Doubtless, Linda would make fun of him if he told her. Stupid, insensitive Linda. The way she looked at him was the same way she looked at roaches crawling on the floor—the nasty little sneer that made her face scrunch up till she resembled an anteater. “You need to stop thinking about that shit and start thinking about making more money,” she’d say to whatever he tried to confide in her.
One time he got a big bid under his belt and brought home flowers and a promise to dinner up in Terrace Lake. She scoffed, stubbed out her cigarette, and shrugged. “That’s still not enough to put the down payment on that car I told you about last week,” she said, snatching the flowers from his hands and tossing them on the counter.
Maybe tonight would be the night he screwed up the courage to tell her enough and pack his things and leave. He’d stay at a hotel in Terrace Lake. There had to be one there he could afford. Just to get away. For now, he settled with getting away in his head, remembering.
Dr. Langelier had talked about how the place went from a hospital, to a home, then to a bed-and-breakfast, then a temporary asylum, and then fell into disrepair. The damn gas bag never shut up when it came to history—or any other subject.
“We purchased it thirty years ago, in 1982. I was just out of university—impressive that I’ve kept most of my hair, isn’t it?” Langelier chuckled at his own joke and touched the thinning grays at the top. “Such a difficult thing to put the history of the house together, yes? Research isn’t exciting the way it is in adventure films. What’s amazing is that the fire did little damage to the structure thanks to the stone masons. It only damaged the people.”
Langelier seemed to realize that Phil was tuning him out with a glazed-over look in his eyes. Phil’s ears were ringing, boredom bringing too much attention to his tinnitus. The aging bag of wind changed his tack. “Do you remember Saul Boggs?”
Phil nodded. “Old Haul Saul. All the kids used to call him that.”
“Indeed. Well, some fifteen years ago Boggs was helping do the first major cleanup of this place. He was the only one whipcord thin enough to go up to the attic and not do any damage to the floorboards.” Langelier gave a smirk at this, and Phil forced a small laugh.
But it was true. Old Haul was average height, but slight and wiry. Phil waited for what was coming next.
“Up in the attic, he was hauling out junk. Belongings of the dead patients or residents, and the occasional gem from the Sellers-Kellogg-Watson fortune. I came in one day by a hunch just to check on him and see if he’d made any important discoveries.”
Phil fought the urge to roll his eyes and managed not to grunt by clearing his throat. “I take it he found something good.”
“Something great—he’d uncovered documents about the history of the house. Naturally I recognized them for what they were and took them back to the Society.”
Phil coughed again. Yeah, naturally. Self-important longhair. “I’m sure you did. I mean, you went to school for it, right?”
Langelier looked at Phil as if he’d found a pot of gold. “Oh yes. I worked hard to recognize and authenticate such things. As I was saying, I rushed back to the Society and examined the papers. Alas, it left me with more questions than ever before. Water damage smudged the dates to illegibility, and some were so waterlogged only a few sentences with names remained.”
It seemed to Phil that Langelier was just talking to hear his own voice. He didn’t bother to reply—it wasn’t as if what he said mattered. Langelier just kept talking.
“I tried investigating around town—I was the maverick back then, you know. Even after my time here they see me as a newcomer. You know how it is.” Langelier gave a belly laugh so big that Phil thought the man might burst something.
“Yeah, I do.” Phil forced a smile and tried to laugh along with the older man. “People keep their mouths shut if it might become gossip about them.”
“Yes, indeed. Indeed.” Langelier said. “No matter who I interviewed it was like getting apples from an orange tree.”
In Silver Hollow, there were things that people wouldn’t say as if they were afraid of calling attention to themselves or whatever had happened would somehow happen again. He was one of the silent ones, himself. Not out of superstition—but upbringing.
What mattered now, though, was that they were restoring the place back to an old war hospital, at least half the house. Other parts would be preserved as the Dubbs House where they lived. “Preserve the Old Ways” and that stuff.
As he worked, he tried humming to himself the way he always did when stress took over, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Flashes of dead bodies and charred remains kept staring back at him in his head, their mouths agape in eternal screams.
Linda yelling at him about leaving the coffee pot on too long with a voice as shrill as a tea kettle overheating, waking him from his morning rest on the couch.
Another mental volley to people being chained to their beds while the parts of the building not protected by asbestos burned. While the people burned. While they screamed and cried for help. His face grew heated. He was burning, too. Burning with them. Beads of sweat burst over his forehead and raced, stinging his eyes as he went up in flames with the house—with the women.
He took a deep breath, chest tightening. Phil forced himself to take another deep breath, and then another, focusing on nothing else for the moment but how his heart moved in his chest from a hammering, jack rabbit pace to a slow, calm, steady beat. “Fuck,” he slammed his scraper on the ledge, cursing at his endless monkey chattering mind and dented the wood underneath the chipping paint. Damn. He picked up the scraper and put it back in his tool belt.
Phil cursed at himself under his breath for slacking off, the ringing in his ears growing. He sighed from the pit of his stomach and climbed down from his harness, feet making a solid thump as they hit the ground. It was time to move to the other side of the window. He had to hurry. The light wouldn’t be good on this side of the building for long, and he didn't want to risk another cut.
Stop daydreaming and being stupid, Linda said in his head.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he muttered. When it wasn’t Linda in his head, it was one of his teachers. He often heard the put-downs of the past echo in his head—a frequent reminder he was nothing, and that his life didn’t matter.
As he moved the harness to its new location, Phil climbed to the other side of the window. He made sure his mask was secure (just like Mystery Man would) and peeled off the old paint with more care this time. He’d have to go back and fix that dent he made, and he’d have to do it for free. Phil bit his lip and tried to ignore the lump in his stomach that was punishing him for his rash behavior.
More humming. A throaty, distant sound that gave him warm sensations down the back of his head and neck, making his prick do a half-stand at attention.
This time, there was no mistaking it as a noise from the woods. The sound was resonating from inside the house.
The interior was cleaned and empty of items, except for the essentials. The Society sent out most of the furniture for restoration and the asbestos removal team had left behind bits of caution tape, but otherwise it was ready for the historical restoration people to come in and take care of the walls and floors, bringing the place back to its former glory. “Vagrants pass through here often. Watch out, they can be dangerous,” Langelier said.
Phil scowled, denying his body a shiver.
It was the right time of year for a drifter to come through. It wasn’t uncommon fifty years ago whenever the house wasn’t being used (like all abandoned buildings in the town), and it happened still. No matter what, there would always be transients.
He swung around on his harness, looking around the grounds. Trees shed their leaves and dried out brown-green grass stared back at him in silent judgment. The breeze picked up and brought the perfume of wood smoke with it.
Vagrants. The town was typical of any rural area. The Haverty family knew the Hausmann family, the Piper
s knew the Knotts, ad nauseam. Speckled with summer people and people who blew through on their way to the city, there was always someone new or something new to talk about among the townsfolk. Maybe the town got up to fifty to seventy people in the summer (looking for cheap accommodation and peace and quiet). At the end of October, though, there were only residents remaining for the harsh winter to come. There were fifteen permanent residents now, counting Phil and Linda. They lived on the far edge of Silver Hollow’s boundaries, encased in its embryonic sac—with no one to cut them out to make their escape.
The bright autumn sky was a whisper through the first turning leaves; blood red. Phil inhaled deep into his lungs and sighed. The humming had stopped.
He turned back around toward the window and saw her. He dropped his scraper and yelped.
The woman stood there, bare, full breasts pert and round, slim waist exposing a flat, peach-colored stomach, and down further to a natural but groomed bush. Her legs were long and thick with strong muscle, the way Linda used to look before she stopped exercising because of her knee. (Now she was chicken-legged and shriveled). She resumed humming a tune that danced into Phil’s ears with the grace of a prima ballerina.
The woman just stood there, staring right at him from inside one of the former patient rooms. Her long, dark hair pulled back behind her neck, hanging loose down her back. His eyes roamed over her body and he kept staring, unable to tear himself away.
Phil felt a wave of greediness wash over him, and he battled the urge to slide down the ladder, run inside, and slide into her. He hesitated, looking away from that hourglass figure and at her face, into her eyes—this girl could be mental—who in Perdition stands naked in the middle of a run-down asylum? A nut job that's who.
She smiled at him.
“I need you to come in here. Can you help me?”
Phil balked a moment. He shook his head that no, he couldn’t come inside—angled walls and drop cloths obscured his view. There could be others waiting to mug him or something. His imagination saved him in this case, playing out potential scenarios where his stupid mistakes based on his lust got him killed.
“What do you need?”
The girl turned away and said something. What, Phil didn’t know. He leaned forward and strained, but no luck.
“I can't hear you. Can you come closer?”
He swung his harness over to get a better look inside. The girl moved to the middle of the room. Closer, but still far from the window.
“I need help. I don't know where I am.”
Phil nodded to himself—this girl was likely a junkie blowing through town (although she was healthy looking for a junkie). This wouldn’t have been the first time it happened. Silver Hollow was an attractor for the desperate ones. Though he’d never encountered any himself, his friend Paul told him about three guys who wound up in Dubbs House. Paul said that they were sleeping inside when he got there, smelling of old piss and fresh cheap alcohol. One of them still had the needle in his arm.
First time for everything. Phil decided he could get his coat from the van, call nine-one-one, then go inside, and put the coat on her while they waited for an ambulance.
“Okay,” he said, and though he tried to keep his voice low, it broke like a teenage boy’s. Not because she was beautiful enough to bring tears to his eyes, and not because she was naked (she was both), but because there was something familiar in her features, and the setting. A former patient?
He shook off that idea in a hurry. Phil, you ass, he heard Linda’s voice chastising him, your imagination is ridiculous. “I'll tell you what. I’ll go to my van and get you a coat, and get you some help. What's your name, sweetie?”
“Name?”
“Yeah. My name is Phil.”
“Phil.”
“Yeah, that's my name. What's your name?” High as fuck, he thought.
“Norma.”
“Okay, Norma. Nice to meet you. I'll be back as soon as I can get down from here.”
“Hurry. I need you.” She sat in the middle of the floor, hugging her knees, and sobbed.
Phil rushed off the harness and hit the ground, running to the van and grabbing his coat. His phone was on his tool belt so he called nine-one-one from there.
“All circuits are currently busy. Please hang up and dial again immediately. All circuits are currently busy--”
Phil stared at his phone. He'd never gotten that message before. This place wasn’t so populous as to keep emergency dispatch in Dover busy. He shook his head. Help wasn’t coming for now.
He grabbed the coat and turned to go into the house while his phone kept redialing for him. As he made it to the front steps, an operator came through the speaker.
“Nine-one-one. What is the address or location of the emergency?”
“The old Dubbs House in Silver Hollow. One King Street.”
“And the nature of the emergency?” the voice on the other line asked. It sounded distant, like she was talking through a tin box.
“There's a squatter here, looks like a junkie. She's naked and keeps telling me she needs help. Says her name is Norma.” Phil said.
“Is she bleeding or incoherent?”
“I don't know if she's bleeding. I haven't gone in the house.”
“Remain where you are, sir. Sending police and ambulance now.”
Phil sighed. “Thanks.”
“Are you going inside now?” She asked.
“Yeah, I’ll go put my coat on her and treat her for shock if she needs it,” Phil said with another sigh. It felt like an hour had passed.
“Is this Phil Hausmann?”
“Yeah, who is this?” He asked, brow furrowing. That voice wasn’t familiar.
“It's Debbie. Debbie Carnassy.”
Phil shook his head. Who the fuck was Debbie Carnassy?
“I'm sorry, I don't recognize the name,” Phil said, pursing his lips into a frown.
Debbie laughed, but when she spoke, her voice sounded far away and strained. “I'm the girl in the house, with Norma. We're dying, Phil. Help us.”
Phil's eyes widened as his heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went dry. He couldn't find the words to reply as the phone went pure static, cutting in and out from silence to noise.
No. That didn't just happen. The sun is going down, and my mind is playing tricks on me because I'm spooked. It's almost Halloween, anyway, and I'm overtired, Phil's mind echoed back at him. He stood on the porch, determined to stay out of that house until the police or an ambulance arrived.
Disappointment washed over him as he chastised himself for being stupid. That's not something Mystery Man would do. He wouldn't let his imagination run wild. Don’t be an idiot, Linda’s voice chided him once more. You’re no hero.
“Hello?” The voice said, now loud and clear over his phone.
“I'm still here.” Phil’s voice was creaky and small again.
“Sir, I asked you what your name was,” said the voice. It didn’t sound like Carnassy anymore. This voice was lower, smoother, and pitched with concern.
“This is Phil. Phil Hausmann.”
“Okay. Are you all right, Mister Hausmann?”
He wasn't sure how to answer, now. There was no way he’d tell her what he'd imagined had just happened. He wasn't that far gone. Instead, he swallowed hard and started, “Oh, uh, call me Phil. Yeah. I guess I'm in shock myself.” He gathered his courage and opened the large front door with a now still hand. “I'm going in the house.”
“I can stay on the line with you, Phil, until service arrives,” the operator said.
“No, that's okay. I'll be fine now,” Phil said, his voice strong and deep again. The house seemed less ominous as a hint of Mystery Man came over him. It was just a house. There was an odor inside—fresh flowers and summer rain. It didn't smell like the musty, old, charred underneath remodel that it had when he first visited.
He hung up the phone with a dulcet beep.
He heard the girl whisper. “Help.”
>
“I'm on my way,” Phil craned his neck up to the second floor and raised his voice. “I'll be right there.”
He hustled his way up the stairs two at a time. The paint was peeling when he was at the bottom, but by the time he got to the top, the paint looked fresh.
Something felt wrong, at least at first. The hallway seemed to stretch on for ages and tilted in ways he couldn’t walk. He slid on something slippery. A hiss, a strangled cry. Did it come from him? Something else? Pain shot up through his knee into his groin, setting fire trails up his spine. He looked down, jaw hanging open as he saw his knee was leaking scarlet onto the wood floor below—and then disappearing.
“Wha—what’s going on?” Phil said, his voice a hoarse whisper. His vision blurred and his face felt like it was running off onto the floor. The wood seemed to absorb the water runoff, too.
A voice at the end of the hall, soft and breathy. He strained to hear what the whispers were saying.
“Phil, we need you. This is all for you.”
A long time ago, when Phil was little, he had to have his appendix removed. When he was on the operating table, the anesthesiologist put him under with ether. He felt like he was falling into a comfortable, warm bath. That was how he felt now. Something in him was slipping.
Phil just accepted it. There was something special going on here. Something just for him. He didn't know how he knew it, but he knew it. It was like being part of an intangible thing, greater than he, and he wanted to be there.
This was where he belonged.
He forgot about Linda, and Dave, and Paul-Not-Good-Paul, and Wally, and whoever else she was screwing behind his back. This was where he needed to be, and he needed to help that girl know she belonged here, too.
She deserved to know.
It was all okay. Everything fit. The time was right.
He approached the girl and put his coat over her. She shivered and writhed. Phil didn’t move away. He reached out to touch her and hold her close.
Now Entering Silver Hollow Page 3
