The Hollower

by Mary SanGiovanni

  Dave sighed. He glanced back at the others, who stood more or less transfixed by the ink. It had gone back to working the flesh off the little figure in the yard. Sally stood close to the edge of the grass. Only her gaze was on him. She looked angry. Jilted, was what came to mind. Abandoned, maybe.

  “She doesn’t trust me,” he said to DeMarco, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I was supposed to protect her, and I let it get her and hurt her. And I can’t live with that. I’m tired of living with having let her down. I can’t stay here and wait. I need to do something to get her out of here, instead of making these stupid, useless attempts at running and dodging. Then, maybe—”

  “You can fix her?”

  Pain jackknifed in his chest. “She can’t be fixed. But she could be comfortable. Safe.”

  DeMarco looked hesitant. Her eyes never left his face.

  “I need to do this.” It came out harsh, desperate. He softened his voice. “Please. I need to do this.”

  “Can you even climb?”

  “No, but I can’t fight, either.” He nodded toward the house. “If the Hollower isn’t out here somewhere already, it’s on its way. And when it comes, I need someone to protect Sally. You’re trained to protect people.”

  “Dave—”

  “Protect them,” Dave pleaded with her. He hoped his eyes, his whole face conveyed it.

  “Okay.”

  He exhaled. “Thank you. If this works, I can’t imagine anyone better equipped to get my sister around that fence than you.”

  “Your faith overwhelms me.” A small grin found her mouth.

  He smiled. This time it did feel easy, and genuine. “I feel it’s probably well placed.”

  “I hope so. Listen, I think you should go grab one of those . . . tools, or whatever they are, off that big stone slab. I’d feel better if you were armed with something, at least.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  DeMarco followed him back to the obsidian table and examined the objects. They seemed to be made of metal, each with a smooth silver handle and a bar of metal twisted and bent into random snaking designs. When he touched one, it caught and reflected green light. Another gave off slips of blue in the silver. He settled on one that reflected burgundy. Its shape reminded him of those straws he’d had as a kid—Crazy Straws, or Twisty Straws, he thought they were called. Its tip spiraled about four inches to a sharp point. He picked it up. It hummed, vibrating in his hand.

  Then he turned to DeMarco. “I’m ready.”

  DeMarco put a hand on his arm. A sweet gesture—soft and gentle—and it touched him. “Be careful.”

  In the next moment, she turned on an authoritative heel and called to the others. “Dave’s made a good argument for going. I’m staying here with you. With the gun.”

  Cheryl’s eyes widened, and then she frowned. “What? Wait. Why, Dave?” She followed him to the fence.

  He had trouble looking her in the eye, but from the side glances, he could tell by her face that she was afraid.

  “Dave, wait.” She took his arm, forcing him to turn and look at her. “Why you?”

  He sighed. “Cheryl, believe me, I’m not a brave man. Not a strong one, and obviously not a smart one. But Sally . . .” He looked over Cheryl’s shoulder at his sister. “I’ve lost her. I’m no good to her if I can’t get her out of here.”

  “You’re no good to any of us if you fall off that fence and whatever’s eating away metal objects on that lawn eats you, too. You have no idea what’s beyond that fence, or beyond the gate. We need you here. I need you.”

  Dave felt warm in his chest, and for a moment, he considered telling DeMarco to forget it. Then in his mind, he saw Sally (“You want me to die”) tottering forward onto the lawn, the black swarming over her, eating into her face. He didn’t want her to die, but God, how he’d wished every once in a while that he didn’t have to worry about her. Wished he could put her on a shelf somewhere safe to collect dust so he could be free of responsibility.

  And all he’d managed in thinking that was a life of guilt and shackles anyway. And that tied him down more than anything else.

  If he went, he’d know he tried to take care of her—really take care of her. Maybe then he’d feel free.

  “I have to, Cheryl. It’s hard to explain, but I’m no good to anyone if I’m buried under my own failure as a brother.”

  “You’re not a failure. But I can see you’re going, whether I like it or not.”

  He looked at her then, really looked at her. She was beautiful. For a moment, he was amazed by how much he’d let slip away from him—work, friends, family. Love.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her. It was neither a gentle nor a fierce kiss, but it was passionate all the same. He put every fear into it, and every word to her unspoken, every date he’d never asked her for, every thought unfulfilled of taking her to bed. Every shy, humble, vulnerable, totally honest sentiment toward her.

  And she kissed him back, as if all this time, all he’d had to do was ask.

  When they pulled apart, he noticed DeMarco smirking at him, arms crossed beneath her chest. Erik wore a big goofy grin. Dave’s face and neck felt hot, but he smiled back. Cheryl followed the look over her shoulder and giggled.

  To Dave she said, “You will come back to us,” then walked away. It left no room for debate, or for any other possible outcome.

  He looked out on the lawn. The black oozed upward, bobbing on the grass. It seemed to be watching him. Waiting. He wondered if it could flow right up the pickets of the fence, right over his foot and ankle and sink into the muscles of his calf.

  “Only one way to find out,” he muttered to himself, too low for anyone to hear.

  Tucking the handle of the strange tool into his belt loop, he eyed the fence.

  Not so tough, that fence. He could climb it. No worries.

  The wood was weathered and pockmarked, hairy with splinters. He put a palm to the picket directly in front of him, which canted wildly to the left. It felt rough, as he expected. He pushed on it, then leaned on it. It didn’t budge.

  Good, he thought. So far so good, at least. One damned picket at a time. No worries.

  He looked back at the others. They were watching him with hopeful, expectant, anxious eyes. All of them except Sally. She was looking out across the lawn.

  Dave turned back to the fence and, taking a deep breath, hoisted his foot to the V where the picket in front of him met with the one next to it. He pushed down, put a little weight on it, but it didn’t move. Taking hold of the edges of the wood, he climbed on.

  So far so good. Good little fence.

  The next space between pieces of wood was narrower, but Dave managed to switch his left foot for his right, and wedge the freed foot sideways into the space. The fence wiggled a little, and Dave sucked in a tiny breath. After a moment, when he felt confident he could move again, he leaned his head out to check for the next open space.

  It pointed down, wider than the last, two pickets away. If he stretched, he could reach—maybe. He chanced a look back at the others and his hand slipped off the wood.

  For one panicked moment, he felt himself slipping, saw himself landing on his back and the inkiness swallowing him whole. Then he caught the wood again with his hand and pulled himself close. The wood felt rough against his cheek.

  With slow and deliberate movement, he carefully replaced right foot with left again. Then he stretched his right leg out as far as he could. His toe found the next foothold between the two pickets. He looked ahead. The back fence looked so far away.

  Ahead of him, beyond the pickets, a long, low wail filled the black. Through knotholes and in the dips of open space between his hands, he saw an endless blue black, and through it, metallic bars twisted into asymmetrical shapes floated. One bumped the wood right next to his head and he flinched.

  Take one side at a time, he reasoned with himself. Just make one side for me, Davey-boy, and we’ll talk about the next one.

/>   Behind him, he heard floating words of encouragement. Erik, Cheryl, DeMarco, Sean. They were counting on him.

  Sally was counting on him.

  Left foot to right foot. Rook to Knight 4. The next V was a picket away.

  He made his way down the length of the fence that way, right foot to the foothold, left foot to replace it, right foot to the new foothold, move the hands.

  At the corner, Dave took another deep breath and leaned out to gain purchase along the first perpendicular picket. He stretched his hands, each in turn, with spasmodic little waves. They were cramping from clutching the wood. The arches and blades of his feet were starting to hurt, too, but he could ignore that.

  Two sides left. Two sides. Seventy feet, maybe. Seventy feet of fence.

  The next open space was down low, close to the grass. Dave looked to the one after. It stood higher up, out of the reach of the blackness on the lawn. If he tried, he might be able to make that one.

  He stretched a foot out. His toe caught again but slipped, and the momentum nearly pulled him off balance.

  Dave took a few moments to breathe, to switch gears to plan B.

  The space was awfully low. The inkiness pooled a few feet away. It was aware of him. It spread thin, separating into small, shiny black drops, and this for some reason seemed more awful, more deadly to Dave. He half expected them to splash up, pelting him with deadly acidic juice in tiny pinprick burns all over his face and body.

  Not going to think about that. He could dip down and up. He could do that, a quick dip. His right foot slid into the space and the black ebbed forward. He put his left foot down on top of his right foot, missing the cue, blowing the coordination.

  “Shit.” His right foot jammed. He moved his left foot out of the way, back to higher ground. But when he went to remove his other foot, he met with resistance.

  “Oh, come on, for Chrissakes—” He leaned his weight on the secure purchase and yanked on his right foot. His shoe gave a little. The blackness pooled beneath the picket. He could hear it now, humming, a crowd of tiny voices contributing to a collective mind-buzz.

  He gave one more sharp tug and pulled his foot free. The picket groaned and shifted outward toward the endless night. Dave closed his eyes and prayed pleaseohpleaseohplease don’t let me die and waited until the picket settled again. Then he opened his eyes.

  He could almost hear . . . words? No, thoughts. Sentiments.

  They’d waited too long and he’d pulled free. He sensed hunger, anger, hate. The Hollower’s thoughts in microcosm. Drops of its blood, sentient and plotting. This last idea terrified him. It wasn’t completely his thought, and it surprised him. He hadn’t figured the Hollower even to have blood, given the way it took the bullets from DeMarco’s gun, but the idea that it had maybe had parts that functioned separately and with their own agenda scared the hell out of him.

  He made a little hop and landed with his left foot in the low space and his right in the next one over. This time, the mass on the lawn didn’t hesitate. Drops of black splashed up onto his pants as he used his right leg to pull his left out of harm’s way. After a moment, he winced, then cried out as they ate into the spaces behind his ankle, his calf, a spot just below his knee. He felt twenty or thirty needlelike jabs beneath his pants, and then tiny trickles of blood dribbling down his leg.

  Gritting his teeth, Dave inched down the length of the back fence. Each time he put his injured leg down, tiny pricks of pain shot up toward his thigh. He stopped, took a few breaths, continued on. At the corner, he swung gently out to the final stretch of fence.

  One more. One more side. One more. The gate was within sight, massive weathered wood with thick gray posts and a large gold plate with a keyhole. Thirty, thirty-five feet, maybe. He could make it. He could get Sally out.

  Dave ignored the voice in his head. It wanted to know what happened next if what was on the other side of the gate was worse than back there on the lawn. Instead of thinking on an answer, he chanced a look behind him. Way over on the patio, the others watched.

  Erik cupped his mouth with his hands and called, “Good job, Dave. Keep going. You’re cool, man. Cool and collected.”

  “You’re doing great, Dave!” Cheryl yelled. “I’m proud of you.”

  DeMarco gave him a thumbs-up, and Sean waved. All present and accounted for.

  Except Sally.

  Dave felt nauseated and a little dizzy. Despite the cramps, his fingers dug into the wood. Where was Sally?

  He mouthed the words—he must have—because Cheryl frowned at him.

  “We can’t hear you,” DeMarco said.

  “Whe—” The breath failed him. He tried again. “Where’s Sally?”

  “What do you mean? She’s right—” DeMarco stopped midgesture, because Sally wasn’t right there.

  Dave spotted her around the same time the others did.

  Maybe six feet or so out from the patio, she stood on the lawn.

  Fourteen

  “Get her,” Erik heard Dave yell. “Get her!”

  “Oh my God.” DeMarco tugged his arm. “C’mon, let’s get her the hell off of there.”

  He saw Dave’s sister standing still toward the far side of the lawn opposite Dave. Turned three-quarters away from them, her head was bowed so the blond hair dangled over her shoulder and obscured her face. Erik searched the ground around her. Blood highlighted the tips of the grass where the long blades had brushed against her legs.

  He saw movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head.

  The mass moved in slow surges toward Sally, covering a few inches at a time as it snuck up on her.

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Sally? Sally!” Cheryl’s voice rose, thinned by panic. “Please get off the lawn!”

  “Get off the lawn!” Sean echoed. “You can’t stay out there.”

  Erik jogged over to the edge of the patio and leaned forward, trying to grab her arm, her clothes, something. His injured arm—the blood had dried mostly and adhered his sleeve to his triceps—tugged painfully as he stretched it out to Sally.

  He felt his balance thrown and his good arm pinwheeled for a moment, and then he caught himself. His heart thudded in his chest.

  “Damn it, she’s out of reach,” he told DeMarco.

  She frowned, keeping a wary eye on the blackness. It had closed half the distance between Dave and Sally.

  “We have to get her.” DeMarco pulled out her gun.

  “Drag her back, if we have to.” Erik wiped sweaty palms on his jeans. His wound had started to seep blood again, and small throbs of pain coursed down the length of his arm.

  “Count of three?”

  Erik shrugged. “Just say ‘go.’ ”

  DeMarco paused for a beat, then said, “Go.”

  They jogged out onto the lawn. Immediately, the blades of grass whicked as if caught in a wind and sliced into their shins and calves. Some blades reached the bottom of his knees. He stopped a moment, and the blades and terrible cutting stopped, too.

  Of course. Neat little psychological trick, right there.

  The blackness, having sensed not one but three large chunks of meaty prey, flowed forward on a hungry tide.

  “Come on,” DeMarco said with barely concealed impatience. She fired at the tide and it stopped, back-splashing away from them.

  Sally was within arm’s reach. The black oozed forward.

  “Grab her.” DeMarco fired again, two shots, arresting the flow.

  Erik put a hand on Sally’s arm, but she wrenched it away.

  “Sally—”

  “Go away.”

  “Oh, hell no, sister. No time for this bullshit.” He bent at the knee, feeling blades of grass sink through his jeans and tiger-stripe his thighs. Then he scooped up Sally.

  She was light—too light. Too soft. It was like picking up a doll. She wriggled a little, and he felt it where the Hollower had taken a chunk of his arm, but she was not nearly strong enough to make a difference to his balance.
He held tight anyway.

  “Anita, let’s go.”

  She nodded, fired once more at the oncoming black, and ran back through the grass, wincing. She was shorter than Erik, and the blades cut higher—thighs, even hips. By the time she reached the patio, her pants sported long, crimson crisscrosses along both legs.

  Erik lagged behind. Sally kicked her feet, pounding little fists against his chest, but he ignored it. The grass wrapped itself around his ankles, and each step required a pull, followed by a painful gash and the burn of open wound.

  He looked at the edge of the patio—the cool tiles, the smooth tiles—and stopped. The grass eased its hold. Behind him, he could hear a low hum, like a thousand tiny voices. In the pause, even Sally grew quiet, her legs limp, her fists curled up against her chest.

  Erik waited another second. Then he dove for the patio. The grass tried to tighten around his legs again, but it was a second too late. He stepped onto the tiles and away from the lawn and when he turned, he saw blades still reaching, still making blind swipes at the air where he’d been. He put Sally down, staying close for several moments to make sure she wouldn’t bolt for the lawn again. She didn’t.

  Cheryl was there, hugging him suddenly.

  “Good job, Erik.” Her voice sounded heavy, and when she pulled away, he saw tears in her eyes.

  They turned to Dave, who still hung off a picket across from the edge of the house. His pale face looked relieved, nonetheless. He called out, “Thank you!” Erik thought he mouthed something else—could have been a prayer, could have been more thanks—before turning, with some degree of reluctance, Erik thought, back to the fence.

  When Dave faced the wood again, he let the tears go. He cried for the absurdity of having to hang on to a goddamned fence, and for nearly having lost Sally to a bloody lawn. He cried that she was so broken. He cried for having been so much a coward and a failure that once again, instead of saving her, he was as far away as possible, and he cried because it was better that way, with him strung up on old wood, caught between two dimensions. Better because the ex-junkie and the cop were the bravest, most beautiful people he knew right then, and he was glad that he’d convinced DeMarco to let him leave Sally in their care.