by Jeff O'Brien
It had been one of those days for Kendall when everything that could have possibly gone wrong had simply just done so. It started with sleeping through his alarm and being late for work. And of course he hadn’t made it to work without spilling coffee all over his shirt while driving frantically to get there. And after finally sitting down at his desk to get started, he was welcomed by a barrage of emails from angry clients whose checks had not arrived the day before as they should have. Kendall had somehow forgotten to pay several of his accounts at the advertising company. Within minutes of trying to rectify the situation he received yet another email, this one from Human Resources, asking him to report to their office immediately. About a half-hour later Kendall exited the building with unemployment forms and a box filled with all his personal effects.
After sitting in his apartment and stewing for several hours, he could no longer stay still. How long could he sit around smoking cigarettes and playing his guitar? The cigarettes helped a little, but picking up the old axe only made him feel worse. Before he’d called it quits with music and pursued a far more secure career in accounting, he’d toured half the world fronting a death metal band called Altar of Sodomy. They had such potential and such talent, but could never catch on as anything better than the opening act. By the time he reached thirty he could no longer keep finding temporary jobs, leave to go on tour, barely break even financially, and look for yet another job upon his return. Now thirty-five, he believed that the metal life was behind him. He’d not even spoken to his former bandmates in over two years.
Sometimes he felt like he wasn’t even that person anymore. He’d cut his hair and wore long sleeves to cover up his many tattoos for work, most of which were macabre, and some obscene. He felt like a poser every time he picked the guitar back up.
So, drenched in the brine of self pity, he donned his favorite Deicide t-shirt and black leather jacket, packed up some essential items, and got in his car. No destination. No point B. Just the idea of taking a one-man road trip and seeing things he’d never seen before. Why not? He had nowhere special to be in the morning.
After two hours of driving, rethinking his life, and really wishing he’d succeeded as a musician, he found himself in his current location of Hollows Point, New Hampshire. This part of the state looked nothing like the somewhat nearby cities of Dover and Portsmouth he had been to and played shows with Altar of Sodomy at. He felt far, far removed from any type of familiar civilization, despite still being in rather close proximity to such things.
Perhaps this sudden onslaught of anxiety was merely the result of realizing he was so far from home all by himself. Certainly that had to be it; his imagination’s decision that this dark, quiet town was somehow haunted was ludicrous. He’d travelled all across the both Americas and parts of Europe and even Australia when he was the grunter and sometimes rhythm guitarist for Altar of Sodomy. But, he’d never trekked out even this far alone. On the bright side, the creepiness of Hollows Point was the kind that could potentially inspire him to write a whole album’s worth of macabre lyrics and dark riffs. But even if it did, he wondered if he still had the drive and motivation to do anything with the product. Having not heard from his bandmates in years, he had no idea how they’d even react to a call from him proposing a reunion.
Onward he drove, wondering if the best idea was to find a motel and call it quits for the night. Having deposited his severance check, he had about four hundred dollars in his pocket, and six hundred more that should be in his checking account by morning. Once he found a motel, he could relax for the night and figure out his next step upon checkout in the morning.
Trying to navigate the narrow, two-way road, which had no yellow paint to indicate the lanes, and a deep darkness that seemed endless, his anxiety cranked up another notch. It was no help that he had suddenly grown famished. This was one poorly planned road trip. What if this scary place had no motels? What if he had no choice but to drive on until daylight, starving and sleep deprived? No fucking way was he pulling over and napping in this place.
Then came the real peak of the day’s ongoing shit storm. His Honda’s headlights dimmed and the dashboard lights began to blink; the car slowed down of its own avail.
“Fuck!” cried Kendall as he turned the wheel and let the dying energy of the motor roll him over to the side of the road.
His car had finally ceased moving before a withered, old wooden welcome sign.
WELCOME TO HOLLOWS POINT
FOUNDED 1780
Painted under the greeting in dripping crimson was some added text.
“Built upon the blood of the witch.”
Well that’s sure comforting.
For minutes, he sat in contemplation, cursing and looking down at the cigar in his ashtray. Sure, he could relight the stogie and wait until somebody drove along. In some movies, these country folk were always friendly and happy to help. But so far this night was playing out more like a horror movie. And with his current state of hunger and thirst, the cigar would only serve to make him feel woozy and more dehydrated.
He thought of calling AAA, but something told him he should keep moving. Find a safe place first, call for roadside assistance then. Luckily his cell phone was almost fully charged, so he decided he’d walk awhile with the guide of his phone’s flashlight. He reached into the backseat to retrieve his bag with a few of his personal items: cigarettes, a few more cigars, lighter, prescription anxiety medication. After popping two Ativan, he decided to set out into the darkness ahead, hoping some semblance of civilized human life would show itself soon.
6
The flickering of the nearly burnt out HOLLOWS POINT MOTEL sign served as a beacon of safety for Candy as she pulled off the dark country road. No way could Rhino find her in this rural town two hundred and then some miles away. Right?
As Candy pulled into the parking spot most hidden from the road she tried with all she had in her to block out the events of last night that had driven her to get in her car and drive until she could drive no more.
She sat for several minutes smoking a cigarette before getting out to check in to the motel. She found it kind of funny how less than just twenty-four hours ago she longed to be behind the wheel of her safe, comfortable car. Now she had driven it to the point where she felt the same claustrophobia she felt in the passenger seat of her now ex-boyfriend’s car. Well, she hadn’t been able to officially tell him he was now her ex-boyfriend. And she feared she hadn’t seen the last of him. No matter how far she would flee, he’d turn up eventually. And now it was still as if he were right in there with her, or standing anywhere right outside waiting. Though the urge to get out and be peacefully locked inside a sleazy motel room for the night was insuppressible, she felt a great apprehension. What if she wasn’t actually safe here? Could he have followed me all this way?
The thought seemed ridiculous, but too crucial not to consider.
What if her escape wasn’t thorough enough? What if she’d left something behind that could lead Rhino to her? She knew the thought was ridiculous, but she couldn’t keep her mind away from it.
She was gone, and she’d never see her apartment again, which was conveniently a month-to-month lease, as she had ended up there after running from a previous abusive boyfriend. The place also came almost fully furnished so it wasn’t like she left anything expensive of her own behind. The next tenant to take up residence in that shithole could claim any of her actual possessions that she’d left.
Finally, she got out of the car and looked around at the pitch-black sky and the dense trees. Rhino could be hiding anywhere in the near total darkness that surrounded her. In the shadow of any corner. Behind any tree.
But, she had stopped several times on her near four hundred-mile drive to eat and use the bathroom at fast food establishments, so if he had been following her, surely he would have made his presence known at any of the previous stops. And she had driven all over, through every New England state except Connecticut. Now she figured
she was only two hundred miles from her apartment in Kingsport, Rhode Island, but she had driven in a vast, winding and aimless trail that she knew Rhino couldn’t follow.
But, then again, maybe he could. His jealousy and possessive insecurity was just as motivating as her paranoia. And after the way she’d left him, she knew he had a score to settle.
Deciding to try and put her irrational fear at ease, she reached into her coat pocket and fished out her cell phone.
“No,” she said to herself, staring blankly at the phone. She couldn’t call the club and see if Rhino was there. Everyone there knew her voice. But there would be no way for him to know where she was. Sure, they could trace the number, but that wouldn’t reveal her location.
Finally, she gave in and dialed the club.
“Perfect Tens,” said Greta the bartender.
“Rhino please,” said Candy, doing her best to mask her voice.
“Candy is that you?” asked Greta.
Fuck.
“Candy?” Greta asked again. “We haven’t seen Rhino all day. Or you for that matter. Where are you? Did you do it? Did you leave? Are you okay? What the-”
Candy ended the call and turned her phone completely off. With far more force than necessary she buried it deep in the pocket of her black pea coat.
Great, she thought. If he’s not there, he’s obviously looking for me. Why else wouldn’t he show up?
Deciding that since she had come this far and could not stand another minute behind the wheel to seek an even more distant sanctuary, she headed for the office of the motel.
The one grace she found about being here in this rural, bum-fuck town in the dark of night was the utter silence. Not even crickets or cicadas were to be heard off in the endless forest that lined the road. Nothing could be heard but a faint ringing in each ear, likely a symptom of many nights dancing so close to booming speakers. If a six-foot-four, three hundred and fifty-pound lummox like Rhino was going to sneak up on her, she’d surely hear him coming. And for a fit, five-foot-two gal like Candy, outrunning him would be easy. And she could surely run a lot longer than he could. But she’d have to stop eventually. What then?
Candy did the best job she could of composing herself, rubbed her cheeks dry of tears, took a few deep breaths, and strutted into the motel office where she found a tired, disheveled slob sitting behind the counter. Pinned to the breast of his grease-stained short-sleeve button-down dress shirt was a nametag that read CURTIS-NIGHT MANAGER.
“Umm, hello,” she said. “I’d like a room, please.”
Curtis looked up, only taking interest when he saw that the voice that had disturbed him was coming out of a gorgeous black-haired, pale-skinned, blue-eyed beauty.
“How long will you be staying?” he asked.
“Just for tonight,” she answered.
“You sure about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely you must want to stick around longer than one night.”
“Again,” said Candy, “what do you mean by that?”
Curtis laughed and said, “Relax, toots. Hollows Point just has so much to do and see, is all I was saying. Just look around at all the nothingness you have to get lost in. I didn’t mean to startle you, sweetheart. I can see you’re a bit shaken as it is. Running from something, I’d guess. A man, no doubt. I’d put money on it.”
“Just give me a room, please,” groaned Candy. “If I decide the nothingness around me warrants another night, I’ll let you know tomorrow morning.”
“We’re running a special, you know,” said Curtis. “Stay two nights get the third half off.”
“Just tonight,” said Candy, reaching for her wallet. “How much?”
“Fifty-five dollars. Sixty-five if you want a smoking room.”
Candy took a wad of cash out from her wallet, quickly counted sixty-five in fives and ones, and placed the money down on the counter. “Smoking,” she said.
“Ah-hah,” laughed Curtis. “So you’re in a cash business, I see. Pegged you for a stripper the moment I laid eyes on you.” Curtis scanned his hungry, yellowed eyes up and down Candy. “Or are you in a more…discreet kind of cash business? I think I can work out a little discount if you know what I-”
“Just give me a goddamn key and room number, please!” cried Candy, cutting the pervert off.
“Okay, okay,” said Curtis. “No need to get all-”
Curtis was again cut off, this time by the glass door of the office flying open and the terrified cries and wails of a woman running inside. Candy turned with a start and found a young, pretty girl who looked badly hurt. Her clothes - a pair of tight blue jeans and a pink tank top that wasn’t nearly warm enough for the October night, were filthy and torn. Her hands bled from the fingernails. Her auburn hair was a mess and possibly pulled out in some areas. Mascara that must have been applied more than a day ago ran down her cheeks in black tears.
“You again?” groaned Curtis. “Didn’t we do this before? Say, about a year ago?”
“Honey, are you okay!” cried Candy.
“What the fuck hole did you just crawl out from this time?” asked Curtis.
“Call the police!” bellowed Candy.
“They can’t help me!” the girl bellowed. “Please don’t call the police!”
“Relax,” said Candy, putting an arm around the shoulder of the girl. “Let’s have a seat. I’ll sit with you until the cops get here.”
“I need to hide,” the young girl said in little more than a whisper, gasping as Candy helped her into a chair.
Candy thought of her own situation and tensed her fingers in anger.
“You’re safe with me,” Candy whispered back. “Just sit quiet here for a minute.”
“Police are on their way,” said Curtis as he hung up the phone. “You can leave her here with me and go to your room now.” Curtis grabbed a key off the wall and placed it on the counter. “Room twenty-two.”
“I think I’ll stay right here until the police arrive, thank you very much,” said Candy.
7
Kendall’s walk proved itself to be no less terrifying for the city boy than waiting in his car for Leatherface or a band of horny, inbred hillbillies to find him. In the car it was the silence he feared. Out here it was more than silence, as if the complete lack of sound was amplified. Where was the noise? Back home the night sounds were a comfort: police sirens, drunken college kids stumbling around, cats in heat. In the city he never felt alone. Out here in Hollows Point, he felt as if he were the last man on Earth.
After twenty more minutes of utter darkness and despair, a beacon of hope shined from the distance. About a quarter-mile up the road there was a flickering light, too far for its characters to be read, but close enough that he could at least reach it on foot in a short time. Kendall quickened his pace, yearning for this to be some form of establishment that if not a motel would at least be open and have a civilized human being there that he could talk to. As he trudged closer, more lights appeared, but not a welcoming kind. These lights were swirling beams of blue, surely police flashers. Onward he trudged undeterred, until at long last he found this possible oasis was nothing less than what he had hoped for. The sign read HOLLOWS POINT MOTEL, and below it was another sign: VACANCY.
A police car was parked in front of the entrance, as he had figured. He continued on, imagining a number of worst case scenarios, and trying to assuage the resulting fear. Maybe there was just a mass shooting here. But if so, he had missed it and would still have a room for the night. Besides, it was highly unlikely that a motel would get shot up twice in one night.
As he approached the front door, two police officers led a badly disheveled and terrified girl out. It didn’t appear that she was under arrest. She was not cuffed, despite her barely intelligible babbling, and the cops were being rather calm and polite with her. But the girl herself was a complete mess, physically and emotionally.
Must’ve overdosed or something, Kendall thought as
he continued on into the lobby where he saw a stunningly attractive raven-haired, blue-eyed female in a black pea coat. A greasy, fat slob was also present, behind the counter.
“I guess I missed something,” said Kendall as he approached the desk.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” groaned the slob. “Just one of the locals doing her thing. Can I help you?”
“Hopefully,” said Kendall. “I could certainly use a room for the night, hopefully just one night. My car’s broken down about a mile or so down the road.”
“What kinda car?” asked the slob whose name tag read: CURTIS-NIGHT MANAGER.
“Honda Accord.”
“About a mile or so down this road? Hollows Point?”
“I think so. If the road we’re on now is Hollows Point road, then yes.”
“I’ll get you checked in and I’ll make a call. There’s a garage just about another hundred feet down the road next door. Hell, had your engine lasted another few minutes you coulda’ rolled right in there. I’m guessing you were driving north or you would have seen it on your way here. One of my boys from the garage will tow it there and you can walk over in the morning and take things from there.”
“Awesome,” said Kendall. “Can’t thank you enough, uhh…”
“Curtis,” said the greasy night manager. “Pleasure is all mine, pal.” Curtis reached behind himself and grabbed a key off the wall, then placed it down on the counter. “You a smoker?”
“I am.”
“Room twenty-one, right next to where the fine pretty thing standing next to you will be staying. Up the stairs, two doors down from the soda and ice machines. You can help each other find your way. And be nice to that lady.” Curtis turned to Candy and flashed her a brownish, toothy grin. “She’s in the cash business, if you smell my drift. Might make your stay here at Hollows Point Motel well worth your while. That’ll be sixty-five dollars for tonight. If your car isn’t ready in the morning you can certainly book another night. We’re not exactly filled to capacity here.”
