Now Entering Silver Hollow

by Anne L. Hogue-Boucher

  Oscar came in and ran up to the wall. The cat hissed, and batted at nothing. Such strange cat behavior but not uncommon, I’ve observed.

  But then the sensations went away—of being watched, of being dizzy—and, the ladder stopped shaking.

  The cat saved my life.

  Once I climbed down from the ladder, I went over to him. He stopped his wild behavior and wound around my legs, butting his head into my ankles and starting that stentorian purr. Offering him my hand, he let me pet him.

  “Thank you, Oscar,” I whispered so no one would hear me, as they would confirm my fear I was mental for talking to a cat.

  For that moment my skepticism about the house faded away, and I understood that this feline was a protector. I picked him up, carried him to the kitchen, found a tin of sardines, and we split the booty.

  That was when Oscar won me over—and he has been so good for Elizabeth, who is prone to deep, dark moods. How could I not adore him? He is such an unusual cat, both in color, and in personality—and, he loves my Elizabeth.

  Another peculiarity of this cat is that, when a room is “active,” as Elizabeth calls it, he will rush ahead to enter before anyone else, and the “activity” will vanish.

  I hope that whatever it is in this house will continue to be afraid of Oscar, and that it will even go away if Oscar stays.

  We’re not sure how old the cat is, but he is playful and active, so I imagine that he is but a young cat. Elizabeth, who had an uncle who was a veterinarian, states that by his teeth, he is only one or two years old. This is welcoming news. Perhaps that means he will be around for many years to come, and, whatever is plaguing this place will grow tired of its games, and will leave for good.

  That would be most desirable.

  As the sun sets, I must leave my office and join our straggler guests for our dinner. I hope Elizabeth will mingle tonight. That is one of the things she does so much better than I.

  — Mary.

  Diary,

  Oscar is not to be an indoor cat. Though he enjoys following Elizabeth wherever she goes, he needs to be let outside with frequency. Though he always returns after these brief jaunts, Elizabeth frets while he’s away from home.

  The two of us are attached to the boy, and hope he stays out of the road. There aren’t many automobiles in this town during the winter, but when there are, they drive too fast, slipping and sliding over the icy streets. I hope Oscar is wise enough not to give them chase.

  It’s difficult to determine whether Elizabeth frets more for Oscar, or for how boisterous the house gets when he is away. A boisterous house seems like a silly notion, but there’s no other word for it. Precious items disappearing and then reappearing in places they have no business being, and food purchased from the market not two hours earlier rotting in the pantry. There are other things I’ve not seen with my own eyes, but the staff has reported them.

  Before, I didn’t believe in the supernatural, and, even when presented with things I could not explain, I dismissed them as strange, but colored by the vivid imagination of the human mind. Even still. I can’t just go about believing everything I hear.

  Belief is a funny thing, and I will always question things.

  A recent incident happened where I could not find Elizabeth. Oscar was on one of his outings, and I tired from working on the plans for next year’s events. I plan at least one year ahead to ensure that we have enough business from the surrounding communities and those passing through to keep us sustained.

  Elizabeth had come up with several ideas for summer festivals and themes, and I was going through each one, matching it to our budget, and choosing the best and most cost-effective. After a few hours, my stomach started rumbling and whenever I read the themes, the Taste of Esperia or A Night of Bharatham Foods, my mouth watered.

  As we have limited staff during the winter (just a few maids to keep things tidy and a chef who comes in a few times a week), the cooking this evening was up to Elizabeth. She is an excellent cook, and can bake with the skill of a five-star confectioner. But cooking for many is an all-day undertaking, so she preferred the staff to do it.

  Though we scheduled the chef to come in and cook for us this week, the man we retained for the winter had met with a most unfortunate burning accident. The poor fellow was at Mercy Hospital’s burn ward for six weeks. We had a difficult time coaxing him to return, but he promised to do so once he healed. The doctors still haven’t given him permission to go back to work, so I’m uncertain when he’ll be back.

  “The house burned him,” Elizabeth said. “This place made it happen.”

  What could I say to that? Deep inside, I agreed, though I wouldn’t admit it.

  Elizabeth told me she would make a hot soup to fight off the cold weather, and fresh, hot bread. As time passed, I stopped being able to focus so much on my work, and more on the fresh bread, dipped in a hot tomato soup. When I wrote a brochure and used descriptors such as delicious and scrumptious, I headed to the kitchen to see how dinner was coming.

  I closed the door to my office and locked it behind me (the safe and other valuables are in there), then entered the kitchen through the swinging side door.

  “I’m half-starved,” I said, then stopped when I realized that the soup was off the stove, and everything was served on trays, but Elizabeth was not in the room.

  “Liz? Hello?”

  No answer.

  At first, I didn’t think on it, imagining she had gone into the deep pantry, looking for garnishes, or the linen closet, looking for napkins. Only the two of us were there that night. A storm was due, and the staff had gone home before the weather became impassable.

  I laughed. Dear Elizabeth didn’t need to go all out with an elaborate meal—there was no special occasion, but that’s Elizabeth—she enjoys doing something special when there’s no cause for it. The woman is the Merry Unbirthday queen, I’d say.

  I picked up the trays and brought them into the small breakfast alcove where Elizabeth and I dined in the off-season and there were no guests to entertain.

  That’s when I noticed the soups and bread were cold, meaning that supper had been ready for some time. That also meant that Elizabeth went a fair distance for finding garnishes or linen napkins.

  I didn’t fret, not just yet, thinking she’d gone into the pantry and gotten distracted, finding a trivial thing to organize and forgetting her stomach. Or locked herself in and spent time dwelling on Emily’s death. Not unusual for the dear woman.

  “Elizabeth?” I called, louder this time so if she were in the pantry she would hear me. “Our soups have gone cold.”

  My stomach growled, and I sighed, then turned to the pantry, walking in and getting ready to give Elizabeth a lecture on letting our food sit for so long. The light was off. I turned the switch, and the light came on with a crackle. The dim light cast shadows, but not one of those shadows belonged to Elizabeth.

  The silence was palpable—a heavy blanket over the long, narrow room. That’s when I felt something strange.

  Eyes on me, even though no one was there. The heavy stares of a crowd just waiting for someone to lynch. Lynch, like poor Emily did to herself.

  Setting my jaw, I headed out of the pantry, switching the light off and closing the door with a slam. My hands shook, fingers icicles.

  I then headed for the linen closet, reassuring myself that she would be there; again, organizing things or distracted by something she had found. I threw open the door to another long, narrow room that shelved the linens and opened my mouth to call her name, but fell silent once more.

  She was not at or anywhere near the linen closet, either.

  “Elizabeth? Where are you, dear?” I felt the muscles in my face tighten in a frown, and my heart picked up its pace.

  There was no answer. I swallowed hard, trying to get the image of Lisette out of my mind. The house made a gentle creaking noise, foundation settling. The low hum coming from the basement told me our new radiator system (central heat
ing) was working, yet I felt colder than ever as goosebumps erupted on my arms.

  Then I went back toward the kitchen, thinking she would reappear there, since she hadn’t finished with her kitchen preparations.

  That’s when I heard a scratching at the kitchen door—the door to the outside where the chef would toss away leftovers into a special bin for the gardener to use as compost during the growing season. It’s in the far back of the kitchen next to the breakfast alcove.

  I peeked outside.

  Oscar returned from an outdoor excursion, red hair puffy as a cotton ball. He came in and looked around, but instead of his fur going down from the warmth of the house, his hackles raised.

  It was then I could no longer be skeptical. Something was wrong.

  “Elizabeth?” I called, even louder this time. Oscar took off. On an unusual whim (I seldom follow whims—it was desperation), I followed him. He was running through the house, toward the library, his paws skittering on the floor.

  Hissing and growling, he pawed at the door. I caught up to him and opened it.

  There was no sign of Elizabeth, but Oscar was detecting something. His senses were even keener than other cats’ perceptions, I think. He pawed at a bookshelf.

  So many old houses have secret passageways (the home I grew up in had several), and Dubbs House was no different. Even though I didn’t know about this one, I knew what it had to be.

  I pushed on the side of the bookcase, and the disguised door sprang open. Elizabeth, bloodied and bruised, tumbled forward with a shriek.

  I gasped and grabbed her to keep her from hitting the floor.

  “Are you all right?”

  Elizabeth nodded and pulled away a moment. I let go and looked at her. Reddish marks covered her neck and had a bloodied lip.

  “I’m okay. What happened? One minute I was in the kitchen, finishing up our dinner trays, and I went to the linen closet for napkins. We were fresh out of them in the cupboard. When I opened the linen closet, something grabbed me. I know you won’t believe me, but something grabbed me!”

  “No, I believe you, Elizabeth. Something hurt you, it’s plain.”

  The sleeves of her top were rolled up, and there were huge, finger-like bruises on her forearms just under the elbows. Her blouse was torn. There were bruises, which I assumed to be grab marks, near her throat.

  Not wishing to alarm her, I made no mention of them. I wanted her to know I believed her. After all, she could not have made those marks herself (they were too big for her dainty hands), and there was no sign of a human intruder.

  Had her attacker been a person, I would have expected to see someone in there with her, as her wounds were so fresh—and Elizabeth would have said there was someone there with her. There was no room for anyone to run in that small, hidden space. It looked like one of those protection areas built for when and if an enemy came to the door; or a prayer closet.

  But there were no prayers to be had in there—or far too many that went unanswered.

  I helped Elizabeth to the couch near the fireplace, poured her a brandy, and poured a rye for myself. Then I sat down next to her. We drank, and it eased our nerves.

  Oscar paced in and out of the open passage way, a deep growl emanating from his chest. He circled, and, satisfied that he drove off with whatever force hidden in there, he came out and jumped up on Elizabeth’s lap. The cat stared at her with sharp green eyes.

  “I’m all right,” she said, stroking the cat’s head. Then she turned to me. “I promise I am. Just a bit banged up. Let’s finish our drinks and I’ll warm up dinner again.”

  “Are you certain?” I asked, giving her the once-over. She looked better now, more stable, but I had to be sure.

  Elizabeth gave me a weak smile. “Yes, dear. I have to be sure to keep Oscar around.”

  Upon hearing his name, Oscar purred in his thunderous voice. It had a calming effect on us. Color returned to Elizabeth’s face, and my heart slowed from its racing. The house became safe again.

  There is something special about this cat.

  — Mary.

  Historian’s note: No further records exist. -FL

  PERMANENT VACATION

  Linda hung up the phone from the hospital and sighed. She had been in the middle of packing her things and writing Phil a note about why she was leaving. That wasn’t his fault. He was a nice guy.

  Too nice for her.

  Linda ached and yearned to get out of this little town and live. Nothing ever came out of her plans despite her desire to make them work. Like her plans to take up skydiving, or her idea to gamble herself into a fortune in Succubus City. Grand schemes to get rich or famous always fell apart, and to Linda, it was nice guys like Phil who were to blame. Nice guys held her back.

  People called her ignorant, some people called her a bigot. Truth was, she was none of those things. She sometimes behaved that way because that’s what she thought they’d expect. “Might as well give them what they want, right?”

  The suitcase didn’t answer.

  “All I want is to be free,” she said to her pants as she folded them and packed them away. She grabbed her vibrator and took out the batteries, then tossed them in the interior side pocket. “Oh, and to fuck my friend Colleen—she might like you, little hummer.”

  Colleen made her plans work. Linda met her through Phil’s best friend, Paul Walker. Colleen was Paul’s sister, and she and Linda hit it off right away. They’d bonded. Colleen was smart, sophisticated, and bisexual. One night of drunken play, Linda discovered fingers, toys, and girl-on-girl action was a fuck of a lot better than any dick she’d ever had. At least in this case.

  There was no way she’d go back. Sex with Phil was like eating vanilla ice cream when she wanted chocolate.

  Now her chocolate ice cream was going back to the city. Metro living. Grace City was a huge, cosmopolitan area, and Colleen was a marketing executive there. She was tall, glamorous, and salon blond with tawny, smooth skin and eyes so dark brown they were almost black.

  Colleen was glamorous in the way Linda wanted to be, but couldn’t. Every time Linda looked in the mirror, she saw the copper hair and sliding, caked eyeliner—the too-pink rouge on pasty cheeks dotted with freckles, and the split ends frizzing her hair out like a scrub brush. A scrub. All her hair lightening and attempts to dress up just made her look like a little kid imitating her big sister. A crude attempt at what a bumpkin thought was sophisticated, with dresses that didn’t fit right or pants that hung off her where they were supposed to hug, or worse—hug where they were supposed to hang.

  Linda didn’t just want to be with Colleen, she wanted to be Colleen. Oh, no, not in that weird psycho way, maybe being near the woman would help her not look like such a rube in sophisticate’s clothing.

  When they were lying in bed afterwards—Phil’s bed—Colleen invited her.

  “No, I couldn’t,” Linda said, voice a husky whisper. She realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled.

  “Sure you could. What’s keeping you here?” Colleen sat up on one elbow, the sheet pulling away to reveal a rounded breast with light pink nipples.

  Linda didn’t answer. Colleen didn’t push.

  So she took it out on Phil. She nagged him to make more money. Nagged him to take her on vacations. Bitched the moment he walked through the door and carried on until she exhausted herself, turning every comment he made into a fight. It was wrong.

  But whenever he was around, the guilt stopped—bitch now, repent later. She resented him for keeping her in Silver Hollow, and it wasn’t even his fault—not all of it. But she couldn’t stop herself. That made it even worse. When Linda got mad at herself for it, she took it out on Phil, and Phil would just take it. He would sit, and listen, and apologize in the right places. On rare occasions he’d lose his patience. The last time they argued like that, Linda realized it was over—Phil had enough.

  “Real sick of your shit, Linda,” he said.

  Linda’s h
ands shook as a surge of rage spilled from her stomach outward.

  “Oh, and what ‘shit’ would that be?” She asked in a high-pitched, near-screech. “That I want something more? That I’d like to do something other than just make ends meet?”

  Phil shrugged and sighed, getting up from the recliner. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and set them on the table.

  “I quit.”

  He started for the door.

  “Where in Perdition are you going?” Even her ears were getting hot with rage.

  “Out.”

  The door slammed in time with Linda slamming her fist into his pack of cigarettes, which only hurt her knuckles. She stomped into the bathroom, raided the medicine cabinet, and found a baggie of white powder. After she sniffed up her sorrows, the numbness came.

  Hours passed of nods and cigarette burns on the dining table, then Linda woke up and went upstairs to bed. Phil slept on the couch.

  She called Colleen the next morning and asked if the offer still stood.

  It did. Colleen said that if she went to Grace City, she would be there for a long time. Colleen hated visiting and only came to see Paul when she had to—she preferred for Paul (Walker not Ingersoll) to come see her.

  Walker and Phil were good guys. As Linda stood there by herself, bright coral lipstick in one hand and a half-eaten chocolate bar in the other, she felt pangs of guilt for a moment.

  Sweet anticipation replaced the guilt lining her stomach, and then the rest of that chocolate bar made her forget the rest. She wanted the excitement that Colleen’s world offered. Linda wanted the parties, the wild night life. Grace City gleamed with promises.

  Closing her suitcase and setting it on the floor with an audible thump, Linda crossed the bedroom to Phil’s desk, scrounged around for a piece of paper and pen, and sat down.

  Phil —

  I’m leaving to go to Grace City with Colleen. She invited me, and I accepted. I hope you’ll be able to deal, and that Paul won’t be too mad at her for it. See, she’s the one I’ve been with—I knew you suspected I was fucking someone. I don’t want you to blame Paul or Dave, because they’re your friends, and they wouldn’t. Paul Ing. or Gary, either—they’re not into that, I don’t think. I think they’re just straight up gay.