Hollow House

by Greg Chapman

  Table of Contents

  Hollow House

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Hollow House

  by

  Greg Chapman

  Omnium Gatherum

  Los Angeles

  Hollow House

  Copyright © 2016 Greg Chapman

  ISBN-13: 978-0692736067

  ISBN-10:0692736069

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher omniumgatherumedia.com.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  First Electronic Edition

  For the ones I love within the Chapman House, Gwenda, Abigail and Leah.

  The stench of putrefaction leaked from the Kemper House into the air over Willow Street for three days before any of the neighbours noticed it. The residents went about their daily regimen: rising from sleep, going to work and school in the city, renewing the cycle with each dawn, ignorant to the rot growing inside the centuries old house at number 72.

  Willow Street never noticed the stink because they’d forgotten the house was even there. The Gothic Revival two-storey dwelling was invisible to them, despite its dilapidation. It was a meaningless edifice of split wood and grimy windows, twisted gutters and a queer metal mailbox overflowing with weeks of junk-mail. To its neighbours, the Kemper House had died a long time ago and been left an empty vessel.

  They were wrong.

  Chapter One

  Over those three days during the change from spring to summer, the drift of decay intensified with an almost human determination. The tendrils of death crawled from the Kemper House across the divide to its next-door neighbour, at number 70. The stench seeped through the walls of the low-set 1970s chamferboard house to slowly infect the family that resided there. The Campbell family: Max, aged 43, his wife Carol, 41, and their two sons, Zac, 16, and Matthew, 14. The infection grew as they slept, the fumes pervading their every breath and nesting in their minds—and souls.

  Zac was the first in the Campbell family to become aware of the smell. The miasma woke him with the rising sun, and the taste of it was in the back of his throat as he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He glanced, bleary-eyed around his bedroom, in search of the source. There was nothing on the slightly mould-tinged ceiling, and the only things on the walls were posters of his favourite band, Korn. He expected to see a stain on either surface, but there was none. His mind now fully aroused by the stink, he scanned the floor, specifically the waste-bin under his desk. He leaned out of bed to peer at the bin’s contents and saw it only contained crumpled attempts at the previous night’s homework.

  As he sat breathing shallow breaths, he felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl. He turned slowly to look out of his bedroom window, which provided an ample view of the house next door—the Kemper House. He walked to the window, his nose following the invisible trail of stench. Matthew thought the house next door looked like a burned piece of meat and he wondered if it was the source of the smell. For several minutes he toyed with the thought of telling his parents, only to realise such an action would involve doing the one thing he hated to do—talk to his Mom and Dad. Instead, Zac resolved to see how long he could tolerate the smell, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before it would be impossible for anyone to ignore.

  ~

  Downstairs, Max Campbell scraped the remnants of his bacon and eggs into the trash bin and swore when he noticed its contents were already overflowing.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  Max turned to see his wife, Carol, scowling at him. He bent over the trash bin and gingerly pulled out the bulging plastic bin liner. Through the opaque plastic he could make out hints of the previous night’s meal of burger and fries stewing in their own juices. “The kids never emptied the trash—that’s what.”

  Carol tisked and went back to sipping her coffee while ogling the newspaper. Max was unsure whether his wife was joining him in berating their sons or simply berating him. He didn’t know how to read his wife’s expressions anymore; the only mood she ever seemed to be in was a bad one. He straightened and felt a twinge in his back. He held the trash bag at arm’s length and grimaced.

  “Zac!” he yelled in the direction of the stairs. “Come and take out the trash like you were supposed to, last night!”

  Carol tisked again. “Do you really have to yell?”

  He put his other hand on his hip. “Yes I do have to yell. It’s the only way I can get those damn kids to listen to me anymore.”

  His wife had already returned to reading the news, indifferent to his tirade.

  “Zac, are you deaf, boy?!”

  Max heard the bedroom door open upstairs and slam a second later. Footfalls dragged along the floor above, and eventually Zac trudged down the stairs like the slumbering un-dead.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  Zac gave his father a sideways glance. “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “So what then, you just chose to ignore me?”

  His eldest son reached the bottom of the stairs, his face downcast; he couldn’t even look his father in the eye anymore.

  He held out the trash bag to his son. “Why didn’t you take this out last night, like I told you?”

  “I forgot.”

  “You didn’t forget. You were just too damn lazy to do it.” He watched Zac frown and clench his jaw. “You got something on your mind, boy?”

  Zac was tight-lipped. At least he knew when to keep his mouth shut, Max thought. He shoved the trash bag into the boy’s hands. “Now you take that out and don’t ever forget to do your chores again.”

  His son shuffled away through the kitchen and out the back door. Max nodded to himself, proud that he’d reinforced his status with the boy. He’d get Zac on the straight and narrow if it killed him. He turned his attention back to the stairs and wondered where his other son was. Zac might have been absent-minded, but his brother was absent in general.

  “You planning on gracing us with your presence anytime soon, Matthew?”

  When no response was forthcoming, Max sighed and ascended the stairs, his back screaming blue murder all the while. There was no doubt about it. His sons would be the death of him.

  ~

  Outside, the smell of the Kemper House hit Zac like a slap to the face. There was no denying that something had died in the house next door, and it wasn’t a bird or a rat; he’d seen enough road-kill to know the difference. Flies buzzed about, trying to land on him, as if he was the cause of the smell. Zac swatted them away and ran to the large trash receptacle at end of the backyard, quickly opened the lid and dropped the bag inside. Even the trash bin had a sweeter scent than the house next door.

  A blast of the foul air washed over him and he gagged. He ran from it, bac
k toward the relative cleanliness of his own home. He opened the back door into the kitchen and saw his mother standing in the doorway, about to light a cigarette. She grimaced and covered her mouth and nose.

  “Aw—is that the trash can?”

  Zac shrugged, pleading ignorance.

  “What, you can’t smell that?” She pushed past him onto the porch and gazed around the yard, hand still clamped over her face. “Smells like something died out here.”

  Zac made to go inside, but his mother grabbed his wrist.

  “Get your father out here,” she said, and Zac saw a pang of worry in her eyes. He stood still and his mother raised an eyebrow. “I said, go get your father.”

  The boy rolled his eyes and about-turned into the kitchen, where he saw his father yelling toward the stairs again.

  “Matthew! Get your ass out of bed and come down here for breakfast.” Max said. “You boys have to get to school and I need to be at work by eight.”

  Zac approached, but kept his distance. “Dad, Mom wants you outside.”

  Max Campbell turned, a scowl twisting his puffy face. Behind him, Matthew dragged his lanky form down the stairs.

  “What does she want?” his father said.

  Zac shrugged. “I don’t know. She just wants you to go outside.”

  Max grunted. “God dammit. Why can’t she just leave me alone?” He stormed by Zac for the door. “You two hurry up and eat some breakfast and clean the dishes. I want you ready to go in twenty minutes.”

  Zac ignored his father’s last salvo and scratched at his hair. “Dad, I was gonna ride to school.

  “Fine!” Max said. “Just tell your worthless brother to get his ass moving.”

  Zac turned to Matthew and gave him a sneer.

  “What?” his brother asked.

  “Did you sleep with your night-light on again, you big baby?”

  Matthew’s eyes widened in shame, but he quickly averted his gaze. He shoved his brother aside and made for the fridge. Zac chuckled under his breath at his brother’s cowardice and fear; a fear Zac believed was about to be sorely tested by the smell coming from next door.

  ~

  Jesus, what is that smell?”

  Carol turned to see her husband replicating her expression, right down to the hand clamped over the nose. “I think it’s coming from next door,” She turned her gaze toward the Kemper House.

  “Maybe an opossum or a cat got in there and died?”

  “Seems really strong for an opossum.”

  “A squatter, then?”

  Carol coughed. “I think you need to call the police.”

  Max shook his head. “I’m not calling the cops; I got to go to work. And if there’s a dead body in there, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  She looked over the blackened husk that was the Kemper House. The house had always given her the chills, with its degraded state and eye-like windows. It was an empty house that should have been demolished a long time ago. “Why anyone would think of breaking into that place, I don’t know,” she said, thinking out loud.

  Max had clearly had enough, turning on his heels to head back inside. “Well, I’m not going to stand around out here to wonder why. You call the cops, and let them do all the wondering they like.”

  As usual, Carol was left to do the dirty work.

  ~

  Matthew hated how his brother shadowed him. Every day was the same; Zac’s stares of condescension, his belittling tone, and the shake of his head. Zac just kept piling it on. Some days his brother’s constant criticisms made it hard for Matthew to breathe, but today something else leeched the air from his lungs.

  There was a distinct smell in the air, like rotting meat. He wondered if his brother smelled it too. Matthew left his room, grateful that Zac wasn’t waiting for him in the hall. He walked to the toilet, urinated, flushed and stepped into the bathroom to look in the mirror. Fear dominated his features; from the grey smudges under his eyes, to the pale complexion that surrounded them. He didn’t know why he couldn’t control his fear, but the dark—and more specifically the night—terrified him, ever since he’d been a little boy. His parents told him he needed to grow up, to become a man, but he knew something was holding him back, as if he was trapped within his own shadow. Every morning he questioned himself, seeking the reason for his fear, and every morning it grew stronger.

  Unsettled by his reflection, Matthew left the bathroom, ready to retreat to the solitude of his room, when Zac stepped in front of him.

  “Hey, you smell it, don’t you?”

  Matthew stared, feigning ignorance.

  Zac reached out and punched him in the arm.

  “What was that for?” Matthew yelped, clutching his shoulder.

  “For being a baby—as usual. Just tell me that you can smell that stink coming from next door.”

  Matthew shrugged. “Yeah, so what?”

  “So it’s obvious that something’s dead over there. You wanna go and find out what it is?”

  Matthew cringed. “No.”

  This drew another punch from his brother, in the exact same place on his arm.

  “Ow! Stop it!”

  “Stop being a pussy, will you! There’s something really dead over there—possibly a person—and Mom and Dad know about it and are about to call the cops. I wanna get a look at it before the house becomes a no-go-zone.”

  Matthew tried to get past Zac, but his brother shoved him back.

  “Leave me alone,” Matthew said.

  “Don’t you wimp out on me.”

  “I’m not going. That place could be dangerous. It’s been empty for years and the smell is probably some animal that crawled into the roof or something. Plus, we have to get ready so Dad can take us to school.”

  Zac smirked and shook his head. “I’ve already told him I’m going to ride to school. Come with me.”

  Matthew tried more forcefully to get past his brother, but Zac only applied more resistance. Matthew gritted his teeth and shoved his brother against the doorframe. “I’m not going!” His self-satisfaction only lasted a moment as Zac’s verbal barbs followed him back to his room.

  “Fine, be a pussy then! I’m heading over to take a look. With or without you.”

  Matthew heard his brother approach from behind, but instead of the expected shove or punch, Zac simply walked back to his own room. Matthew felt the strange compulsion to go after him, to make him change his mind. “Zac!”

  His brother stopped outside his bedroom door, turning to flash Matthew a look of indifference. “What, pussy boy?”

  He summoned some courage and stood straighter. “Don’t go over there. That place gives me the creeps.”

  Zac chuckled and stepped inside his room, throwing one final barb before slamming the door. “Everything gives you the creeps.”

  ~

  Richard Markham detected the foul smell the minute he stepped onto the porch to pick up the morning newspaper. With a furtive glance up the street towards the Kemper House, he quickly went back inside and closed the door.

  He sat at the dinner table in his house at Number 74 Willow Street, dreading another day without sleep, and wondered about the smell that had assailed his senses.

  It had been his fourth straight night of insomnia and his 80-year-old body was beginning to show signs of fatigue. His palms were sweaty, his eyelids heavy, his heart pounding against his ribcage. His mind suffered the most, the dream still lingering in his subconscious, like an echo swirling at the bottom of a well. The last time he’d experienced such a nightmare was after he returned from the war. Even sixty years on, the images and faces of the battle were sharp. He could almost feel his skin oozing in the tropical heat and hear the lead tearing through flesh. In the dream’s climax Richard was awash in blood, its metallic tang remaining in the back of his throat for hours after waking. The smell coming from the Kemper House was all too familiar. Death was in the air.

  Death had been on that battlefield with Richard then, and it
had followed him home, taking root in his mind through dreams and in his body by leaving him sterile. Over time, he had learned to ignore it. But now, as he sniffed the scent of Death, he feared it had taken up residence elsewhere.

  The Kemper House had already been on the corner of Willow Street when Richard and his bride Margaret had started to build their house at Number 74 in 1950. He remembered how ancient the Kemper House had looked, a relic of the previous century. It cast a shadow over the rest of the street, and that shadow had deepened as the decades rolled on. Richard wondered how it had remained immune to progress for so long. He struggled to recall seeing anyone coming or going, and it seemed strange now, after all these years of simply being an “old” house, in a relatively quiet street, that Number 72 had finally decided to make itself known.

  “Richard?”

  The old man turned in his chair to see his wife shuffling up the hall. Her white hair shone like a halo in the early morning light.

  “I’m here, Margie,” he said, holding his hand out to guide her. Margaret’s vision was not as good as it used to be, but her tenacity was as strong as ever.

  “Why are you up so early again?”

  “No reason in particular; I was just awake is all. I came out here so as not to wake you too.”

  Margaret held out his hand and Richard savoured the softness of her palm in contrast to the creases on the other side. “You’re still having those dreams, aren’t you?”

  Richard sighed. “There’s no fooling you, is there?”

  Margaret shuffled by him into the kitchen. She put the kettle on and slowly opened the cupboard for a tea cup. Richard watched her squinting, her once beautiful face full of lines. “You ought to see Doctor Beck about that,” she said.