on her face, as were fresh, red slashes from the Cat. Blood ran down her neck and into her vest.

  Firdy thought that she would complicate the procedure, but the Third had insisted that she be part of this. He wondered which part of Naomi the Third wanted. Maybe her liquid, deep eyes, throwing reflections back at anyone who stared at her. Maybe she admired her strength of will. Or maybe she was just the right blood group.

  Sarah knew that if they could have rushed Firdy at once, while the Cat was still tied up, they would be unstoppable. There were six of them, seven including Simon, but they were allowing themselves to be herded. Zak was quivering against his father's body, but even though he was slight he could fight. If he was like her, as Simon had said, then his mind was free; perhaps if she could get away from Simon, the two of them could tackle Firdy.

  Firdy had climbed into the back of the van while, to Sarah's dismay, the seven of them had waited for him to untie the cat. Naomi took a single step towards the van door before she stopped and groaned as if she had been punched in the stomach. Of all the Simons, she was the one who most wanted to get out of here, but there was no way that she could fight the Creature.

  And so Sarah knew that it was up to her to stop Firdy, with or without help.

  Her urge to fight diminished when the Cat dropped down from the back of the van. It was easily the size of an adult Alsation and it hissed, revealing incisors like knife blades.

  Yes, they could all rush it, but who wanted to be first to, to lose a finger? An eye?

  Firdy jumped down after it, no less dangerous and without mercy.

  Sarah glanced at her brother, unable to stop feeling sickened that he was assisting Firdy. The Simon she knew had peeked out in the van, but since Firdy had returned he was gone again. This Simon was hurting her hand. This Simon would kill her if he had to. She was going to do as he said.

  Firdy's moves were bold and purposeful. The sound of him slamming the doors shut reverberated through them all. He demanded that they walk under the cover of the nearby trees, where he then ordered everyone to hold hands. There was an exchange of looks, particularly between Sarah and Naomi, but nobody took the initiative to fight or to run. They did as they were told. They held hands.

  Firdy took the lead, because he was the only one of them, aside from the cat, who knew where they were going and could see perfectly well in the dark. Simon followed, leading Sarah. She didn't know the name of the man whose hand she was holding, only that his grip on her was painfully tight and that he was trembling.

  They marched through the trees, making their own path. They had all done it before at some time in their lives and so they moved quickly, even as the darkness thickened. Black leaves shivered all around them and twigs cracked underfoot and they did not stop. When Zak stumbled, the group dragged him and then hauled him back to his feet.

  “Where are you taking us?” Sarah asked. Firdy ignored her and nobody else volunteered an answer.

  The Cat had taken up the rear in case anyone broke off and ran into the deep dark.

  Nobody did.

  *

  Simon saw no benefit in dwelling on their fate, as some of the others did. There was the will of the Third and there was putting one foot in front of the other until it was done. That was all. Or at least, so he had been telling himself, but it was increasingly difficult to focus. The thoughts of the group drifted through his mind, curling around him and clouding his ability to separate himself. The new thoughts that resulted were strange things and unwelcome.

  Although the trees and clouds had c
onspired to cut out much of the moonlight, he was able to see Sarah and the rest of the group clearly. Sarah was marching with exaggerated steps so she wouldn't trip over vines or fallen branches. Her eyes were searching for safe places to put her feet, but it was impossible because they were moving so quickly. The knife was still in her shoulder and she was as pale as he had ever seen her. Her breathing was ragged and she looked like she might pass out. And yet, he felt almost nothing. In fact, he was glad.

  Behind her, Will plodded on, his wild hair snagged by branches. Simon felt revulsion rising in him and forced himself to look beyond Will, to his son, Zak, the waste-of-space gamer, hood down now, crying to himself, struggling to keep up. Ian Moody was next, fitting in at last with his combat gear, grim determination on his face, and he was followed by Jonathan the businessman, looking somewhat like a lobotomised John Cleese with his perfectly soulless facial expression. Naomi was last in line, attempting to spy the Cat, but failing, because it was several metres behind her and to their left, appearing every now and then through the cover of thicker foliage.

  He saw them all clearly, although it lasted only for a few seconds. Somehow he had experienced the scene through Firdy. Then he was stumbling in the gloom again, but now he knew that the one called Moody had delivered animals, dogs and cats and a few birds, as well as three people. Jonathan had begun his service delivering dogs and had progressed to people later. He had been working for the Third for less than two years. But nobody had been doing this for as long as Naomi; she had delivered more people than all of them. She had a large, extended family and it was looking after her little girl until she was 'right' again. Each one of them had things to lose, but she had the most.

  Simon shook his head, but the foreign thoughts crowded him and infiltrated again.

  “It's okay,” Firdy was thinking now. “It's going to be alright.” Simon didn't know whether the thought was directed at him or not.

  A series of thoughts followed. He felt them almost as if they were his own.

  “I don't know what to do. What am I meant to do?”

  “I did everything I could, but it wasn't enough.”

  “I want this to be over.”

  “Today's a good day to die. I wish it was warmer though.”

  “ … Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three ...”