by Steve Frech
About the Author
STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.
Dark Hollows
STEVE FRECH
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Steve Frech 2019
Steve Frech asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9780008368227
Version: 2019-10-31
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgements
Thank you for reading Dark Hollows!
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
Epigraph
Just close your eyes,
And you and I,
Will brave the dark and go dancing.
The Dreamer’s Waltz
Chapter 1
I’m standing in the basement of a run-down, abandoned warehouse, staring at the padlock on a heavy steel door. The walls are coated in grime and there is the sound of dripping water from somewhere in the darkness.
The padlock begins to tremble. It’s subtle, at first, but then grows violent, as if some enraged, unseen force is trying to pull it open. The padlock rattles against the door.
“No … please … please, hold …” I whisper, my voice weak in pain and fear.
The shaking intensifies. It begins to infect the door and the walls, filling the basement with a low rumble.
“Don’t … I’m so sorry … Please …”
The rumble grows into a deafening roar. It feels like the entire building is going to come down on top of me. Bile rises in my throat.
“No … no …”
Everything stops.
I know what’s coming. I know what’s behind that door.
Oh my God, what have I done?
The lock snaps open.
I bolt upright in bed. Sweat pours down my face and my lungs pull in rapid gulps of air.
In the dawning light of morning, I can see Murphy, my black Lab mutt, lying in his bed in the corner of the room. He cocks his head at me.
I grip my side and hiss through clenched teeth. Sitting up so fast causes the old injury in my side to flare with pain, but it passes. I steady my breath and wipe the sweat from my eyes. I throw off the covers, hop out of bed, and head to the bathroom. The nightmare is nothing new. I’ve been having it for years, reliving the panic and shock of that night over and over, but I’ve learned to quickly put it out of my mind.
After throwing some cold water on my face, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt and head downstairs to start a pot of coffee. Murphy joins me in the kitchen, but instead of coming over to the counter, he sits next to his food bowl and gives me those big, dinner-plate eyes.
“What? Are you hungry?” I ask.
His tail thumps against the floor.
I feed him a little dry food from the bag in the pantry, and then go to the window over the sink and glance down the drive, past the pond, to the cottage sitting at the edge of the woods.
The Thelsons’ car is gone. No surprise there. They said they were getting an early start back to Manhattan.
Coffee in hand, I walk to the front door and pat my leg as I step out onto the porch.
“Let’s go, Murph.”
Murphy inhales the last of his breakfast and hustles after me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him chew, even when he was a puppy. He springs off the porch and down the steps. We walk past the pond, towards the cottage. As we pass the truck in the driveway, I make yet another mental note to fix that damn taillight. Somehow, all the mental notes I make about it go unremembered.
I walk around the fire pit and note the wineglasses sitting next to the chairs. I step over to the front door of the cottage, take out my key, and open the door. Before doing anything, I go to the kitchen table and open the guestbook. I flip through the pages until I find the latest entry. The ink is so dark and sharp, it had to have been written not more than an hour ago.
We were in town from Manhattan to do some leaf-peeping and had a wonderful time. The Hollows is a beautiful little town. We loved the shops on Main Street and strolling through the cemetery at the Old Stone Church. What can we say about Jacob’s cottage? So amazing! We began every morning with a walk through the woods to check out the hills and always stopped at “The Sanctuary”. Jacob is the perfect host. The wine and the s’mores were just the right touch. And then, there’s Murphy! Such a sweetie! Can’t wait to come back!
~ John & Margaret Thelson
I snap the guestbook closed and look around the cottage. It never fails; whenever someone from Manhattan signs the guestbook, they always have to mention that they’re from Manhattan. Hopefully, they’ll post the review on Be Our Guest this afternoon, once they get home.
The Thelsons were standard New York City types; taking their yearly fall pilgrimage up north to see some trees. They were a wealthy couple who would call this quaint, one-bedroom cottage “roughing it”, even though it had all the amenities, a couple of bottles of wine, and a fire pit outside. Still, they were pleasant, and they’ve left the cottage in good shape. The turnaround should be quick, and I’ve got it down to a science.
Murphy walks through the open front door. He’s done scouting the fire pit for any stray graham crackers or marshmallows left by the Thelsons, and goes right for the kitchen to see if there are any scraps lying about.
“Happy hunting, Murphy,” I say. He deserves it. He’s one of my best selling points.
I clap my hands and rub them together. “All right. Time to get to work.”
First thing I do is bring in the wineglasses and wash them in the kitchen sink. Then, I collect the bedsheets and towels, put them in a bag, and carry it to the house. Murphy follows close behind. I take the bag down to the basement and pop the contents into the washing machine. Even though we’ve done this process hundreds of times, Murphy bolts as soon as I open the lid because to him, the washing machine is still some sort of monster. Once I get that going, I head back upstairs. Murphy’s on the porch, waiting for me.
; “Coward,” I say.
He responds by letting his tongue flop out of his mouth and starts panting.
As we begin walking back to the cottage, Murphy spots the ducks that have settled onto the glassy surface of the pond. He pins his ears back and sprints after them.
“Murphy!” I shout.
He stops at the water’s edge and looks at me.
“Nope. Come on.”
He stares at the pond and then back at me as if to ask, “But do you not see the ducks?”
“Come,” I say, with a forceful slap on my leg.
He runs to catch up, but instead of following me into the cottage, he lies down on the cottage porch to enjoy the cool New England morning.
I restock the complimentary toiletries and clean the bathroom. No disasters there. One time, I had a young couple from Los Angeles stay for a weekend and after drinking too much wine, they destroyed the bathroom. I almost left them a bad review, but they were in the “Elite Class” on Be Our Guest, so I held my fire. Thankfully, they left me a glowing review.
I finish scrubbing the tub and stand up a little too quickly. The pain in my side flares again, but it barely registers.
Time to tackle the kitchen. I clean the plates from the s’mores and refill the basket by the coffee maker with packs of Groundworks coffee. I wipe down the counter and sweep the floor. After that, I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet. I have my routine down, working my way from the bedroom, then the bathroom, down the hall, and into the living room/kitchen area.
I push the vacuum around the bookcase, which is filled with some of my favorite books—a few thrillers, some Michael Crichtons, A Christmas Carol, et cetera. No one reads them while they’re here, but they make for good pictures on the Be Our Guest website. There’s also a row of DVDs no one watches: Casablanca, When Harry Met Sally, Vertigo, Roman Holiday, and Dead Again. As I glide the vacuum cleaner over the rug by the fireplace, my eyes catch the stick doll I made years ago, resting on the mantel. It’s a crude figure made of twigs tied together with twine. It adds a nice, rugged touch to the place. In Boy Scouts, they taught us to use pine needles instead of twine, but those don’t last long—
“For me?” she asked in mock flattery.
“Just something I learned in Boy Scouts.”
She saw right through my bullshit.
“Well, I shall treasure it always,” she said, clutching the doll to her chest, toying with me …
I’m pulled from my memory by Murphy whining.
He’s sitting in the doorway. His expression is a perfect balance of wanting to enter the cottage but respecting the vacuum cleaner.
I flip the switch, and the vacuum engine whirrs to a stop.
“Done,” I tell him, and put the vacuum back in the closet.
While in the closet, I rotate the stacks of towels, and accidentally knock over the small dish hidden on the top shelf, which contains a spare key to the house and the coffee shop. I keep a spare key for both out here because I learned the hard way that I should when I locked myself out of the house about a year ago. I put the keys back in the dish, tuck it all the way back on the shelf, and close the door. I pull out my phone and take a series of pictures of the cottage. It’s been a while, and I need to change the photos on the Be Our Guest website.
I head back to the house and transfer the sheets and towels to the dryer. Once again, Murphy stays by my side until I get to the basement stairs, because the dryer is the washer’s evil twin. That accomplished, I head back down to the cottage to do one last spot check to make sure everything is perfect.
I normally wouldn’t do an extra check, but tonight, I’m breaking a rule.
Here’s the deal—a few years ago, my parents died. We weren’t particularly close. In fact, we weren’t close at all, which is strange for an only child, but there was history. They were the successful, wealthy, married couple who had done everything right, while I was nothing but one dumb decision after another. I could never get my feet under me and it was my own fault. I squandered every chance they gave me.
It got so bad that they finally cut me off after I screwed around my sophomore year in college. I had to find another way to pay my tuition, which I did. I told them I got a job, but not the whole story about what the job was. They were pleased that I had finally taken responsibility for myself and tried to reconnect but for me, the damage had been done. I wanted nothing to do with them. There were obligatory phone calls on Christmas and birthdays, filled with awkward conversations. I was living in Portland, Maine, while they had moved to Hilton Head, South Carolina.
Their passing was quick. Mom became ill. I offered to come down and help out, because that’s what an only child does, right, even if we hadn’t really spoken in years? Dad declined my offer, claiming he could handle it. Well, he couldn’t. The stress got to him and he had a heart attack. It was over before he hit the floor. I got the call from the nurse Dad had hired to look after Mom. On my way down to the funeral, Mom passed away. The nurse said it was from a broken heart. I didn’t know how to feel. They hadn’t been a part of my life for so long, it felt like they were already gone, but I did wish that I had maybe tried to patch things up.
The dual funeral was surreal. There were a lot of people there, and I didn’t know any of them. When they found out who I was, they came up and commented on how painful and sad it must be for me, and what wonderful people my parents had been. I tried to be sympathetic, but I worried that they would be able to tell that I really didn’t know my parents. The worst was having to give a speech. I felt like a fraud. No, I was a fraud. Thankfully, any question of my sincerity could be chalked up to shock and grief. I felt guilty for not knowing them. All those people were moved by their passing, and I was ashamed of myself. I pictured what my funeral would look like, and it was not a well-attended affair.
Then came the will.
My parents left me everything. There was no personal declaration in it—no directions as to what I was supposed to do with their life’s savings. There was only the simple instruction that I was to receive everything. I assumed that it was their way of saying that I had shown myself worthy after making my own way. Maybe they were saying that they were sorry. Maybe they thought that some day, we really would be a family again. I don’t know, but that’s when I made the decision. I had made so many mistakes—the worst of which were only known to me. I decided then and there—no more messing around. It was time to straighten out my life.
I grew up in Vermont, and since I was looking at this as a reset, I decided to go back. I did my research, found The Hollows, and bought the property on the outskirts of town. The nearest neighbor was a half a mile away. The property was secluded, but not isolated. I loved the plot of land, which was nestled up against the woods. There was the main house, the pond, and the cottage. The cottage had been the main house when the land had been a farm, but around a hundred and fifty years ago, the land had been sold, the new house built, the pond dug, and the cottage was abandoned. The fact that the main house was old gave it a sense of maturity and responsibility that I now craved.
I also loved The Hollows. It had originally been settled by two French explorers in the early 1600s, who named it “Chavelle’s Hollow”. Then came the British, and after the French-Indian War, they decided to change the name to “Sommerton’s Hollow”, in honor of the British General, Edward Sommerton. The problem was that the town was so small and located right on the border between the French and British territories, people called it by both names. Then the American Revolution happened, and Sommerton served in the British Army. After the war, the citizens of the newly formed country didn’t want to have a town honoring their recently vanquished enemy, so they changed the name to “Putnam’s Hollow”, in honor of Rufus Putnam of the Continental Army.
This all happened so fast, relatively speaking, that people were calling the town by all three names at the same time, depending on if they were French, British, or American. When the town finally got a post off
ice, which is what makes a place an official town in the eyes of the government, the surveyor was so fed up with trying to determine the correct name for such a small town, he simply wrote down “The Hollows”, and it stuck. The Hollows became one of those towns you see on travel websites—a charming New England town with a Main Street comprised of three-hundred-year-old, colonial-style buildings, a town green, an old stone church, and winding roads, hidden among the rolling hills and forests.
After purchasing the house, I moved on to the next phase of my plan—opening my own business.
I rented a storefront on Main Street and opened a coffee shop. Like the rest of the town, Main Street was a postcard. The centuries-old buildings that line the street each have a plaque identifying the year they were built and for whom. Instead of switching to electric lights, the town kept its old gas lamps. At night, it was a fairy tale.
My shop was a small, single-story structure just down and across from the church, which everyone called the Old Stone Church. My coffee shop’s large front window gave the perfect view with the town green across the street, and the old cemetery next to the church, to the south. I named the place “Groundworks” and began my little endeavor. I quickly realized that I had bitten off way more than I could chew, but since there was no Plan B, I had put nearly all of my inheritance into the house and the shop, so I had to stick it out.
Little by little, I got it under control. I started by giving out free samples of Groundworks’ signature coffee to the local hotels and B&Bs to put in their guestrooms. They jumped on it as a way to promote local business. That’s what the fall tourist season is all about. The Hollows is a cottage industry. It also paid off in that everyone staying at the hotels and B&Bs came to the shop during their exploration of the surrounding hills and countryside. I slowly fought my way out of the red, and while things were looking up financially, it was really hard work.
One downside of moving to a new town and putting in so many hours was that I was lonely. On an impulse, I took a trip to the local animal shelter. Behind the shelter was a pen where they allowed the dogs to run and play. I told myself I was going to adopt the first dog who came up to me. I stepped through the gate and this little black ball of fur with oversized paws broke from the pack and came flying at me, ears and jowls flapping wildly. He charged and didn’t stop. He simply plowed into my shins and careened across the ground. He instantly sprang up and repeated the process. After the third time of tumbling over my feet, he was going to try again but was so dizzy, he fell over.
