Point Hollow

by Rio Youers

  But Point Hollow seems, now, a broken place. A shattered place. We walk without air and look to the mountain, where the children bled. And the preacher smiles upon us, and tells us we are saved, but all the time his face is bleeding.

  Saved? I think not. I fear for our souls.

  God help us all.

  My tears gleamed in the pale light. My burned shoulders trembled.

  “You say we,” I said to Kip, and my soul was vast and open. “‘We killed our children.’ That’s what you said. But in 1917 you would have been young, a boy, twelve or thirteen years old. Why weren’t you given to the mountain? Did your parents refuse? Did you . . .?”

  I trailed off because Kip had raised his right hand, staring at me, his tear-filled eyes narrowed to ticks, as if he could see me.

  “I was twenty-six years old in 1917,” he said.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I’m cursed, Oliver.”

  “But you had a brother. An older brother. He died in World War One.”

  Kip shook his head. “A fabrication. I needed to appear younger than I really was. The people of Point Hollow have no idea what happened in 1917. Well, some of the higher-ups, maybe, but they don’t know everything. If people knew how old I really am, it would draw attention. And so I’ve been lying about my age for seventy-some years. It’s not hard, and I have long outlived anybody who could contradict me.”

  It took almost ten minutes for Kip to write/mumble this revelation, during which I sensed the edge of the universe. I considered flinging myself into the void and falling forever, because nothing was real. It was all a stroke of imagination. Some bizarre god, with my face, building . . . destroying.

  “All of your questions over the years,” Kip said. “And you never once asked why I don’t have any children.”

  “I don’t understand this,” I said.

  “That picture you once described,” he said. “The man—Bird—

  standing on the mountain with three weeping children. Did you ever stop to think that somebody must have taken that picture? That there was more than one person involved?”

  “I thought lots of things,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Did you take it?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “The children?”

  “Percy, Margaret, and Bethany Sawyer. I took their lives in an act of faith. I thought . . .” He wheezed, struggling, his narrow shoulders trembling. Minutes passed and my heart hammered heavy hands against my chest. “I thought I’d see the glory of God, and that my faith—the town’s faith—would be rewarded. But all I got was a shattered soul, and knew that we had been deceived by the devil.”

  I took a deep breath. The room was uncomfortably bright, despite the drawn blinds and the lamp’s weak light. Kip wheezed, his fingers clasping the notepad and pen. There were ink marks on the sheets.

  “So you’re . . .” I calculated quickly—not easy with a whirling mind. “One hundred and nineteen years old?”

  He nodded. “One hundred and twenty come November.”

  “You’re cursed?”

  “One hundred years of remembering. One hundred years of pain.”

  “Why you?”

  He took a long moment to compose himself. I knew he was getting tired, and would be sleeping soon. My mind ached with questions that would never be asked. I looked at the briefcase of letters and journals, and hoped it contained all the answers.

  “I saw Leander Bird for what he was,” Kip rasped, his eyes fluttering. “Myself and my best friend, Trey Moffatt.”

  I looked at the journal in my hands.

  “We were haunted, wounded, after what we’d done,” Kip said. “Trey didn’t have children, but he felt it, too, because he was a part of the town.”

  Another lengthy stretch of silence (although the mountain was anything but, clamouring in my head). Kip’s lower lip trembled and the tears were running freely down his face.

  “Leander was the devil,” he uttered. “Or a devil. Some unspeakable thing. The town, without its children, was crippled and hurting. We were terrified, imprisoned by guilt, and by the guile of this . . . this demon. So Trey and I decided to do something about it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We bound him in chains,” Kip said. “And we burned him on the mountain.”

  From Trey Moffatt’s Journal.

  June 23, 1917.

  And so it is done. I am weary, and crushed inside. Point Hollow gathers in silence and prepares to heal. We pray for forgiveness, and that God will take us back. The healing will be long, but the evil is gone.

  The evil is gone.

  Everything I write here is true. I hope to ease my aching mind by committing it to paper, but moreover, I hope it serves as a lesson, that we may learn from our weakness, our eagerness to believe, and our abysmal lack of judgment.

  We left at first light, laden with our supplies, moving heavily through Point Hollow’s silent streets. Leander Bird’s church—which we built, foolishly, with our trusting hearts—stood in morning shadow, lit from within. Kip levelled his pistol at the door as I pushed it open, and there stood our adversary.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “It’s a little early for prayer.”

  “We’re not here to pray,” Kip said. He was trying not to shake but I noticed the barrel of his pistol wavering, and hoped he would not have to shoot.

  “Has your faith been tested?” Leander asked.

  “Broken,” I said. “We are bereft because of you.”

  Leander held out his arms. “Isaiah 53:11: ‘He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied: by the knowledge of himself shall my righteous servant justify many; and he shall bear their iniquities.'”

  I shook my head, stepping toward him. “No, Bird. This town has seen enough iniquity.”

  “You are exiling me?”

  “No,” Kip replied, close to my side. “You slithered into our minds like a snake. You bewitched us—had us sacrifice our children, in the name of God. We’re taking you to the mountain, where our sin was born, and you will be our burnt offering . . . this time, truly, in the name of God.”

  Kip pressed the pistol to Leander’s temple and he did not struggle. I bound his upper body in chains, heavy and thick, his arms pinned to his sides. With the last lock snapped into place, we walked him from the church and through the streets of Point Hollow, which had been silent only moments before, but were now lined with townspeople. They hissed and wept, venting their anger, their disappointment, by shouting at the preacher—vile words—and throwing items at him: children’s shoes and wooden toys. He walked passively, with his head high, bearing the hatred with a smile. The townspeople fell into step behind us, and as one we walked the devil to the mountain, traversing the cruel landscape, as we had less than a week before, while holding the hands of our scared, weeping children.

  We were blind then, but not anymore. God pray, not anymore.

  Our plan was to lead Leander into the mountain, and offer him among our sins, but Kip stopped at the mouth of the cave. His eyes were ghostly circles, his complexion as pale as cloud.

  “I can’t go in there,” he said.

  I turned around to see the townspeople gathered with similar expressions. They weren’t going to follow me in, and I certainly wasn’t going in alone.

  “Then we’ll do it here,” I said.

  Amid a chorus of hatred, and with Kip’s pistol aimed at Leander’s skull, I pulled yet more chains from the bag I carried, wrapped them around his legs, and secured them with locks. Again, there was no struggle, but with a cold voice Leander looked at me and said: “You cannot stop me.”

  “We can,” I said. “We will.”

  He smiled in reply and a freshet of blood trickled from one of the cross-shaped scars on his forehead. I won
dered, pulling a bottle of kerosene from the bag, if it was an old wound, reopened, or new—if each scar represented an act of evil committed upon our world. I wonder this even now, and will for many years to come.

  I pushed him backward and he fell heavily, trussed and helpless, and I drowned him in kerosene. Not one bottle but two.

  “I doom your sorry life,” Leander said calmly. “I pour my dark soul into this mountain, and your town shall forever suffer in my shadow.”

  I took a matchbook from my pocket.

  “I give you,” he said to Kip, “one hundred years of memory. Every day you will hear your children’s cries.”

  Kip’s finger tightened on the trigger. I think he would have shot if his eyes hadn’t been so full of tears.

  “And you,” Leander said, looking at me. “Your children—your children’s children—shall know my name.”

  I struck a match. I dropped it, and the devil burned. But the flames were as black as night, and the smoke flowed not into the wind, but into the pores of the rock face. He did not scream, and all the time I could see the small cross on his forehead bleeding.

  The Reverend Walter Geller—who is old, but had followed us all the way—stepped forward and recited from Matthew: “‘Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into the eternal fire which is prepared for the devil and his angels.’”

  And with these words Leander Bird began to laugh, and the sound echoed, and followed him into ashes. I prayed to see those ashes carried into the wind, and away, but, like the smoke, they were drawn into the mountain.

  Again Reverend Geller stepped forward, to the mouth of the cave, and spoke a prayer that would echo over the bodies of our sleeping children. The stronger men then gathered rocks and concealed the opening. Our effort at burial, and the beginning of healing.

  As one we walked to the mountain, and as one we returned. Although we were misguided, and beguiled, let it serve as a symbol of faith; the same faith that Abraham showed in taking Isaac to Mount Moriah.

  And let God forgive us.

  It is late now, and yes I am weary. Jane gives me comfort. Her arms find the cold places inside me, bringing warmth, and hope. The evil is gone, and the town can begin to rebuild. We are strong.

  Dark outside, but for the glow of the fire: Leander Bird’s church in flames, surrounded by townspeople, purging their grief. The glow is comforting, somehow. The flames are red and orange. Charred timbers crumble.

  Built in innocence. Burned in faith.

  From the Hollow County Herald.

  September 10, 1920.

  With God: Grace Alexandra, the baby daughter of Trey and Jane Moffatt of Point Hollow, died September 6, 1920, aged twenty-six days. Laid to rest at Hope Springs Cemetery. “Suffer the little children to come unto me; forbid them not; for to such belongeth the Kingdom of God.”

  Kip appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were closed, but they rolled slowly beneath the membranous lids. His pinky finger twitched, the pen held between his forefinger and thumb. I covered my face with both hands and tried to take it all in—this sudden light, but it was blinding, and I could only glimpse it through the cracks of my fingers. I thought it would take me days, maybe even months, to come to terms with what I had learned.

  “Kip?”

  His eyes crept open. I had time for one, maybe two, more questions. Abraham’s Faith shook its shoulders, stomped its feet, and I wondered what it had been like for Kip. So many years, haunted by memories, listening not to the mountain, but to his children’s cries.

  For all my sins, and all my suffering, I wouldn’t want to be him.

  “Did you ever think about taking your own life?” I asked.

  The tiniest smile, but bitter. “Every day,” he rasped. “For ninety-three years. Twice a day. More. Ten times a day, sometimes.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “And commit another sin?” He shook his head. “No, this is my period of atonement, and I’ll bear the weight of my misjudgment. I have to. Only then will I be able to face God.”

  I nodded, feeling weighed down inside, but light all around. Kip sighed, his lips trembling. Seven years to go, I thought. Seven years of hell, and then you can rest. I closed the briefcase and gathered it to my chest. It seemed heavier now. The town’s burden. I tried to stand but my legs were trembling too much and I sat down again. Kip’s lower body shifted. His pale eyes found me.

  “Sleep now,” he said.

  “Yes.” I took a moment, then tried to stand again—managed to stay on my feet. I stepped toward the door. The case made my arms ache. The mountain roared.

  “How do I stop it?” I asked.

  No reply.

  “Kip?” I turned and looked at him. His eyes were halfway open. “How do I stop it?”

  “How do you think?” he replied weakly, and paused, licked his lips. “You have to give it—him—what he wants.”

  “Children,” I said.

  The word was like a bullet. His worn face turned aside, suffering.

  “But it’s so hungry. It—he—keeps booming.”

  “Children,” Kip said. “Or child? A specific child?”

  I stood in silence, in a thousand pieces, but reaching toward the light. I blinked and saw water spilling through small, cupped hands.

  So cold.

  “Think about it,” Kip said, and closed his eyes again. “Most things can be solved with a little thought, Oliver.”

  I nodded and left.

  Sunlight bathed me.

  August 6, 2010.

  They put Bobby Alexander in the ground today. The pallbearers couldn’t carry the load, so they rolled him from place to place on a casket carriage. It lacked a certain dignity, I thought.

  Light still surrounds me. I continue to bloom. I am exhausted but everything is happening. The mountain is thunder and I need to focus. I don’t have much time. My study is chaos—the contents of Kip’s briefcase arranged across my desk, across the floor. So much information, and I still haven’t read it all.

  I stopped taking the Vicodin because it makes me drowsy and lightheaded. My body hurts. Really, I’m in no condition to do what has to be done, but I have no choice.

  It’s time to end this.

  From Trey Moffatt’s Journal.

  February 12, 1927.

  Jane tells me to stop fretting. The twins are two years old now, growing beautifully. But I remember, all too clearly, Leander Bird’s final words: “Your children—your children’s children—shall know my name.” Did he take Grace from us? Did his black, burning hand reach from the mountain and smother her where she lay? I am cursed. My children are cursed. And so I stand vigil over Annette and Lucy, my heart twisted.

  I didn’t want to have more children, but Jane did. We have to rebuild Point Hollow, she said. Fill it with young laughter and joyful faces. We can’t let the darkness win.

  I knew about the fire that destroyed the church in 1923 (The Holy Trinity Anglican Church, confirmed by numerous letters, as well as the Hollow County Herald). I knew about the shooting on Main Street in 1953, and the mass suicide in 1971. Distraught correspondence propounds—in each case—ungodly forces at work. One letter, in regard to the shooting, suggests demonic influence: Jack Braum’s mind was not his own. Yes, I saw the shotgun, but I also saw a wolf’s eyes and black wings. Given how thoroughly the events of 1917 were concealed, and that by the fifties there would have been only a handful of people alive who could remember what happened, such detail is telling. It’s impossible to deny a more sinister influence.

  There are varied versions of what Dennis Shirley—our firestarter from 1923—was heard to scream as he was muscled away from the blazing church, but they all convey the same thing. In short: Bird touched me. He’s still here. He’s still with us.

  Jack Braum, sitting in a holding cell, in
the final moments of his life, said: There’s a black fire in my head, and it burns.

  The suicide note from 1971 (and I have the actual note) reads, simply: It watches us. It remembers.

  There are other incidents: a mysterious house fire in 1960; a murder/suicide in 1964 (Eugene Gold poured sulfuric acid down his wife’s throat before eating the barrel of his .38 Special. The suicide note—and I have that, too—reads: From Bird, with love X.); in 1968, a John Doe was found hanging upside down in the woods east of Old Friend Pond, drained of blood, his eyes gouged out, his hands cut off.

  So much for our peaceful little town.

  All of this has been covered up by the powers that be. To protect our idyllic reputation, of course, but more particularly to prevent the mass infanticide of 1917 being uncovered.

  The people of Point Hollow live in ignorance. In bliss.

  2:53 P.M. I’m running short of time. My body is crying out for rest, for healing. I have to deny it, because I need to end this. But first:

  From the Hollow County Herald.

  July 28, 1933.

  COUNTY-WIDE SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL. The search continues for eight-year-old Annette Moffatt, who was last seen playing in her neighbourhood on the morning of Tuesday, July 25. Annette (pictured) is the daughter of Trey and Jane Moffatt of Point Hollow.

  Police have expanded their search to include the townships of Oak Creek and Wharton, and appeal for anybody with information to step forward. “Annette is one of our own,” Sheriff Gordon Simms told the Herald. “A beautiful, intelligent girl. A loving daughter and sister. We urge the people of Hollow County to be vigilant, and to pray for her safe return.”

  Many townspeople have aided police in their search, spanning acres of dense woodland throughout Hollow County. On Thursday Reverend James Tarper held a special service at the New Hope Anglican Church, praying for Annette, and for Mr. and Mrs. Moffatt, who faced grief in 1920 when their first daughter, Grace Alexandra, died in her sleep aged only twenty-six days. The Moffatts have lived in Point Hollow . . . cont. pg. 4.