by Aaron Polson
“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Courtney leaned into the cart, forcing the wonky wheels into a straightish line. The store was small, four aisles of the basics with a tiny meat counter and four freezer cabinets. She filled the cart with only the basics, cereal, bread, some bologna. Hoping for fresh vegetables and fruit, she picked only a handful of bruised red delicious apples and a browning head of iceberg lettuce from the meager selection.
“Most folks just drive into Springdale,” the clerk said when Courtney began unloading her cart. “We sell a lot of milk, last minute stuff like that.” Even her eyes were grey. She started punching keys on the register, ringing up each item by hand.
Courtney tried to say something, but her words stuck in her throat. She wanted the food and she wanted out. She wanted out of the town, away from the permanent haze and the grizzled old men out front. She wanted to forget the town existed. Whatever Zach thought would happen, needed to happen, and soon.
“Have you thought about the hollow field?”
“What?” Courtney bristled, caught off guard by the question.
“That’ll be $23.52, miss.”
“Oh, yes.” Courtney fished out the bills, handed them over, and took the change. The cashier’s hand brushed hers, the waxen, translucent skin warm—just like the men at the house.
“You need some help?”
“No—I’m fine. I can manage, thanks.”
After dropping the bags in the trunk, she drove away from the store, slowing as she approached the church. The marquee facing town was blank—not even one dangling letter. “Now that’s really odd,” she muttered.
She had tired of reading and watching TV, and nothing more interesting waited at the farmhouse, so she guided the Honda next to the curb outside the church. The sidewalk cried for help, too, cracked in places with weeds crawling from the dirt beneath. She only took a few tentative steps inside the front door—unlocked of course, as most places surely were in the Hollow. Stairs to her right led down with a second flight to her right going up. The sanctuary looked like the aftermath of a riot: pews scattered, some bits of trash strewn on the floor, and an overturned altar.
She felt a chill, a little thing kissing the back of her neck, and hurried back to the car.
Zach leaned into the table with hands outstretched as if pouring his will into Courtney. For her part, she sat with legs and arms crossed—a physical sign of her psychological reluctance.
“Listen, Court. It’s perfect. The house is mine. The basement is huge, and I can easily fit it for a studio with some of the cash we make in the land deal. This is my break.”
“What about the apartment, Zach?” She unfolded her arms and seized the sides of her belly with both hands. “What about the baby? Our baby?”
“He’ll be born in Springdale, at the hospital.”
And grow up in this shit-hole? She shook her head, slowly at first as though still weighing her opinion. “I don’t know. I’m not ready for this. A week and a half ago—”
“I hadn’t thought it through then. I have now. I want to make music, Court. I feel a connection to this place.” He patted the table, calling for her hand. “I want you to be here with me.”
Courtney picked at her fingernails. “I don’t know. This town is kind of freaky. Look, Zach…I stopped by one of those churches today, after the groceries. I just had a weird feeling.”
“Lay off the bible-belt references.”
“No, that’s just it.” She straightened in her chair. “The place was mostly empty. Pews knocked over. A real mess. Isn’t that weird?”
Zach shrugged and left the table for a glass of water.
Courtney took the hint. “What about musicians? Where’s your audience out here…the ladies quilting club?”
Zach took a long drink and returned to the table. “Kansas City is only a few hours drive. I can stay with Jerry or Rick on the weekends.”
She dissected him with her eyes, really studied his face. Even under the bright fluorescent light of the farm house kitchen, he looked pale. A little colorless, like them. Glancing at her own hand to be sure, Courtney stood, moved away from the table, and put physical space between her and Zach. “I’m going, Zach. With or without you. I’ll give you until the weekend—if you want to have a future with me, our baby.”
His head dropped. “Don’t do this Court.”
She roused again that night—the house too silent, waiting for something. Zach had been sleeping in a different room the last two nights—too crowded in the double bed, he had said, but she was still startled at finding herself alone. A small silver wash of light crept into the bedroom from the hallway. Courtney followed it, allowed the glow to lead her from the bedroom into the hallway and living room beyond. He was there again, standing sentinel at the big picture window. The near full moon backlit Zach; he was but a blank, black form. He’d changed—grown distant, like something seeped into his blood since they’d arrived at the house.
“Zach? Come to bed, babe.” Courtney approached, reached out with her fingers and touched his arm. Cold. “Zach?”
He turned, spilling his gaze over one shoulder. “That field, Court. The hollow field. Look, it’s swelling.”
She slid next to him, wrapping her hand around his naked forearm. From the picture window, they had a fine view of the field—a darkling plain of black under the white fragmented moon. In the center of their frame, about fifty yards up from the road, the field did swell, a mild slope maybe, but definitely a lump in the earth that wasn’t there a week ago. Courtney brought her free hand to her stomach and caressed her own swelling.
“You should get some sleep.”
Zach’s head bobbed absently.
Courtney crossed the room in front of him, but stopped at the hallway. He had only budged a few feet from where he previously stood. “Zach?” When he turned, Courtney flinched at the silver-grey wash of his skin. Just the moon, she thought.
“It’s beautiful, really, out here. I went to the field, touched some of that dirt this afternoon. I don’t ever want to leave.”
“Today, Mom. I told him I would leave today, after he meets with the realtor. Either he comes with me, or…” Courtney switched the cell phone to her other ear so she could work the fuel pump. “Sorry, I’m filling the car…no Mom, the gas fumes aren’t going to hurt the baby…love you, too. I’ll call when I—we get home.”
She shook the pump before pulling it from the car, a trick she’d learned from Zach to keep drips from the paint. She screwed the cap in place, snapped the fuel door shut, and gave a slight squeal as she looked up. A man, youngish with a smudged, two-day stubble, stood over her.
“Sorry. I could’ve helped you with that.” He pointed at a sign above the pumps that read “Full Service Only”.
“Oh, no problem, really.” She fished into her purse and produced a few bills for the attendant’s waiting hand.
“Thanks.” The man lumbered into the building.
She paced the parking lot while waiting for her change, wincing a little with the effort—her belly had begun to tighten on occasion; the baby would come soon. The sky had cleared, and an icy blue-white now rested above the town. Courtney pulled her jacket collar close about her throat. She felt the weight of the small town, all the eyes, pressing against her. Across the street, a playground sat empty, brightly painted swings and slides next to a brick building the color of dried blood. A school?
“Miss?”
Courtney started. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Your change.” The attendant’s pale hand—too pale for a man whose trade involved greasy, oily work, held a few small bills and some coins.
“What is that building, there,” she said while pointing across the street. “It looks like a school.” She fumbled the change, dropped a quarter, and stooped to pick it up.
“The children are in the hollow fields.”
Courtney stood and handed a dollar to the attendant. “What?”
“I said the school is closed. The children are
bused into Springdale.” He shoved his tip into a pocket in his blue coveralls and nodded. “Thanks ma’am.”
The hollow field whispered to Courtney as she guided Zach’s car into the driveway. It was a brief thing, like a soft breeze across her face or the brush of someone walking past, but the call sent a braid of terror writhing up her back—a hollow terror, a pervasive emptiness. She glanced at the house to verify Zach wasn’t home yet and walked slowly toward the road and the scabby earth of the hollow field beyond. The handle of a shovel could be seen poking from the mound in the center.
The fence separating the field from the road was old, loosely fitted barbed wire stretched between rotten posts of wood. Courtney hoisted one foot onto the top wire, careful to maintain her balance, and pressed down. It gave with a dull sproing, and she was able to step over the remaining wires.
The dirt gave beneath her feet, much softer than she’d expected. In her memory, Courtney saw Zach standing in front of the picture window, gazing out at the rise in the field. She worked through the loose soil, stumbling with one arm out for balance the other holding her belly. Waves of pain radiated, contractions, she knew, she should be back at the house, calling the hospital, someone, but she continued to stagger to the middle of the field.
When she made the mound, Courtney dropped to the dirt, scooped a handful, and let the small crumbles and clods trickle through her fingers. It was damp, not wet, but damp, and tickled as it fell to the ground. A pungent earthiness, a wholesome smell—not decay or rot, but a rich, dark odor surrounded her. She looked up and noticed a hole, a pit in the earth that had been freshly dug.
“It’s good soil, Court. Good land.”
She tossed the remaining dirt into the hole, and turned. Zach was walking toward her. “Zach?” Her abdomen tightened.
“It’s hungry land.” Zach held out his hand, helping Courtney to her feet. She doubled again, grimacing with another sharp stab of pain. “I’m staying here, Court. In Broughton’s Hollow. Mr. Olson and Mr. Weedeman helped me understand.” He smiled. “I want to be with you…I want you to stay, too.”
At the next wave of pain, Courtney staggered backward and bumped into the shovel. “Zach…”
“Grandpa didn’t understand, Courtney. He died here.”
Courtney’s hands wrapped around the shovel handle behind her back. “Everybody dies, Zach,” she sobbed, “everybody.”
“We don’t have to, not in the Hollow. All the land asks for is a little something in return…and we can stay here, forever. They explained it to me. The baby, Court. We give our baby to the land, a little sacrifice from both of us, and we live forever. You and me.” One hand extended to her; the other held a knife.
With a sudden gasp of air, she yanked the shovel from the ground, swinging in a wide, awkward arc. The blade caught Zach in the ribcage. He lurched forward with a dull groan, and one foot twisted into the small grave.
She ran, both hands squeezing against her swollen belly, eyes pressed tight as another contraction threatened to throw her to the ground. At the fence, she leaned against a post for a moment, catching her breath. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw him, staggering from the center of the field, clutching his side.
Weedeman and Olson were at the front door, but Courtney ignored them, hopping into the driver’s seat of the Honda. The car started with a groan and sputter. She reversed quickly and sped from the house, the tires throwing clouds of gravel and dust in her wake. Zach tumbled over the fence as the car crested the first hill.
Through town, out the other side, and safety, she thought. She pushed down on the accelerator, but the car responded with a shuddering groan. Something is wrong.
“No, no, no.” Courtney’s hands crushed the steering wheel. The fuel gauge showed full. The steering wheel wobbled back and forth. The knife in Zach’s hand. The tires. She began to coast at the city limit of Broughton’s Hollow.
Cringing with another contraction, Courtney guided the wounded car to the curb and looked in the rearview mirror. A set of headlights began to descend into the town. “No…” She held her breath against the pain and staggered from the car toward the abandoned church. Twenty more yards…ten more yards…the contraction slowed.
The inside of the church was dim with dusty beams of yellow light cutting across the disheveled sanctuary. She stumbled down the stairs into the basement, searching for a dark corner, some place to hide, to wait at least until Zach passed. Would he bring Weedeman and Olson? She pushed her back against a wall, hidden from the front steps behind an open door.
Moments passed. Her heart collided against her ribs. She rubbed both legs, sore with running and the contractions. The front door of the church clicked shut.
“Courtneeeey?” Zach called from above, his voice muted and indistinct.
Another contraction hit, waves of pain swallowing her abdomen. Courtney pressed even harder against the wall, holding her breath.
“There’s nowhere to go. I poked a nice gash in all four tires.” Zach’s steps thundered across the sanctuary above, a line of moaning wood following in his wake. With each uneven footfall, a sprinkle of dust trickled from the basement ceiling. Her eyes followed the trail of dust showers across the basement. He was limping.
“You got me good. I’m bleeding, babe. Probably cracked a rib.” The footfalls stopped. “Downstairs?”
The contraction lessened. She exhaled. He was at the back of the church. Downstairs? A second set of stairs? She glanced behind her, across the near black basement hall. Two dark doorways stood open. A second set of stairs.
Before she could think her feet carried her up the stairway to the front landing. She peered into the empty sanctuary. She looked outside. How far could she go on foot with the contractions?
“Courtneeeey.” His voice rose from the basement.
The choir loft. She scurried up the second flight of stairs. The old wood groaned and protested under her weight. In the loft she found two overturned pews, a broken bench, and remnants of a pipe organ. She needed a weapon, anything. The bench was too heavy. She grasped one of the remaining pipes—it was firmly set.
His steps thudded against the entryway below.
Courtney pressed behind the open door. As she did, her eyes found something she could use as a club leaning against the back of one pew: an old crucifix, the cross snapped with one arm missing. It was at least two feet long.
“Courtneeeey. C’mon…we can have other babies.” He was halfway up the stairs. “This one will feed the earth…we can be together…”
On cue, another contraction captured all her strength. She pressed a hand into her mouth and bit down, drawing blood—a warm, metallic taste in her mouth.
He stepped out of the stairwell with his face turned away from the door. The side of his shirt was dark and heavy with blood. He favored his right foot—a sprained ankle—as he moved to the front of the loft.
“Where are you?” he growled, surveying the sanctuary from above.
The contraction evaporated. Courtney swallowed her breath and summoned all her remaining strength. She crept a few steps from her hiding place, snatched the crucifix, held it aloft like a bat, and rushed toward Zach before he could turn around. His head cocked slightly, but jerked downward as the wooden artifact splintered across the back of his skull. With a howl of pain, he lurched forward, nearly tumbling from the railing. The knife fell from his hand and clattered to the floor below. Blinded with the ache in her womb and sheer terror of the moment, Courtney charged again with the remnants of her weapon, using it as a lance. The wood caught him in the small of the back, and he toppled over, landing in the sanctuary below with a wet thud.
She tossed the broken crucifix to the floor and caught herself on the railing. Another contraction rose from her belly. They were coming quicker now. She peeked over the edge at Zach’s body, broken against the scattered pews, arms splayed at awkward angles. She swallowed her breath and slid to the floor with her back pressed against the railing.
> Footfalls sounded from the stairs. Her eyes flickered as Weedeman and Olson pressed close to her. The last thing she heard was Olson’s voice as he said, “my god, the baby. We have to get her to a hospital.”
When Courtney opened her eyes again, she was alone in a hospital bed. She shivered her body suddenly cold. The room was quiet, dim, the shade of twilight lying across everything like a thin shroud. Her stomach was dead—she touched the bulge in her belly, but the baby was gone. Gone. With trembling effort, she rolled off the side of the mattress and staggered toward the door.
“Honey, you should be in bed.” A plump nurse caught Courtney’s arms.
Courtney studied the woman’s hands—pink and healthy looking. She was safe. “My baby?”
“Yes…I suppose a little visit wouldn’t hurt.” The nurse smiled. “We have him in the nursery—while you were out, we were keeping an eye on him. The doctor was a little worried about his color...”
“Color?” Courtney shook.
“Just a little pale, but he’s fine.” The nurse helped Courtney to her bed and returned with a wheeled basinet. She lifted the swaddled infant into Courtney’s arms. “Here you are sweetie. I’ll check on you in a minute.” She stopped at the door. “Oh, and you have a visitor.”
Courtney nodded without thinking. He was hers, she knew. But the skin—his skin was grey, almost translucent—like all of them, the cursed in Broughton’s Hollow. Her arms shook. “No…no…no…”
“Yes. I’m afraid so.”
Courtney bristled at the voice. Mr. Weedeman stood in the doorway, looking even more ashen than usual in the artificial light.
“He belongs to us. We buried his father in the hollow field.”
“No,” Courtney began to sob.
“Zach’s blood made a pact with the land. A little sacrifice. The baby belongs to us. The baby will stay with us.”
