Now Entering Silver Hollow

by Anne L. Hogue-Boucher

  “Sounds poetic.”

  “It really was. One of the best summer nights, you know, where the North Wind won’t let you burn.”

  I sighed out of contentment at the mental picture. Wendy did, too.

  Then her face turned from relaxed by the memory to a pinched expression again.

  “So I closed my eyes, trying to regain my sanity. I knew this wasn’t normal behavior, even though I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I was losing me. Reality slipped away. Once when I was a little girl, I was out west and there was an earthquake. That’s how my mind felt—swaying out of control and the earth was opening to swallow me whole.”

  Another tear trailed down her face and she brushed it off with a hasty hand. “All I wanted was to go back to the translations and get my dissertation ready. It would feel normal to be standing in front of a class of a hundred people, discussing the various linguistic procedures used to translate ancient texts. I would love to feel normal again, not a prisoner in my living space.”

  She cleared her throat that was threatening thickness with tears. “That’s when I felt as though something was watching me.”

  Her hand moved to her chest. “My heart hammered, and I figured I was freaking myself out over nothing. So I dared myself to open them. The world came back into focus, and—there he was.”

  Wendy closed her eyes again. She didn’t want to look at me and see the skepticism reflected there—which I’m sure it was. My eyes are a light shade of blue, and they look hard and cruel, some (brave) people tell me.

  She continued talking, avoiding my gaze. “This man—no—this thing—it had a face, but he fit the description of Undaga otherwise. The face was the worst part. I’d almost rather he’d looked like Slender Man in the face than this creepy thing. That face.”

  Wendy shuddered and she stared at me. I kept my face neutral. “He was peeking around the side of the door at me. His face was thin. You know the Jester on the playing cards? Thin like that, with jutting cheekbones, hollow cheeks. He had a mop of floppy, curly brown hair. His nose and chin were long and thin, like dagger points”

  Her eyes widened as if she were seeing him right in front of her. “And his eyes—a mix of blue and green with hints of brown in them. That was the most normal thing—the color.” She hesitated, hands shaking again. Wendy stopped and took a drink of water.

  “They—his eyes were open wide, as if he had no eyelids. But I knew it couldn’t be because he had long, curly eyelashes. Yet he didn’t blink. He just stared. He stared and stared, with a huge, wicked, manic grin spread across his face.”

  There were beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead, despite the room being cool.

  “I thought I should run, but when our eyes met, I felt frozen in place—I couldn’t move, scream, or even speak. All I could do was gasp and keep looking into those eyes. I blinked, and that stopped my paralysis. Then I backed away a little, still entranced but not helpless, I guess.”

  Wendy fell silent again, but not for long. “That’s when he crawled into the breezeway, his movements sleek and slow—a demonic humanoid bred into a walking stick. I know that makes no sense, but that’s how he moved. Insect like—like his joints were on him the wrong way. He continued with his staring, and that god-awful wide grin, moving in one stick limb at a time. But even as I backed up, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Not just because he was unusual looking, but his eyes—they seemed to hold me in rapture, unwilling as I was. There was no struggling against the web.”

  Unblinking and intent as he entered the house, Wendy felt tears stinging her own eyes as she continued to gape at him.

  He took her drinks, and then he ran off into the back yard. “Skittered was more like it. He snatched the sodas and dashed off.”

  She looked at me and chuckled. “Would you believe it?”

  I shook my head. “He—took off with your sodas?”

  “Yeah. I came out of the trance in a hurry when he did that. I was just stunned and staring at the ice bucket for a minute. I breathed a sigh of relief and my face felt so hot, but my tears felt hotter. Was that it? Was he going to collect something of mine and leave? Did he just want my sodas and nothing more? If that were the case, I’d just leave him cases of soda to take every night.”

  “No kidding,” I said, but her expression changed as she went on, no longer recalling that sense of relief.

  “I was shaking all over, and I felt like that couldn’t be it, but it seemed to be. I looked outside and couldn’t see a sign of him at all, then slammed the door shut, locked it, and went to my bedroom to lie down—I thought I might vomit.”

  It occurred to me that Wendy could have made all of this up, but I was leaning toward a great delusion and hallucinations. I had some of those myself when Mercy came to visit, though not as elaborate as this.

  Wendy kept talking. “I hadn’t cried myself to sleep in ages, but that feeling like I might puke was just me holding back tears. I crawled into bed and pulled up the covers, and just let out all my fear, grief over losing my mom, and the relief it might be over.”

  She shook her head. “I was a fucking idiot. Drifted off almost feeling safe, but in the middle of the night, I heard this weird clicking sound. It was like when a dog’s nails aren’t trimmed and they run on a hardwood floor. I woke up with his face staring into mine, unwavering grin and stare in place. And he was nude.”

  I expected her to be tearful again, but she wasn’t. She fixed her gaze on me and kept talking.

  “I tried to reach for my knife, but that feeling I couldn’t move washed over me—it was like gripping a live wire. It was painful but I couldn’t let go. But somehow, I wasn’t paralyzed. Not all over my body. It was more like I felt really weighed down. I could move, but it was like moving through tree sap. A mix of the two. It’s—it’s hard to explain. I backed away a little but that backfired in a hurry. All it did was give the creature room to leap into my bed and help himself under the covers.”

  Wendy kept looking at me, her face expressionless, delivering a report rather than telling me about a trauma. I’d seen this before with rape survivors when they’re too shocked or they have to tell their accounts so many times. Part of them shuts down so they don’t have to feel it again and again.

  “The creature—Undaga—had these long, talon-like fingers with razor-sharp claws at the tips. He ripped at my nightshirt, shredding it to bits like you or I’d shred a tissue, exposing my body to him.”

  She swallowed hard, but not out of excitement or enjoyment, and her eyes looked away from me. She hung her head. I’ve seen that look in many rape survivors in the ER, too. Shame.

  Still, though, Wendy gathered herself and looked up once more. She wasn’t looking at me so much as beyond me.

  “He eyed me with greed, aiming that repulsive stare at my breasts, stomach, hips, and pelvis. Never taking that grin off his face, and drooling. I felt the hot slime of him fall on my stomach, and I whimpered. I tried to scream, but that small whimper was the loudest noise I could make. The creature paid no attention to my protests—just hovered over me, silent and smiling. He forced himself on top of me, and fighting back was useless. It seemed when he didn’t look into my eyes, I could move. It didn’t matter though. He was stronger than those stick limbs should have been. He overpowered me with ease. The more I struggled, the harder he got.”

  I’ve seen so much aftermath of rape and violence in the ER that her description didn’t faze me. She seemed to look at me again as if to check and see if I was being judgmental. I spoke up.

  “You don’t have to share anything that makes you uncomfortable, Wendy. That being said, Many rape survivors find catharsis in sharing their histories. Whether that’s true or not seems to be up to the individual. But whatever you tell me, know that I don’t judge you.”

  That seemed to be enough to give her the power to continue.

  “Once inside me, he thrusted, looking into my eyes. I froze again. When I tried to c
lose my own eyes, I couldn’t. Couldn’t even look away. Something inside me just—I didn’t give in, but I sort of relaxed and let it happen. Is that—is that wrong?”

  I shook my head and put up my hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “No, no it’s not. It didn’t mean you consented, and it doesn’t mean you wanted him there.”

  Now I think on it, it may have made it worse for her, because she seemed to give up. Her tears fell, and here, as I told her this, she reached out and took my hand. I held it, losing my words. Touch isn’t something I do often and I don’t get touched often. Here in the Union, it’s different, so I try to be good about appropriate pats on the back or a reassuring hand squeeze. I forget though—it’s just not part of my particular culture, to touch strangers. Even patients. But I gave her hand a squeeze and let her decide when to let go.

  “He drooled on me while he worked at my body, same smile still on his face. I wore his saliva with my tears. It was—I can’t even describe it. Horrid scent, like—like something rotten. And the act seemed to go on forever. I don’t know how long he stayed on top of me. I was numb. I didn’t even notice he clawed at me. That’s weird, right?”

  “You were in shock,” I said. “It’s not so weird. The pain from being entered by force may have distracted you from the other injuries. That, coupled with the amount of adrenaline from the fear you had could have dulled your other sensations.”

  I had stitched up her scalp, neck, and shoulders myself while she was unconscious—she had to have been in shock for her not to realize what was happening to her at the time of the assault. There were also puncture wounds on her breasts and near her areola. Another centimeter, and he would have punctured straight through, perhaps removing her nipple.

  “When he finished, he came inside of me. That took a long time, too. I don’t know if that part was in my head or in reality, but it seemed like forever.”

  Wendy kept talking when she saw there was no judgment from me. “Then he collapsed on top of me. Grinning still. Satisfied with himself. He grabbed the tatters of my nightgown and wiped off his—his junk. I laid there, shivering and bleeding. That’s when his face came away from that grin, and he said just one sentence.”

  She took a deep breath and her voice changed to imitate him. It was a scratchy, low-toned voice. “You’re mine for eternity, now. Speak my name.”

  Wendy twisted the bedsheet in her hands. “I managed to squeak out a weak ‘Undaga,’ and that was it.”

  Grinning once more, he left her bedroom. She could hear the tap, tap, tap of his footsteps as walked out the back door, closed it, and disappeared into the night.

  “After, I looked down at myself and saw I was bleeding. Blood running down my face. I still couldn’t scream, but I could talk, so I called for an ambulance and they found me. Now I’m here. And you’re here.” She gave my hand another squeeze and let it go. “Thank you for listening.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m grateful you shared this with me,” I said. “But I’d like to do a pelvic exam and rape kit if that’s okay with you. You don’t have to make a police report—that’s up to you. We’d hold onto the evidence until the statute of limitations ran out, which here in the Northeast Territory is seven years. In case you change your mind and file charges.”

  She agreed, but wasn’t sure about the police report—she thought it would be impossible to prosecute a supernatural creature.

  For me, this was a chance to show her a human being raped her and her mind had fabricated this tale to protect her psyche from the reality that another person was capable of such barbarism. I didn’t believe her story—for all I know it could have been a man in a mask or costume of some sort—but she believed it.

  Once I completed the rape kit, I made a gentle suggestion to her she stay for a psychiatric hold. I wouldn’t commit her, because she wasn’t a danger to herself or others (she didn’t make those wounds by herself), but I thought it would be wise, just in case. To my relief, she agreed. She checked herself in for a psych evaluation, but not because she thought she was crazy.

  “I’ll be safe here, from him. You don’t quite believe me, but I’m okay with that,” she said, offering me a wan smile.

  “It was real to you. What I think on that subject doesn’t matter.” That’s something I’ve said more times than I can recall.

  Most of the time those who have experienced hallucinations and delusions of this nature are intent on getting other people to believe them. She was calm, accepting of the fact I doubted the veracity of her claims.

  After this encounter, I began fact-checking. This wasn’t for treatment. I’m not a psychiatrist. I was just curious.

  The vast majority of her account is true. I cannot say that Undaga exists anywhere but in her reality, but everything else has proved true. She was translating an ancient text, she took a leave of absence, her mother died, and, as I mentioned before, Wendy handled all of her expenses and more with a sudden upsweep of income.

  I’m still waiting on a call from the lab about the test results.

  ***

  17 September

  I have the results now from Wendy’s rape kit.

  Pak from Pathology came up to the ER to see me in person, all apologetic and sheepish looking.

  “What’s this, then?” I said, unsmiling. “Do you have news for me on the kit?”

  Pak nodded. “I—let me first apologize and tell you how I regret it when something goes wrong.”

  My face pinched to a scowl. “Oh? Walk with me. I need coffee.”

  We went into the physicians’ lounge and I poured myself a cup and sat down. “What happened? And don’t mince words. I can’t stand it when people just dance around a point.”

  Pak gave me a small, knowing smile. “I know. I’ve been working to figure out what’s going on but I think we’re having a system-wide malfunction. The sample you gave me from the rape kit? It wasn’t human. It was spermatozoa, for certain—but the DNA is unlike anything in our database. So—not human or any known animal.”

  I almost dropped my coffee cup. “What’s in your database?”

  Pak described it but I was only half-listening. My mind was racing over everything Wendy had told me. Could it be true? No. Not at all. The equipment was faulty. Or we’d made an advancement in zoology.

  “So I can tell you only that the sample was contaminated at some point, or our equipment’s borked.”

  I shrugged. “Test your equipment,” I said. “The kit could have been faulty, too. Check that. I’m sure I took a clean sample.”

  “Well recheck everything,” Pak said. “I wanted to apologize in person if you were waiting on good results.”

  I took a sip of coffee and checked a sigh. “It happens.”

  He left, and I sat there for a while, just sipping my hot drink and trying to reel in my imagination. The sample was bad. Had to be. There was nothing of it left, either. Otherwise, I would have sent it to Father, since he’s recovering and looking for things to do. His genomics research and vast knowledge could have answered the question. That’s not just familial bias. His two (count them, one two) Nobel Prizes backed up he was the foremost expert in genetic research.

  But that’s of no consequence now. I can’t do a thing about it.

  The pathologist blamed the equipment at the lab rather than naming some kind of crypto or mythical creature, or jumping to a conclusion that we were looking at a new species—which made sense. It’s what I would have done—made the most logical assumption, given that science tends not to jump to a cryptozoological answer. In training, we’re taught that hoof beats mean horses ninety-nine percent of the time, not zebras.

  There are plenty of questions raised. The immediate response, from me, was that an old boyfriend or someone she knew attacked her and she couldn’t cope with it. She invented this Undaga story (or, more to the point, her mind invented the Undaga story) to protect herself from what happened. The machines that tested the semen and fluids in patho
logy were broken. All of them though?

  What if those machines weren’t wrong, and something from another world attacked her?

  There are just some questions I don’t want to answer. I have evidence staring me in the face, don’t I? Yet here I am, twisting the facts to fit my reality rather than twisting my reality to fit the facts, right?

  No, I’m committing myself to rationality. It’s far more rational that a power surge or similar damaged all three machines. I have to be a skeptic. Fall for this, and I could fall for anything.

  They need new equipment down in pathology. I’ll petition the administrators for special attention their way.

  It’s late, and I have early morning rounds. For now, I’ll try not to think about Wendy, her story, and the dreadful demon from an ancient world.

  If I can.

  Signed,

  Kathryn Cross, MD

  ***

  18 September

  It’s evening again, and I can’t sleep. I wound up pulling a double shift in the ER because one of the other doctors had to attend to a family emergency. Underserved is an understatement around here. It won’t improve for a while, I don’t think. I’m giving up on hope they’ll attract more staff. Also, where is all their funding going? I won’t worry about it right now. Perhaps I’ll put in a call to a friend at Central Health later.

  When I got home, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down on the couch. Soon, sleep decided it was the most important thing, and I drifted off with the empty glass in hand. There were no dreams. I fell into the void and the glass clattered onto the floor. I heard it, but the soup that my brain and body had become refused to let me get back up to take care of it. The dreamless void soon swallowed me whole.