Dark Hollows

by Steve Frech

  “Really? That was the point where it felt ‘a little creepy’?”

  She shrugs. “I thought that maybe she was just playing some sort of prank on you. I didn’t know that she was a complete psycho.”

  “The rental car—her idea or yours?”

  “Mine. I didn’t want to use my car because I worried you might use it to find me … Wait. Is that how you found me? The rental car?”

  “Yep.”

  She blows smoke through her nose, and shakes her head. “Fuck … Well, you can tell how good I am at this shit. Whatever. She gave me another grand for listening, and says if I go through with it, I’ll get three thousand more, once the job is done.”

  “You said yes?”

  “Well, obviously. The day I left your place, I showed up for work, and there was an envelope waiting for me with three thousand dollars in it. That’s the last I heard from her.”

  “Did you write that message in the guestbook?”

  “What message?”

  “Did you take the keys from the closet?”

  “What keys? What message? What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind.”

  She waits for some further explanation but gives up.

  “Anything else?” she asks.

  I’m going over her story, trying to find anything that I can use, and coming up empty. “She never gave you any sort of name? Not even just something to call her?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing else? You didn’t see what kind of car she drove?”

  “No.”

  “What about her clothes? Anything unusual? Anything stand out?”

  She takes a long drag on her cigarette. “Not really. Just the hat. It was old and beat up and had some sort of logo on it.”

  “What was the logo?”

  “I don’t know. I’d never seen it before. It was faded, but it looked like some sort of saber-toothed cat or something, with big fangs.”

  My heart skips in my chest. “Do you remember the colors?”

  She blows an exasperated, smoke-filled sigh. “I don’t know. It was old and beat up, but I think it was blue. Like, blue and gray.”

  Gotcha.

  “That’s all I need.”

  She stops. “Really? That’s it?”

  “Yeah. Thank you.” I turn towards the door, eager to get going.

  “Hey,” she says.

  I turn around.

  “Why does she want to mess with you so bad?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out, but I won’t know until I find out who she is.”

  “But you know something, don’t you?”

  “… yeah.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “It’s not your business.”

  She shrugs. “Fair point.” She looks down, and scrapes the toe of her shoe thoughtfully on the pavement. “She took your dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  She shakes her head. After a moment, she reaches into her robe and pulls out the money I gave Hank. “You can have this back.”

  I take it from her hand.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. It makes me feel like shit. Good luck.”

  *

  I jump into the truck and fire up the engine. I crank the heat on high and warm air starts pumping from the vents.

  It’s not much, but it’s a start.

  Veronica Sanders may have no idea what that logo was, but I do. I saw it countless times on my rounds of pickups from various campuses. I had seen that very same logo on lots of hats topping a lot of heads.

  That blue-and-gray, saber-toothed cat was Wild E. Cat, the official mascot of the University of New Hampshire, where Laura Aisling had spent her first year and a half of college before transferring to Wilton University.

  Chapter 11

  My body slides to a stop. My ears are ringing as the dust settles around me. Every bone in my body is broken, but I somehow manage to pull myself to my feet.

  There’s a wet, ragged whisper behind me.

  “Jacob …”

  I have to get away from that whisper.

  I stumble forward and hit a wall. No. It’s not a wall. It’s a door—the steel door that was just blown apart a moment ago. It’s in front of me. I look around. There’s an unearthly dim light that gives off just enough illumination to see. I’m in a room—the room. The smell of rot and decay is overpowering. I reach for the handle of the door, but it’s not there. It’s on the other side.

  There’s a scraping sound behind me.

  I don’t want to look. I know what’s there.

  There’s the scraping sound, again.

  Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.

  I push against the door, but it won’t budge.

  There’s the sound of someone breathing behind me. It’s low, ragged, and wet.

  I slam my fists into the door.

  “Help! Somebody help me, please!”

  Footsteps—slow, dragging.

  Something touches my shoulder. I can feel the cold, rotting breath on my ear as it whispers, “Jacob …”

  My head flies up from my computer desk. I furiously wipe at my shoulder. I can still feel the pressure of whatever it was, touching me.

  I breathlessly look around my study.

  Outside, the sun is staring to rise. The computer is still on. I must have fallen asleep.

  Last night, after I got home from Whispers, I went straight for the computer. Whoever has Murphy is somehow connected to Laura’s time at New Hampshire University. I searched every possible angle on Laura’s time there but found nothing. There are no records I could access that would tell me which dorm Laura lived in, or what clubs she may have belonged to. I scoured Facebook, Instagram, and even LinkedIn for any alumni that may have had a connection to her, but there are too many people who graduated from UNH. All I need is one connection—one person who might have known Laura.

  I check the burner phone for any communications that might have arrived while I was asleep, but there are none. I go to the kitchen to make coffee. From the window, I look out at the tranquil morning. The pond is absolutely still. The cottage is dark. It’s remarkable how much the trees have lost their leaves in the last few days. More and more, they look like dark, bony fingers, reaching up out of the ground behind the cottage.

  The Polaroid of Murphy is on the counter. I try not to look at it. Every time I do, I feel like I’m having a heart attack, but I can’t help myself. Seeing him alive in that photo keeps me from imagining the alternative.

  I need to take a break before resuming my research of New Hampshire University. The last time I checked the clock before falling asleep, it was four a.m. It’s now a little after seven. I’ve only had a short nap, and I’m fried.

  I’ll work for a little bit on the flier for Murphy. I want to get those up as soon as possible, so that people will start looking for him. I have to pick which picture to use.

  I go back to the study, collapse the browser window that holds all the stuff I’ve found on UNH, and pull up my “photos” folder. They’re in no particular order, so I use the preview function to flip through them. There are pictures of him sitting by the fire pit and splashing in the pond. There are photos of him with his red tennis ball, and even one of a road trip we took through Maine. For one of the photos, I recklessly took my eyes off the road for a moment to snap a photo of him with his head out the window as we drove. His jowls were flapping in the wind, sending ropes of spit everywhere. There’s even one from the day I brought him home from the shelter. I need to create a backup for these. I need to print them out, and put them in a scrapbo—

  A realization cuts through the fatigue, and I sit back.

  “… holy shit …”

  Laura’s scrapbooks—the ones I saw in her dorm room. They must have given them to her mother.

  She would still have them, right? She has to. She has to have kept them, and they might have the answer I’m looking for, but how can I see them?

&
nbsp; There’s no way that I can try to get them without arousing suspicion, but there’s no other options. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she doesn’t have them, but she might. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced she has to still have them. There’s no way the mother I saw in that news footage would destroy them, and it’s the only thing I can think of that can give me any clues.

  That’s it. It’s the only place I can think of to find answers.

  I begin pacing around the house, trying to think of a way to approach her without alarming her. She doesn’t know me. We never met. How can I ask to see the scrapbooks without her thinking I had something to do with Laura’s disappearance, which of course, I did?

  The short answer is, I can’t. It’s too risky. I need another way to find what I—

  The burner phone pings from the kitchen.

  I race to the kitchen and snatch it off the counter. There’s one message, but the number is blocked.

  I open it.

  Murphy.

  He’s lying on a concrete floor in a darkened room. He’s hanging his head and looking up at the camera as if he’s being scolded, but looks okay.

  A moment later, a message appears below the photo.

  You can save him but you can’t save yourself. You have to know what you took from me. Then, you can sleep.

  I put the phone down. I take deep breaths, and run my hands through my hair. I tense every muscle in my body, then slam my fist into the counter so hard, the window above the sink rattles. I go back to the phone, and study the photo. I look for anything I can use to identify the location, absolutely anything, but whoever took it has been careful. Nothing about it can help me. I can’t even reply, due to the number being blocked. I delete the message. I don’t want it there to distract me like the Polaroid.

  The message has made the decision for me. I have to call Laura’s mother.

  I go to the computer, and bring the web browser back up. It’s easy to find Gretchen Aisling, mother of Laura Aisling, who lives in the town of Thistleton, Maine. There are so many old news stories that mention her. I use one of those services that seem designed for online stalkers to get her phone number and address.

  I go to the kitchen and pick up my phone. I don’t know what I’m going to say, and I don’t care if she’s suspicious. I’ll figure something out.

  I punch the numbers in, and wait for the familiar purr of a ring at the other end. Instead, three blaring, ear-punishing tones answer back, and a voice declares, “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is disconnected, or is no longer in service.”

  I hang up.

  I still have an address. It’s a two-hour drive to Thistleton. I don’t want to be away from The Hollows, but I don’t have a choice.

  I grab the keys for the truck and head for the door.

  Out of habit and muscle memory, I call out, “Come on, Murph!”

  I stop at the door, realizing what I’ve done. Rage and frustration course through me again. The physical urge to tear apart everything around me passes, but the desire remains.

  *

  Thistleton is the definition of a one-light, New England town. It’s just off the highway among the hills and forests of Maine. I drive through the intersection containing the light and think that maybe this is only just one end of Thistleton, but no, the GPS lets me know that this is “downtown”. I continue on, following the directions on my phone. The buildings, which mainly consist of the odd specialty store or auto mechanic, begin spacing out. Soon, I’m in the gently rolling farm fields. I could only imagine what it was like for Laura to grow up here, and then go to a college like New Hampshire University. It must have been like going to another planet.

  I crest a hill and a small valley comes into view. Farmhouses dot the landscape, each isolated by the surrounding fields. The voice on the GPS announces that my destination is ahead on the right. In the distance, there’s a rusty mailbox at the end of a dirt drive, leading to a small, two-story house with wooden siding and a black roof.

  That’s it.

  I turn the truck into the driveway and stop. The withered brown grass of the lawn is accentuated by patches of resilient weeds. At first glance, the house appears gray, but upon closer inspection, I can see that it’s just dirty. It’s not dilapidated, but it hasn’t been cared for in some time. There’s a beat-up station wagon at the end of the drive, parked in front of a sagging wooden shed. I sit there, waiting for any sign of life from the curtained windows of the house, but there’s no movement.

  I take my foot off the brake, and the truck begins rolling forward. The house grows bigger as I approach.

  “This is stupid,” I say out loud. “This is where you get caught.”

  I almost hit the brakes and throw it in reverse, but I look at the burner phone on the front seat and know that at any minute, I could get a message that says, “You didn’t save him,” accompanied by a photo I don’t want to imagine. I allow the truck to continue forward, keeping my eyes on the house. I park behind the station wagon and get out. There’s taller, withered grass around the tires of the station wagon, proof that it hasn’t moved in a while.

  With no resistance from the forests or mountains, the bitterly cold wind hisses through the tall, dead grass. I shut the door to the truck and wait to see if the sound alerts anyone inside. Nothing. I peek inside the station wagon. The upholstery is torn and rotting. The floor is littered with dirt and leaves.

  I slowly walk up the cracked concrete path to the porch. I take one last look at the windows, and press the doorbell. There’s no sound. I open the screen door, knock, and wait. After a few moments with no response, I knock again.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  The only answer is a gust of wind.

  “Mrs Aisling?”

  I wait, but there’s no reply. I take out my phone and try the number again. I want to see if I hear ringing inside, but I get the same message as before.

  I turn and scan the scattered houses in the valley, wondering if anyone knows—

  The lock on the door clicks open.

  I nearly stumble back off the porch as I spin around. I watch as the knob slowly turns and the door opens a few inches.

  “Laura? Is that you?” a voice whispers from the darkness within.

  I hold my breath. My eyes are fixated on the empty space.

  “Laura?” the whisper repeats.

  I take a cautious step towards the door.

  “Mrs Aisling?”

  There’s no answer, but I can feel someone staring at me from the void.

  “My name is Jacob Reese,” I gently say. “I was wondering if I could speak to you.”

  I wait, trying to peer into the darkness.

  The door is pulled open a few more inches, and the face of Gretchen Aisling appears from the shadows. Her beady eyes have sunken further into their sockets since the last time I saw her on television and are surrounded by liver-spotted skin. Her thinning hair is stringy, and her pallid scalp is visible underneath. That fierceness I saw in her all those years ago is gone. She looks confused and afraid.

  “Do you know Laura?” she asks through stained teeth.

  My first instinct is to correct her and say that I “knew” her, but I catch myself. “Yes. I was wondering if I could speak to you about her.”

  Her bony hand clutches her housecoat tighter around her fragile frame.

  “Did Laura send you?” she eagerly asks, her voice like sandpaper.

  “Yes,” I reply, giving her the answer I know she wants, but I have no idea what’s happening.

  She opens the door the rest of the way, and I tentatively step forward through the doorway.

  Oh my God, the smell. I almost gag. It’s not like in the basement of the warehouse. This is dust, rotting garbage, and human waste. I try to hide my reaction, but it’s not easy. I also quickly realize that she is the source of the smell.

  I take shallow breaths through my mouth to avoid using my nose, and scan the surroundings. There’s a set o
f stairs to the left, leading up to the second floor, and there’s a chair in front of me, facing the door. There’s also an old worn couch across from an ancient television. It’s the big, bulky kind from when TVs were considered furniture. It looks like it hasn’t been used in a while. There’s a dining table at the far end of the living room.

  However, all of this is secondary. The first thing, the only thing, I see are the crucifixes, figurines, and images of Jesus. They’re everywhere—on every shelf, and on every wall. Some of the images are framed and sit on the shelves. I count at least seven on the walls. Some are of the variety you can find at a gas station or flea market. Others are prints of famous works of art. There appears to be no rhyme or reason to their placement—like she tried to fill every space with the Lord. This isn’t devoutness. This is dementia. There are also burnt-out candles on the shelves and tables throughout the room. The wax from some has dripped down and collected onto the threadbare carpet. There is a layer of dust on everything. It all comes into focus—her electricity has been disconnected, as well as her phone.

  My scan of the room brings me back to her. She’s standing before me in her housecoat and slippers. She’s trembling from the cold and I can see her lightly fogged breath descend from her nose. She’s frail, anxious, and those eyes, staring back from the pits above her cheeks, tell me her mind is broken.

  She stares at me with frenzied hope. “Laura sent you?”

  I inhale to answer, and the smell hits me, again—a smell of which she seems to have no inkling. I fight the gag building in my throat.

  “Yes. Laura sent me. I wanted to talk to you about her.”

  She looks past me to the door. “Is she here?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Is Laura with you?”

  “No.”

  “When is Laura coming back?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Her hope turns to disappointment.

  “Can I ask you some questions about Laura?”

  She mumbles something, and goes to the chair. She eases herself into it, and looks right through me to the door. “I’m waiting for Laura.”