The Hollow Gods

by A. J. Vrana

  “All right, well, call me when you’re lucid, Cap.”

  Mason smiled to himself, warmed by her support. “Thanks, Jaz.”

  After saying goodbye and hanging up, Mason sat in his car for a good twenty minutes before driving back to Black Hollow. When he walked through the door of his lodgings, Annabelle was waiting for him in the lounge, her face brightening when she laid eyes on him.

  “There you are!” she beamed. “I was starting to worry you’d drowned in your touristic research.”

  “Nah.” He smiled tiredly. “I was catching up with a friend from school. She’s been working at the hospital. It’s been a while, so we got a little carried away, I guess.”

  “Oh, well, that’s nice!” she said absently as she put her book down. “You do look awfully tired, though. Shall I make you an early dinner?”

  He nodded, energized by the prospect of Annabelle’s cooking. “That would be really great.”

  For a moment he caught a flicker of concern in her eyes, though it was gone as quickly as it had come. She headed towards the kitchen, calling back to him as she set some water to boil on the stove. “I know it ain’t my business, Mason, but you look real worn out for someone who’s just been with a friend. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said as he wandered after her. Standing in the kitchen doorway, he watched as she prepared the ingredients, chopping vegetables and sliding them effortlessly into the pot. A question burned on the tip of his tongue.

  “Annabelle,” he started, shifting his weight. “I’m not sure how to ask this. In fact, I don’t really know what I’m asking.”

  She turned towards him, waiting expectantly for whatever he had to say next. Feeling the pressure, he blurted out in a quiet, mousy voice, “Are there wolves here, in Black Hollow?”

  Several moments went by, but Annabelle’s expression remained unchanged—impossible to read even as they locked eyes and stared into one another, digging for the right layer of meaning implied in the question.

  Then, without warning, she began to laugh. “Well, of course there are!” She flicked her wrist at him before resuming her chopping. “They’re everywhere! Why else do you think there’s a wolf cull?”

  The tension dissipating, he ventured more boldly. “It’s got nothing to do with people being afraid of the Dreamwalker coming back? I know Elle Robinson was already murdered because of that fear.”

  “You really have been looking into the town’s history, and through my son’s work,” Annabelle spoke with her back turned to him, but he could hear the strain in her voice.

  “You’re also scared to talk about it?”

  “No, not me, personally.” She placed the last of the ingredients in the pot. “But you have to understand, fear runs deep. This town has a lot of secrets, and if you keep digging for them, you’ll end up burying yourself alive.”

  Mason smiled sympathetically. “It’s just a story, Annabelle. It’s not real.”

  “Stories aren’t concerned with what’s real and what isn’t real.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say,” he said, frowning. “Why call anything a story if there’s no distinction between reality and fantasy? Fact and fiction?”

  It was her turn to smile sympathetically, her expression peeling away the layers of his staunch rationality like a mother reminding her son that he wasn’t as wise as he thought.

  “Stories aren’t told to convey the facts. They’re told to convey the truth.”

  17

  Miya

  The Return

  Miya was back under the willow tree, crouching over the dying black wolf. The feathery female presence from earlier had vanished, leaving her alone with her friend. Gently, she placed her hand on his torso, feeling his slow, fading heartbeat. An ear twitched, and a quick breath followed before he exhaled, his body relaxing under her touch. She knew he was relieved to have her near, his fear melting away now that he was no longer alone.

  Remarkably, Miya felt his heartbeat strengthen, and when she examined his fur, the traces of darkened blood were gone. His eyes shifted slowly as though he was returning, his nose wiggling to absorb the world around him through scent. Somehow, Miya had healed him. Reassured that he would survive, she fell back on her behind. He raised his head and looked around before his gaze steadied on her hooded form.

  “I’m lost,” Miya told him as if answering a silent question. “I don’t know how to get home.”

  He cocked his head, eyes shining red with mischief as his lips pulled back to reveal a row of sharp, white teeth. His peeking canines framed a long, smooth tongue that spilled from his mouth. It hung out without a care in the world, hot breath pulsing and fogging the air between them. He was laughing at her, amused that she’d wandered so deep into the woods that she had no inkling of how to get back.

  “I’m not afraid,” she said with conviction, then pointed at his charcoal nose. “You can’t eat me. I saved you.”

  His pink tongue darted in and out as he licked his chops and swallowed, her assertion putting to rest whatever devious plan he had in mind. How odd, Miya thought, to meet an honourable wolf. She heard a whine before he rolled onto his belly and plunked his head down between his front paws, ears erect as he gazed up at her. Miya wondered if they knew each other. As they sat in silence, she watched the leaves of the surrounding trees turn yellow, then red, then brown, crinkling like burnt paper and falling from their branches. Snow covered the forest, decorating the wispy limbs of the willow and painting the landscape white. She didn’t feel cold, but when she looked at her hands, she realized she was shivering while the wolf remained unmoved. His thick, black coat was peppered with snowflakes that caught like silver fireflies, melting into the trap.

  As if having made a decision, the wolf jumped up and shook himself out from head to tail, tiny droplets of ice and water erupting from his warm body. He began to walk, swooning a bit at first but managing to find his step. He circled the tree, then slowed as he moved past Miya, deliberately pressing his body to hers in a gesture that spoke.

  Follow me, it said.

  Standing shakily, Miya struggled to put one foot in front of the other as she passed over the snow, gliding on the surface as though weightless. There were no footprints, no disruptions in the perfectly glazed forest floor.

  She didn’t know where the wolf was leading her, but she could do little but follow. His pace was slow, considerate of her weary body. Every now and again, he turned to glance back at her, stalling to let her catch up before continuing on his way.

  Gradually, the forest grew less tranquil. The snow melted, and green life sprung from every crevice. When the commotion passed, the heat of summer pressed down on them with smouldering intensity. Her legs grew heavy, and where her steps were once graceful the earth now crunched beneath her feet like broken glass. This stretch was the longest—the hardest of the four. They found their way only to become more lost until, at last, the heat began to wane, and Miya caught a glimpse of the changing leaves succumbing to the fire of autumn once more. As one full cycle passed, Miya saw the end of their journey drawing near. The edge of the forest was in sight.

  The wolf had guided her home—a gesture Miya knew was meant to reciprocate what kindness she first showed him.

  She turned to thank the wolf for leading her out of the woods, but he remained in the shelter of the trees, unwilling to cross the threshold into the world of men.

  He didn’t move, didn’t tilt his head or grin. Instead, he waited, something hesitant and sad in the way he watched her. It was as though his repayment brought him no joy, as though despite leading her home, he knew that she was still lost, and he still alone.

  As Miya resolved to call out to him, a thunderous gale blew the forest away before her eyes, and she found herself in the village where she first began her journey. The moon rose, and with it came the harrowing call of the wolf. Miya closed her eyes and waited for sunrise, but the night was endless. The dar
k blanket ebbed, but dawn never broke; the white moon rose again and again in endless reiteration, never questioning the absence of its counterpart. With its ascent, the howls echoed through the village—sorrowful and yearning.

  Hearing the wolf’s cries wrenched at Miya’s heart until she turned and stumbled to the village gates. There, she saw a figure standing by the forest’s edge, but it wasn’t that of the wolf. It was a woman with a violet-black, iridescent aura that danced around her skin, cloaking her like feathers—wings at rest. Her long, dark hair flowed around her shoulders with the strengthening wind, and her face was hidden behind a mask Miya was unable to make out from a distance. Even from afar, Miya could feel her presence—the same one that had clung to her when she'd first found the wolf under the willow. Miya took a step forward, but the figure turned and walked into the woods.

  “Wait!” Miya called out to her, then ran through the field that separated the village from the viridescent sea. She glimpsed something in her periphery—a bar with two dangling vertical chains, its ends fastened to a small wooden board. She turned her head as she heard the squeak of metal, the chains and plank swaying in the wind. But by the time she looked, the image had faded, and she was fast moving into the trees. Miya passed through the threshold a third time, tumbling back into the forest and down into the abyss.

  18

  When Miya returned from the dream, her eyes were already open, but she was unable to move—paralyzed even though she was wide awake. Her heart crashed against her ribs, and her breath caught in her throat, every tendon and muscle taut with desperation. She couldn’t open her mouth, scream, or even gasp for air. All she could do was look right in front of her.

  The phantom woman from the dream hovered directly above her, her face inches away as she mirrored Miya’s prostrate form. Miya could see the mask clearly now—a hard, bone shell, shaped like a raven’s beak. It extended down her face in a sharp V, past her lips and over the edge of her chin. The mask was decorated with gleaming black and purple that swirled together like oil and water, slick against the smooth, flawless ivory. Her lips—quirked at the edges—descended towards Miya’s.

  Miya squeezed her eyes shut, trying to kick and thrash—whatever she could do to get away. Her skin crawled with spiders, invisible parasites burrowing their way inside her until she was unable to fight the fear any longer. Miya implored the spectre, bargaining with the only thing she felt the woman might want.

  I’ll go back to the dream, Miya told her. I’ll follow you—wherever you want. I swear. Please, just let me go.

  Air rushed down Miya’s throat with such force that her lungs burned when she finally managed to gasp. Her eyes shot open, beads of sweat trickling down her face as she tore over every inch of her room. The apparition was no longer there.

  Miya’s hand twitched as she flexed her fingers, testing her ability to move. She breathed in again, this time slower, willing herself to stop shaking but with little success. She’s no longer here, Miya repeated. Her mind was racing, her senses screaming, but she had, somehow, regained control.

  Miya sat up, remembering what it was like to be inside her own body. She had the distinct sense of having gone somewhere she shouldn’t have—somewhere she risked never coming back from. A bizarre thought to have about a nightmare, but Miya knew in her bones that this was more than a dream. She’d looked into Medusa’s eyes and barely evaded turning to stone.

  For a brief moment, the fog lifted, and she remembered the events of her first dream—the one that came before last night’s. Not only that, her knowledge of the fable had returned. In a frantic tumble, Miya threw herself at the bedside table and reached for her journal. She couldn’t afford to forget again; she had to write it down. She needed to know what came next. But the second the tip of her pen connected with the paper, Miya had no idea what to write. She stared down at the lines, her mind as blank as the page in front of her.

  The dreams and the fable were gone.

  For most people, being held hostage wasn’t something they’d ever have to think about. Aside from popular fiction and movies, the experience was far removed—too foreign to even conceive of. Miya never thought about what it might be like to be held against her will either, until now. But her kidnapper wasn’t a faceless man asking for ransom, an international crime syndicate, or a serial killer with perverted tastes. No, nothing like that. She was held hostage by her own nightmares. And like any hostage, she couldn’t talk about her kidnapper. She was restrained, blindfolded, and gagged by the absurdity of what was happening to her.

  A week passed and her insomnia stopped, but she was more exhausted than ever before. Every night she fell into darkness as though not having slept for days, yet she barely noticed time passing. Miya constantly heard howls—inside of her, outside her, around her—everywhere and nowhere all at once. When morning came, she could barely sit up, let alone stand without almost falling over. She’d promised to see Hannah off on her last day in town, but everything from their lunch together to the hug goodbye slipped right past her like a remnant of one of her dreams. Her head was swimming, her vision was blurry, and her mouth was parched. The backs of her eyes felt like thousands of tiny, invisible needles were shooting through them, day after day. She hardly perceived her surroundings, like she was living in an alternate plane—one that was only thinly connected to the world everyone else lived in.

  She learned that what happened to her was known as sleep paralysis or Old Hag Syndrome—a not-so-well-understood phenomenon where the mind wakes up, but the muscles remain asleep. The experience was often accompanied by terror, hallucinations, and the sense of an intruder somewhere in the room. But Miya knew she wasn’t hallucinating, and nothing from her research explained why she kept hearing things.

  She strained to summon back her dreams, but she could only remember one thing clearly: the intruder. Miya documented her appearance, but questions remained. Did the intruder step out of Miya’s dream and into her bedroom? Or was she on the outside all along, watching Miya while she dreamt of her? Perhaps the intruder was the one causing the dreams and the howling. Perhaps she was trying to show Miya something.

  Miya had entertained that she was hallucinating, that medical science offered a more likely explanation. The intruder could have been an afterimage, a projection resulting from the intensity of the nightmare and from recent stress.

  She could have rationalized it all day, but in truth, she didn’t buy even the soundest rational explanation for what happened. The phantom wasn’t her creation, and she was all too certain of that.

  After all, Miya knew who the phantom was.

  Even if the details of the fable eluded her, she could never forget the dreaded kidnapper: the Dreamwalker. Now, she was sitting at the foot of Miya’s bed.

  The question was why. An obvious possibility came to mind—one she’d rather not have contended with. She had no desire to become the next Elle Robinson.

  If only Miya could remember her dreams, she’d have some way of knowing what came next—or so she thought. Instead, she was trapped, glimpsing shadows only to spin around and find nothing there. She’d tell herself she was spooked, jumpy and reactive. There were shadows everywhere. They couldn’t all be ghosts.

  Miya fished through her bedside drawer and pulled out her playing cards. Shuffling the deck, she closed her eyes and took deep breaths, banishing the prickles on her skin and the tightness in her chest. If she was as good a reader as Hannah claimed, maybe she’d see something that could help. As the cards slid through her hands, she melted into the darkness behind her eyelids until her finger clipped one of the cards mid-shuffle. The deck scattered to the floor. Sighing, Miya cursed under her breath and picked three cards from the spill in front of her.

  Upon glimpsing them, she slapped them face down onto her futon. The six of diamonds—the card of distant lands and journeys—followed by the queen of spades and the dreaded joker. Queens represented truth, and in this case, uncomfortable or unwelcome ones. But just as h
er king, the queen of spades signalled the presence of a spirit.

  And the joker? Well, he didn’t know what was going on. The card was as good as the glaring hole in her memory.

  As Miya’s brain sprinted around the inside of her skull, she felt a vibration against her leg and checked her phone.

  Get out of that hole, will you? Go to Hat Ranch Anniversary party, meet some boys, have a damn hot dog.

  Miya stared at the words on her screen. It was Patty, no doubt noticing she hadn’t left her basement since...she wasn’t sure. Miya had no desire to go anywhere, but she had even less desire to agitate her landlady—and a distraction wasn’t a bad idea. The excursion would be better than mental gymnastics that tested the limits of her sanity. Besides, the event wasn’t too far from her sanctuary; if things got difficult, she could always stop by the swings.

  Miya texted Patty that she was on her way out but couldn’t promise to charm the pants off any boys. A thorough shampooing later, she pulled on her favourite old jeans and her varsity hoodie. Her concealer was almost dried out, but she managed to salvage a few drops for the dark circles under her eyes.

  How she wished Hannah was still here. How she yearned to tell her about what was happening. But Hannah was still settling into Burnaby and shopping for a new telecom deal. It didn’t help that UBC had not yet responded to Miya’s statement, and none of her job applications were getting bites. Without Hannah, and without a clear path ahead, there was little to look forward to.

  Miya gave her face a hearty slap in case she was floating away to that other realm. Grabbing her keys, she shoved her wallet and mini umbrella into her backpack and sneaked out the door. The forecast predicted rain later, but for now, the setting sun was a sight to behold—purplish rays bleeding out of a stunning, orange sphere, then swirling into a darkening backdrop before disappearing into deep blue clouds. For a moment, those waves eclipsed the beauty of the sky; they reminded her of the Dreamwalker’s feathery robes and violet aura. Miya wondered if she was still watching.