by Lisa Unger
Up here that was the dirtiest word. Developers came up all the time, finding their way where locals from town wouldn’t even dare to go. These strangers offered big money for land, never understanding that the folks who lived here were part of the land. They could no more sell it than they could sell the skin off their bodies.
Poppa took the developer’s watch, too, a big glittery thing. And his belt and shoes. Those shoes that city people wore to the country, leather with big treads and fancy laces. Nice looking but not waterproof, not really.
Then they drove out to The Chapel (as the local kids called it) a run-down old barn out in the middle of The Hollows Wood. There were several long, wide trails behind the house on their property (one of several) that led straight to it. And Poppa did a good job of keeping the paths wide and passable for the truck and the snowmobile. So even a fancy car like the Bimmer could make it at least to the clearing. And since the ground was still dry because there hadn’t been as much rain this year, Poppa was able to drive it right inside the old barn.
It didn’t seem like the best hiding spot, because local kids came up here all the time. Bobo snuck out on full-moon nights and watched them smoking and kissing and more inside. Even though the place was so tilted and sagging that it looked like it could come down at any second, they came up here with six-packs of beer and cartons of cigarettes, sleeping bags. They made fires in the field, played music sometimes, and danced. There was a place in the back where Bobo could sit and watch them through a triangle opening in the wood. Whispered words, exposed skin, sometimes laughter, sometimes raised voices and tears. Bobo wanted to be one of them.
But there was no one up there now. Big fingers of sunlight streamed in through the gaping holes in the roof. That’s why Bobo thought of it as The Chapel, because it looked like church somehow. Like God was reaching down to touch it.
Poppa drove the car back as far as they could go into the shadows. Then he got out and started pacing, which he did when he was thinking about what to do. Finally, he started taking things from all around—broken-up crates, pieces of wood that lay around. There was an old tarp by the door, a balled-up blanket in the corner.
They worked for a while to hide the car behind a pile of debris. From the door, where the car was parked toward the back, you couldn’t see it. And the kids didn’t do much exploring. When they came up here, they weren’t interested in the barn or the woods around it. They were mostly just interested in each other’s bodies, seemed like. The car might not be discovered for a good long while. And once the snow started falling, no one would come up here again until spring. It was supposed to be a long, cold winter, according to Poppa. And the way the air felt, it wouldn’t be long before it fell over The Hollows.
The walk back to the house was long, but Bobo didn’t mind. He wondered if Poppa noticed that they were leaving tracks in the field and on the trail. Tracks that would lead back to the house, if anyone was looking. Of course, he did; Poppa had taught Bobo all about tracking, about looking for the print on the soft ground, or the succession of broken branches, the nibbled berry or the scat in the leaves. Every creature left his mark, if you knew how to look. If you were quiet and patient, you could almost always find him. Poppa wasn’t being careful, because he knew that most people weren’t quiet or patient and certainly didn’t know how to look at the woods to see what had journeyed down the trail before them. That must be why.
*
When they got back to the house, New Penny was still on the ground where she’d been lying unconscious since Poppa took the belt to her. Poppa told Bobo to get her cleaned up. In the chair on the porch, Momma rocked wearing that blank look she often wore, as if she were looking at something no one else could see. Maybe she was watching. Maybe not. She could stay that way for a long time. Bobo carried New Penny to her cot, head lolling, blond hair wild and dirty. Then he got the chain and locked her up again.
New Penny was whispering something that Bobo couldn’t hear at first. When Poppa left, Bobo stood listening.
IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou
That was the thing about New Penny that was different from the others. She wasn’t just afraid. She was full of fire. That’s why he liked her better than the others. She was angry, just like him.
TWELVE
Finley rode her motorcycle to Agatha’s big old house, not knowing where else to go. Eloise had been clear that Finley must find her way, that she was more or less on her own with the squeak-clink. But Finley felt lost. So she wound her way out of town to see Agatha. The vision was receding to the point of being inaccessible, like a dream that had just slipped away, and the few remaining pieces seemed disjointed and nonsensical.
She looped the town center and then took the small highway away from The Hollows. The farther she got, the better she felt, as if her lungs could take in more air, her shoulders straighten.
The negative energy of The Hollows could not be denied. It was no secret to Finley, who felt it constantly. The Hollows boasted an anomalous number of missing persons, of miscarriages, of accidents and unexplained events. Throughout its history, there had been brutal murders, witch burnings, and horrible mining accidents. There’s a powerful energy here, Eloise had said more than once. It’s not always positive, it’s not always negative, but it always demands something of people like us. Though to look at its bustling, precious town center, you’d think it was the prettiest, most idyllic place on earth. People moved their families here to get away from the crime and chaos of the big city, vacationed here for its natural beauty and places like the Old Mill and the apple orchards and the famous pumpkin patch in autumn. The Hollows didn’t mind visitors; it put on its Sunday best for those folks.
“It’s a hell mouth,” Amanda was famous for saying. But Finley’s mother was the ultimate drama queen. It wasn’t enough just to say that she didn’t like The Hollows, that the town where she grew up was full of bad memories. She had to hate it, to disavow it completely. But Amanda was like that about everything—restaurants, fashion trends, Finley’s friends. It wasn’t enough to just say that something was not for her; she had to declare it unfit for others as well.
As soon as she was able, Amanda had gotten as far away from The Hollows as she could without leaving the country, as far away from Eloise and her abilities as national boundaries would allow. Finley’s childhood visits to the place were brief and tense. Any mention Finley made of liking it there or of missing Eloise was met with a very particular kind of ashen-faced silence from Amanda.
When Finley decided to come to The Hollows to be with Eloise, to understand herself better, Amanda took it as a personal affront. “You’re doing this just to hurt me,” her mother had said, holding back tears. Finley denied it. But in moments in which she was being honest with herself, she had to admit that it was a little bit true. Her move to The Hollows was proof positive that Amanda couldn’t control Finley, as hard as she tried. The Hollows, the motorcycle, Rainer, the people who weren’t there. There was nothing Amanda could do about any of it.
Now, as Finley sat in front of Agatha’s house for a moment, head aching, hands shaking, she wondered if her mother had been right after all to try to keep her away. And if she’d been right about that, what else might she be right about? Finley tried to keep from going down the rabbit hole into a universe where Amanda might actually know what she was talking about.
Finley climbed off her bike and jogged up the porch steps, knocked on the big white door.
She’d gone home first, to Eloise. But Eloise was not there, which was surprising because Eloise seemed always to be at home lately. Finley had walked through the house and in the kitchen checked the calendar. There was a single entry for the day. Eloise had scribbled: Dr. A. Finley made a mental note to ask about it.
After another knock, she pushed through the open door. Agatha’s house was as big and white, as still and curated as a museum. The triple-height foyer, with its gigantic entry table and towering vase of flowers, made Finley
feel tiny as she walked down the long hallway that led to Agatha’s big sitting room.
Agatha got up from her seat by the fire and met Finley with a warm embrace in the center of an enormous oriental carpet. Finley’s nerves immediately calmed as they sat on the plush white sofa.
Over in front of a row of windows that looked out onto a pool surrounded by a beautiful garden of trees and flowers was a long glass table. Agatha used it as a desk, and there were two large silver computers sitting there, as well as a laptop. Finley knew Agatha monitored the world news obsessively, always in tune with what was going on—she was a wellspring of facts and knowledge. Education only makes us better at what we do. The more we know, the more we can understand. The more we can understand, the more we can help them and each other.
“Tell me,” Agatha said. They sat on the couch facing each other, Finley kicked off her boots and pulled her feet up beneath her to sit cross-legged.
Finley told her about squeak-clink, the little bird, the boy with the train, the reappearance of Abigail. She recounted her visit with Jones and what happened at the lake house. When she was done, they sat a moment, looking into the fire.
“You’re shaken by your experiences,” Agatha said finally.
“I thought you said there was time,” said Finley. “That I could set boundaries and choose how I use my gifts.”
Agatha nodded slowly, her face serene. She was ageless—might be sixty years old, though Finley and Eloise surmised she was in her nineties. She wore her white hair long, adorned herself with bangles and big necklaces and wide rings studded with gems. Finley thought of her as a big woman, always draped in tunics in long skirts, but lately she seemed thinner, more frail. Today, Agatha wore a pendant with a sky-blue gem, and Finley found she couldn’t take her eyes from its glittering depth, its layers of color.
“I told you that you could learn to set boundaries and choose how to use your gifts,” said Agatha. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”
“I’ve never had a vision like the one I had today,” said Finley. “Where I’ve been taken out of myself.”
“Like your grandmother,” said Agatha. “That’s hard. What I do is not exactly like what you and your grandmother do; you’re far more tapped in to frequencies than I am.”
Finley had suspected that she would be more like Agatha than Eloise. That she would connect the living with the dead, that she might use that in work as a psychologist or therapist to counsel the living. She had imagined herself possibly as a grief therapist, when she imagined herself as anything at all. Which was rarely. She hadn’t really projected herself into the future.
The truth was she didn’t know what she wanted at all, except that she wanted to be the exact opposite of her parents, especially her mother. And she really didn’t want to be like Eloise, either, though she loved her grandmother, maybe more than anyone on earth other than her brother Alfie. But anyone could see that Eloise had let her abilities drain her. Finley wasn’t prepared to live like that.
“What is this place?” Finley asked. She grabbed a cushion and hugged it to her middle. The trees outside were wild in the strong wind.
“The Hollows?” said Agatha. She looked around the room, offered a shrug. “I don’t know. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was an energy vortex.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are certain places on earth that are spiritual centers, where the energy has particular characteristics,” said Agatha. “Like Red Rocks in Arizona is supposed to be a place of healing energy. I have lived here all my life, and my ancestors before me, and I still don’t quite know what The Hollows is and what it wants. I know I am less powerful when I’m not close to it. I don’t have all the answers.”
Agatha was the most powerful person Finley had ever met. She just likes to downplay it, Eloise had told her. It might be a way she has of protecting herself. Though Agatha claimed not to have dreams and visions at all, she always seemed to know everything that was going on before you said a word.
“I tried to put it aside and go to class,” said Finley. “Instead, I wound up at Jones Cooper’s place, and the next thing I knew we were heading to the lake house. And then I was there—seeing everything. I felt hijacked. I couldn’t have avoided it.”
Agatha reached out and Finley took her hand.
“I wasn’t with her,” said Finley.
“Who were you with?” asked Agatha.
“I don’t know,” said Finley. “A boy, I think. Someone with the abductor.”
This had happened to Eloise, as well. She had inhabited rapists, pedophiles, kidnappers, murderers. Her grandmother didn’t like to talk about those experiences, except to say that you could learn to turn away, to “draw back.”
“You have to honor that,” said Agatha. “And try not to judge. You were where you were supposed to be. And maybe the girl can’t help you.”
“Maybe she’s already gone,” said Finley. The thought had come to her on the ride over, and it made her sick, physically nauseous. When she thought about herself doing “the work,” she only ever imagined herself helping people, saving people, finding the lost.
“Not everybody can be saved or is even meant to be saved,” Agatha said, giving Finley’s hand a squeeze. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“What do you think?” asked Agatha. “No. What do you feel?”
“I don’t know,” said Finley. “I truly don’t.”
“Be patient,” said Agatha. “Follow your instincts. That’s all you can do.”
Finley got up quickly and paced the room, from the window to the door. Agatha was unperturbed, looking at her a moment, then back to the flames. She was a rock, and Finley was the wave, crashing against her.
“Is this what I do?” asked Finley, coming to stand in front of Agatha.
“I think it’s too soon to tell,” said the old woman. “But I’ll tell you one thing and you might not like it. The Hollows doesn’t like a void.”
Finley shook her head, then wrapped her arms tight around her middle. She was freezing suddenly. Agatha always kept the house so cold.
“What does that mean?” Finley asked.
“It means that Eloise wants to leave,” said Agatha. “And if she does, there will be a space to fill.”
We are chosen, Eloise had warned. We don’t choose.
“And if I don’t want to fill it?”
Agatha gave her a wide, beautiful smile. But she offered only a shrug and a light shake of the head. “Too soon to tell.”
“What if I can’t help?” Finley said. “I mean, I didn’t get anything out of that vision. I don’t know any more than I did before. Well, not much.”
“Are you quite sure about that?”
Finley had to admit that she wasn’t totally sure about anything really.
She sat on the hearth and buried her eyes in her hands. The tattoo on her back burned; it was really uncomfortable, beyond normal levels. Maybe it was getting infected. That happened sometimes. In the dark of her palms, she saw the girl being dragged up the path.
“I was certain that they went north, deeper into the woods,” Finley said. “But Jones Cooper says that the whole area was searched, and nothing was found.”
“They’re wrong so often,” Agatha said indulgently, as if she were talking about children at play. “That’s why they need us. Don’t let anyone talk you out of what you have seen. Don’t let other people make you doubt yourself, even those who are good and well meaning. They simply don’t see what we see.”
Finley blew out a breath.
“So what do I do?” Finley said.
“Sleep on it,” said Agatha. “You’ll know what to do when it’s time.”
“That’s it?” said Finley.
Agatha chuckled a little. “Did you think I was going to hand you a rule book? The good news and the bad news is that no one knows better than you how to find your way with your abilities.”
She’d said this before, and it never failed to remind her of Glinda, the Good Witch and Dorothy. You always had the power, or whatever it was Glinda had said. Finley was always so annoyed by that. If Glinda could have spared Dorothy from the beginning, why didn’t she? All she had to do was tell her that those slippers were magic and that she could go home. But she didn’t. Nobody can give you the power over your destiny, her mom had tried to explain. You have to claim it, sometimes through trial. Otherwise you never know it’s yours.
To Finley, it just sounded like a crock, something grown-ups said to cover up their own failings.
“You’re more powerful than you know,” said Agatha.
Finley looked over at Agatha, who was pouring them each some tea from a set Finley hadn’t even noticed, looking peaceful and unconcerned. She was embarrassed by how much faith Agatha and Eloise had in her. They thought she was some kind of prodigy, and they were clearly wrong. As Finley rose to help Agatha (the teapot was shaking in the old woman’s hand), she wondered which of the three of them was going to be the most disappointed when they figured out that Finley’s abilities were middling at best.
THIRTEEN
Penny had promised herself that tonight was going to be the night. But now that it was time, the woods were whispering, solemn with warning. Don’t go. Not yet. She heard it and she didn’t hear it.
After the house went dark, she’d lain in bed, wide awake, vibrating. Waiting for the right time. She couldn’t stay here. Whatever was out there, even if the woods were alive with ghosts and monsters, witches and ghouls, screaming and wailing and chasing—it couldn’t be worse. Could it?
Don’t go. Not yet.
Her daddy had told her that if she ever got lost in the woods, to find a river and follow it downstream. At least she thought that was what he said. He was always talking about things like that: what to do if.
If we get separated on the subway, get off at the next stop and find the token booth clerk. Ask her to call the police.
