Hell Hollow

by Ronald Kelly

  The act of vengeance itself didn’t bother Edwin. It had been justified. It was what had taken place following the killing that still sickened him deep down in his soul.

  They had left him down there in the dark pit of that backwoods hollow. There had been no burial of the body and nary a word was uttered over his earthly remains. Rather, they had simply turned and gone home, leaving Augustus Leech and his poisonous legacy to rot away with the erosion of time and nature.

  But now both of them – murderer and memory – had returned in the form of a dream.

  Or had it been more of a premonition?

  Edwin Hill drove the thoughts from his mind. He took another drink of liquor, then capped the bottle. The deadening effect of the alcohol failed to smother the guilt he felt over lying to his friend, however.

  And, as the night drew on, neither did it quell the fear that remained with him. A fear that clung close to his heart like a shadow dogging one’s heels on a lonely, moonlit country road.

  A shadow that disturbingly resembled that of a lean, mustachioed man clad in a long black coat and a tall stovepipe hat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “What’ll you have, dear?” asked the waitress that appeared beside her table.

  The nametag on her uniform blouse identified her as Lucille and she looked as if she had been an employee of the Tank & Tummy Truck Stop since it first opened for business. And considering the amount of cigarette burns and coffee stains on the table’s acrylic surface, the combination greasy spoon and gas station had probably been in operation for twenty or thirty years.

  Allison Walsh studied the menu, the pages of which were covered with clear plastic, also stained. After a restless night of little sleep and too many nasty dreams, she found herself famished. “I’ll have the Tummyful Country Breakfast,” she said. The special consisted of three eggs sunnyside up, hickory-cured bacon, a side of grits, two cathead buttermilk biscuits, and sorghum molasses. A near-lethal dose of cholesterol and calories to be certain, but Allison didn’t care.

  “Want coffee with that?” asked Lucille. She looked bone-tired and old before her time. A double application of Nice & Easy and too much makeup attempted to hide gray hair and crow’s feet, but failed miserably.

  “Yes,” said Allison. She folded her menu and placed it back in its wire holder amid a gathering of condiments in the center of the table. “The blacker the better.”

  Lucille scribbled the order on her pad and nodded. “Have it to you in a couple minutes,” she said, then walked back toward the eating counter. Several burly truckers sat on padded stools there, choking down ham biscuits and syrup-drenched pancakes. One reached out and swatted the waitress on the fanny as she walked past, but she totally ignored him. It was a little past nine in the morning. Lucille was too bummed out from starting her shift at four o’clock to pay much attention to the customer’s playful gesture. Besides, considering the way he seemed to make himself at home, he was probably one of the Tank & Tummy’s regular customers.

  Allison sat at her table, anxious to be back on the road again. She had covered few miles the day before, stopping at every interstate exit between Rome and Chattanooga. Allison had questioned the clerks of convenience stores and gas stations concerning the one she was looking for. But, so far, she had hit one brick wall after another. No one had remembered seeing the lean, dark-eyed man with the stringy black hair and goatee beard. From the curt replies she had received, Allison couldn’t tell whether they had actually told her the truth or simply didn’t want to get involved.

  She had crossed the Tennessee state line late last evening and checked into a room at a Best Western. She ate a couple of chicken burritos she had bought at a Taco Bell, then undressed and took a shower. Allison still recalled the pain that had pulsed through her abused body as the warm spray engulfed her, particularly from the word that had been carved deeply into her chest. She hadn’t shied from the discomfort, however. Instead, she embraced it. Upon her release from the hospital, she found that she actually wanted to remember what had happened to her during those horrible days and nights in the abandoned house near Adairsville. Until she found the bastard, she intended to keep the agony fresh, both in mind and body. That way, when she finally confronted her tormentor, there would be no hesitation. Not one second’s worth.

  Her food arrived ten minutes after she had placed her order. She thanked Lucille, then dug hungrily into the plate of eggs, grits, and bacon. It didn’t take long to polish off the Tummyful Country Breakfast, including the biscuits and molasses.

  She was finishing her coffee, when a stocky fellow dressed in a NASCAR t-shirt and a black Harley-Davidson cap walked in and took a seat between the two truckers.

  “Well, if it ain’t the prodigal son!” greeted the man who had slapped Lucille’s sagging caboose. “How’s it going, Jerry?”

  “Alright, I reckon,” he replied. “Lucille, honey, are you going to stand over yonder gabbing with that short-order cook or are you going to feed a hungry man?”

  The waitress pulled herself away from the narrow window that provided access to the kitchen. She smiled when she saw the truck driver sitting on the other side of the counter. “Look what the cat dragged in,” she said, taking her pencil from behind her ear. “What can I get for you this morning, Jerry?”

  “I’ll take a stack of cakes with pecan syrup,” he said, not bothering to even pick up a menu. “And a side order of link sausages, too.”

  “You got it,” said Lucille. She poured Jerry a cup of black coffee from a big Bunn coffee urn, then pinned the order slip on the stainless steel carousel that hung inside the access window. The cook – a tall, skinny man wearing a bandanna headband – ignored the slip on the carousel and went to work, pouring dollops of pancake batter on the hot griddle.

  Allison went back to her coffee, eager to finish her meal and hit the road again. Then she caught a snippet of conversation that instantly drew her attention.

  “Hey, did you hear about what happened up the road a piece?” asked the trucker named George. “About that guy getting murdered?”

  “Hell, no,” said Jerry. “I’ve been hauling swinging beef down in Texas for the past ten days. What happened?”

  “A state trooper came across a car parked at the side of the interstate and, when he took a look inside, found the driver sitting there with his throat cut clean open. And, from what I heard, it hadn’t happened two minutes before that trooper showed up. Whoever killed and robbed the poor bastard, got away by a hair. They’re still looking for him, but so far no dice.”

  “Who got killed?” asked Jerry.

  “Some businessman from Kentucky,” said George. “They found him near a place called Harmony, about eighteen miles north of Manchester.”

  “Well, ain’t that a damn shame,” grumbled Jerry. “Goes to show that nobody’s safe on the road anymore. They’ll kill you for a pack of smokes these days, they surely will!”

  Allison finished her coffee, a small grin lurking beneath the rim of her cup. Her hands trembled with a mixture of excitement and fear as she left a generous tip for Lucille. Then she paid her check at the register and left the truck stop.

  When she reached her rental car, Allison sat there for a long moment, her eyes closed. She couldn’t be sure, but somehow she felt that Slash Jackson was the one the state police were looking for. It was the fact that the businessman’s throat had been slashed that caused her to believe so. Allison remembered how many times Slash had laid the honed blade of his knife against her throat during the duration of her abduction, threatening to cut her clean down to the neck bone if she didn’t do something he wanted her to. If she didn’t scream louder or perform one of the many acts of perversion she had been forced to commit, the blade was there as a persuader.

  She opened her purse and, slipping her hand inside, found the gun tucked between her wallet and a pack of Merits. She felt a strange comfort – as well as a thrill of anticipation – as she ran her fingers along the len
gth of cool, blued steel. It was almost like a sexual hunger in a way, her burning need to confront him. And she was certain the release she would feel upon pulling the trigger would be just as sweet and powerful as any orgasm she had ever experienced.

  Reluctantly, Allison Walsh let go of the .38 revolver and closed her purse. Then she started her car and, hitting Interstate 24, headed north for a place called Harmony.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In silence, they traveled the dirt road that cut through the center of South Woods. They had departed from Chuck’s house around eleven-thirty and, by the time they left the vast acreage of farmland behind and entered the shadowy stretch of the forest, it was nearly noon. Keith was anxious to get there, but he was the only one. Rusty, Chuck, and Maggie didn’t come right out and say so, but they weren’t very happy about breaking a local taboo and visiting the place known as Hell Hollow.

  “Come on, guys,” said Keith as the earthen trail grew less defined and more choked with weeds and encroaching underbrush. “Don’t be such wimps. You three look like you’re on the way to the electric chair instead of some stupid old hollow out in the middle of the woods.”

  “It’s been worse than that for some folks, or so the stories go,” said Maggie.

  “What do you mean?” asked Keith with interest.

  “There’s been tales about folks going hunting out in these woods and never being seen alive again,” explained Rusty. “Or even dead, for that matter.”

  “I heard that way back in the early sixties, some city fellas came down from Nashville, aiming to do some coon hunting,” put in Chuck. “There were four of them, along with three redbone hounds. The fools headed into these woods at sundown, but didn’t show back up in town the next morning.

  The county sheriff came out here to look for them. He only found their station wagon. He and his deputy followed their tracks to Hell Hollow.

  That’s where the footprints just disappeared, both human and dog. It was as if the hollow just swallowed them up whole.”

  “And nary a one of them city-slickers were ever found, either,” added Rusty, looking spooked.

  “Aw, what a load of crap!” laughed Keith.

  “Well, folks around here don’t think so,” said Maggie. “There is something weird out there. And we’re warped for even agreeing to go.”

  “Hey, a bet is a bet,” the boy reminded them.

  “Like you haven’t already told us that a zillion times already today,” said Chuck. He reached over and punched Rusty in the arm hard. “And you could’ve pedaled a little faster and beat him, too. Then we’d be sharing that iPod instead of riding out here!”

  Rusty grimaced painfully. “Heck, you try crossing that bridge with a big-ass truck heading straight for you. Then maybe you wouldn’t be so quick to lay the blame on me.”

  “I still think you could’ve stomped him,” grumbled Chuck. “I mean, you grew up on a bike. He’s only been riding one for a few days.”

  “Just shut your hole, will you?” said Rusty, feeling bad enough.

  “I can’t believe how chicken-livered you guys are,” said Keith with a big grin on his face. “Or how gullible you are for believing such bull in the first place.”

  A few minutes later, the road became almost non-existent. There were only a couple of dirt ruts lined with tall weeds and little else. The dark forest, choked with shadows, pressed in on them from both sides, the limbs of the trees even merging overhead. Only a few specks of light filtered through the thick foliage. Otherwise, the noonday sun was almost completely blocked from view.

  A moment later, the road vanished entirely and the ground suddenly dropped away. They stopped their bikes at the edge and peered down a steep slope covered with thick, leafy kudzu. Below stood a grove of cedar and birch trees, as well as heavy stands of honeysuckle vine and thorny blackberry bramble. The shadows were so thick at the bottom that very little could be seen from their vantage point.

  “Well, here we are,” said Rusty. Despite the hot August day, goose bumps stood out visibly on his freckled arms.

  “Listen,” said Chuck softly.

  Keith frowned. “What? I don’t hear anything.”

  “That’s it,” said Maggie, looking uneasy. “It’s too quiet. No birds or bugs. No wind blowing through the trees. Nothing at all.”

  Keith listened for a moment. She was right. The hollow was completely silent. The sounds of nature he had grown accustomed to since his arrival in the country seemed to be nonexistent here. It was so silent that, for a second, he wondered if he had suddenly been stricken deaf.

  “Well, if we’re going down there, let’s go on and get it over with,” said Chuck. He raised his arms. “Ya’ll are going to have to help me, though. I sure can’t get down there by myself.”

  Rusty nodded and looked over at Keith. “I reckon we’ll have to tote him on our shoulders,” he said. “You figure you’re up to that, cuz?”

  “Don’t worry,” snapped Keith. “I’ll do my part.”

  The two boys engaged the kickstands of their bikes, then walked over and lifted Chuck out of the makeshift sidecar. After several attempts, they finally hefted the overweight boy onto their shoulders.

  “Lordy Mercy, Adkins!” groaned Rusty, nearly collapsing. “You’re heavier than I thought. You’d best start laying off the chicken and dumplings come suppertime. And your mama’s strawberry cheesecake, too, come to think of it.”

  “Screw you!” said Chuck. “Quit your bitching and moaning, and let’s go. I want to get this over and done with.”

  “You’re not scared, are you?” asked Keith.

  Chuck looked down at the boy from Atlanta. “Heck, yeah, I’m scared. And you would be too, if you’d grown up hearing the stories we’ve been told.”

  “Come on,” urged Maggie, leaving Hot Mama and joining them. “But be careful. It’s pretty steep.”

  Keith and Rusty shifted Chuck’s weight more securely on their shoulders, then cautiously started down the slope of the hollow. They had to step high, for the lush carpet of kudzu was deceptively deep in places, nearly up to their knees at times. Also, the converging vines underneath tended to snag their feet and ankles, threatening to trip them up several times.

  “Are there snakes out here?” asked Keith. The only snakes he had ever laid eyes had been safely confined behind glass at the Atlanta Zoo.

  A mischievous grin crossed Rusty’s freckled face. “Sure are, cuz,” he said. “There’s all manner of snakes out in these woods. Rattlers and copperheads mostly. Probably a nest of ‘em hiding beneath these vines at this very moment.”

  Maggie looked over to see that Keith’s face had turned a shade paler than it had been a second ago. She couldn’t help but smile. “Aw, cut it out, Rusty. I know he deserves to have the crap scared out of him, but lay off, will you?”

  Rusty arched an eyebrow, regarding the girl cautiously. “You ain’t getting sweet on him, are you, Maggie?”

  Maggie’s face turned beet red. “No! Of course not!”

  The farm boy looked past Chuck’s knees at his cousin. Keith’s face had grown even redder than the girl’s. “So, when’s the wedding?” Rusty asked. “Can I be your best man?”

  “I think you’d better shut up,” warned Keith. “Right now!”

  “Yeah, put a sock in it, Rusty!” said Chuck. “If you two start fighting, I’ll end up stuck square in the middle. I might even get hurt… and you know how my mom is.” He paused for a second. “You don’t want my mother to get pissed at you again, do you?”

  The two boys shook their heads. After their altercation in the barn last Sunday afternoon, neither feared the other. But they did fear Flora Adkins. Silently, they called a mutual truce and continued their way down the northern slope of Hell Hollow.

  When they reached the floor of the valley, they found it to be eerily still. Nothing seemed to move; not the branches of the trees or even the air around them. They looked for some sign of the bugs that had constantly pestered them durin
g the muggy days of August – swarms of gnats, dive-bombing mosquitoes, or troublesome flies – but none abided in the shadowy basin of Hell Hollow. Neither did they see any birds or squirrels in the tall cedars that stretched before them.

  And there was something else; something that became apparent almost immediately. It was much cooler in the hollow than it was anywhere else. The summer heat didn’t seem to reach the depths of Hell Hollow. In fact, it felt a good ten or fifteen degrees cooler there than where they had left their bikes parked only a few yards away.

  Maggie rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. “This is creepy,” she said. “Can we go now?”

  Keith felt a chill run through him as well, but didn’t let it show. “Fat chance! Everybody goes… just like I said when I made the bet.”

  “What do you expect to find down here?” asked Chuck.

  Keith grinned wickedly. “Who knows? Maybe the bones of those lost hunters and their dogs.”

  Maggie shuddered. “Stop it, Keith!”

  “Aw, don’t give him the pleasure of seeing you squirm,” Rusty told her. “We ain’t gonna find nothing down here anyway.”

  Keith and Rusty rested for a moment, then, toting Chuck on their shoulders, started into the shadowy depths of the cedar grove. The leaves of the trees and underbrush seemed much darker there in the hollow, and the bark seemed almost tar black in hue.

  When they had gone only a few feet, Maggie suddenly raised her hand. “Hey! Listen to that.”

  They paused, standing as still as statues. Faintly, they heard the melody of a musical instrument drifting from further back in the hollow. It was the half-strumming, half-picking of a banjo.

  “Now who would be out here in the middle of nowhere?” asked Chuck.

  “I think we oughta get the hell outta here,” mumbled Rusty beneath his breath.

  Keith looked over at his cousin. “What did you say?”

  Rusty swallowed his uneasiness. “Nothing. Nothing a’tall.”

  Slowly, they continued onward. Not far from the slope of the hollow, they suddenly found themselves in a small clearing. But it was what they found in that backwoods glade that surprised them the most.