The Hollower (19 page)

He’d known a kid in school, a fifth grader the size of a small pony, who liked to threaten and sometimes knock to the ground anyone unlucky enough to get in his way. They called him Pach. They’d always called him Pach, although Sean couldn’t remember why. Sometimes Pach told him he was going to kick Sean’s ass. Sometimes he looked like he meant to. But no one—not even Pach—had ever wanted him dead.

Sean glanced at the window again. It had to be after midnight, but he wasn’t going to get any sleep.
He climbed out of bed and tiptoed to his door. The reassuring blue glow of his mom’s bedroom TV flickered irregularly over her sleeping form. She would probably wake up at some point to turn the TV off. In the meantime, though, the sound of Lifetime’s reruns of old sitcoms made him feel less alone, even from across the hall.

His hands felt cold and kind of clammy, so he wiped them against the flannel of his pajama pants. His stomach lurched as he crept back to the window. If it was out there—or worse, if his dad was out there again—Sean was fairly sure he would be sick.

He looked out the window again and scanned the front lawn, the street between them, then his own lawn. Nothing there. The front door of Mr. Feinstein’s house stood open, though. It hadn’t been open before.

Sean sighed. It didn’t matter, when he thought about it. In the Feinsteins’ house, in the living room, in his own bedroom, even—the Hollower could be anywhere it wanted, anyone it wanted, at any time. He’d never be safe. He’d never be sure.

Not unless he killed it.

He’d been told the Warding Ritual could keep the monsters away. Part of him knew what his dad taught him was kids’ stuff, like the Tooth Fairy—and maybe like Santa and the Easter Bunny (which he suspected but was unable and kind of unwilling to prove—some things he just didn’t want to take the chance of messing up). But he’d wanted to believe then—still did, to an extent. In a way, it was like his dad was still looking out for him.

Another part of him, though, was beginning to understand that dads, alive and especially dead,
couldn’t protect their kids from everything. Some things found a way to get at you.

The videos they’d watched in school showed him and his classmates what kids could do to protect themselves when their moms and dads weren’t around. Parents and teachers, that was their job—to teach kids how to stay safe, to be confident and prepared when adults couldn’t be there to watch over them. He figured his dad had tried to do the same thing, with the Warding Ritual.

But it wouldn’t have worked on those men in the videos. Their teacher told them human beings weren’t monsters, even if they did bad things that scared even grown-ups. They were sick. In spite of his faith in what his father told him, he had known then that not everything could be turned away by circles around his face, Xs and spitting. There were things in the world more dangerous, more real than bug monsters under his bed. But if they weren’t monsters, then an antimonster ritual was useless.

The Hollower was something different altogether, too. If he had to guess, he’d say it fell somewhere in between. It, like the bug monsters and the slithering sleevey things in his closet, was not a part of this earth but somehow moving through the smoke and mirrors and shadows of it. But the Hollower scared grown-ups, too, like that man he’d seen come running out of the Feinstein place. It was really in-his-face dangerous. And whether it was sick or mean or angry and crazy or whatever, it very much wanted him dead. It was most certainly a monster, but no kids’ stuff Warding Ritual was going to scare it off.

Going to his mom or telling a teacher wouldn’t work. Going to the police wouldn’t work. And he
didn’t know if that man would ever come back—the only grown-up he knew of (besides Mr. Feinstein, he guessed) who had seen the monster. If he was going to fight the Hollower, he had to do it himself.

The curtains rustled in the bedroom window across the street, and Sean shivered. It occurred to him even when it had handed him the broken pieces of lamp, it never once brushed his hand with its fingers or stroked his hair or touched his cheek. He wondered what it would have done if he’d tried to kiss it good night, or give it a hug.

He wondered what would happen if he touched it.

Maybe physical contact was like poison to it. Of course, if just touching it would kill it, then why hadn’t someone thought to do that already? Why hadn’t someone tried to shoot it or stab it or smack it down with a crowbar?

Because it won’t work
, he told himself. Maybe weapons wouldn’t do any good. Still, he didn’t like the idea of going into the Feinsteins’ place without
something
in his hands. Sean thought of getting a broom or a mop—something with a long handle that he could use to defend himself with. Maybe he’d bring a bat tomorrow, just in case.

He crossed back over to his bed and climbed in. The thought of facing the Hollower made his stomach churn. He wiped his palms on his blankets.

“
What about
big
monsters, Daddy? Will the Warding Ritual work on those?
”

“
Well, son, big monsters is another kettle of fish altogether. For those, you need something extra special
.”

He wondered for a moment if
that
had been kid stuff, too.

Maybe not. Everything had a weakness. Monsters
had sunlight and silver bullets and magic spells and holy water. Kidnappers and molesters had soft, sensitive groins and eyes and throats. The Hollower had to have a weakness, too. He believed it as strongly as he did that there was a heaven, and that his dad was in it. Believed it more than Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

His father had also told him even the smallest of things have strengths. The balance of nature, he called it. And Sean believed that, too. Everything had strengths and weaknesses.

Tomorrow, one way or another, he’d go over to the Feinsteins’ house and find out if his measured up to the Hollower’s. Armed with a baseball bat and a feverish hope that his dad’s “something special” would be enough—tomorrow, he’d try to kill a monster himself.

After settling Cheryl on a chair with her shoes kicked off, a blanket in her lap, and a hot cup of tea in her hands, Dave had shown them the tape. Erik, leaning forward on the edge of the couch, had suggested they watch it again and although Cheryl looked pale, she’d agreed. They let it run to static before Dave switched it off and ejected the tape. After the second time, Cheryl stared at the television. Dave had watched it again himself after the phone call from the Hollower. He’d let the tape run until it had gone black, thinking what he supposed Cheryl might have been thinking now. There was nothing else on the tape. Nothing else they could use to defend themselves with, no other hints or clues from Max Feinstein.

He watched her for a moment. The soft smudge of
her eyeliner beneath her eyes and the faded color of her lipstick gave her a diffused, dreamy look. Even exhausted, scared, and upset, she was beautiful, Dave thought.

“Wow.” Erik let out a long breath. “With all due respect to the dead, how do we know this guy knew what he was talking about? How did he know so much?”

“I don’t know. It makes sense, though, what he said.” Dave crossed the room and handed Erik the newspaper articles. “And these suggest that Max is right. If he is, this thing has been destroying lives for a long time.” He gave Erik a grim smile. “Lot of people bringing the Hollower right to them.”

“What are we going to do?” Cheryl asked. A slender arm wrapped around her stomach, as if to keep its contents in check.

“We’re going to find it. We’re going to hunt it down and we’re going to fight it. Because you’re right, Cheryl. It’s never going to leave us alone.”

“We’ll cave its faceless friggin’ head in,” Erik added.

“How? Where are we going to look? And what in God’s name do we do when we find it? Guys, if Max Feinstein couldn’t stop it—and he knew more than anyone else about it—and those people in those articles couldn’t stop it, either, how are we going to?”

Erik looked away. Dave said nothing, but her gaze sought out his. Her eyes filled with tears at something evidently disappointing she found there.

He said finally, “We’ll find a way.”

“I’m scared.” She pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Me too,” Erik said.

“Me three. Look. I think we should meet up again
tomorrow night. It keeps coming to us. I think it’s time we go find it ourselves. And I think I know where to start looking.” Dave looked at the tape in his hands. “I think we should try Feinstein’s house.”

Erik rose. “Sounds like as good a place as any to me. In the meantime, though, I better go. Promised my girl I’d be home when I could.”

“Okay, I’ll drive you.” Dave picked up his keys.

Cheryl tossed the blanket aside. “My stuff is still at the bar. My purse . . .”

“We can get it tonight, if you want, or wait until tomorrow. Either way, I’ll go with you,” Dave said.

“I don’t think I’m quite ready to go back there tonight.” She smiled at him. “But I definitely want you there when I go back.”

Dave felt warmth spread outward from inside when she said that. He heard Erik chuckle behind him as he followed Cheryl out of the apartment.

They said little on the car ride back to Erik’s, but it was a different kind of silence. They had formed a unified front. It wanted to isolate them and destroy them one by one, but whatever it tried next, they’d fight it together. Even without a plan in place, the comforting presence of the others made Dave feel less alone. The past, with all its little barbs in his memory, and all the places and people and things he’d let slip away, didn’t seem as important now as what tomorrow would bring. He could die with his boots on, like the old cowboys used to say. A showdown at high noon was better than a slow death in the smoke and dark of a saloon, one drink at a time.

He pulled up in front of Erik’s house.

“Tomorrow, then?” Erik opened the car door.

“I’ll come get you at about seven.”

Erik nodded. “Thanks.”

Dave offered an awkward smile. “No problem.”

“See you at seven tomorrow, then. Bye, Cheryl.”

Erik got out and ran up to the house. Dave waited for him to disappear inside before pulling away.

Once they were back on the main road, he cleared his throat. “I know you had a tough night, and I was thinking that . . . well, you know, I figured maybe you wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—be alone, and well, if you wanted to, you know, crash at my house, you’re definitely more than welcome.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her smiling.

“I’d like that very much. I’d really rather not be alone.”

Once they’d returned to the apartment, he offered her an old sweatshirt and sweatpants. She emerged from his bedroom and gave him a funny smile. “What?”

He shook his head. “I was just thinking that even in sweats, you look great.”

She looked away, embarrassed. “Thanks.”

Dave felt warmth rise in his neck and face. “Um, anyway, you take the bed. I’ve got the couch here—”

“Oh no, Dave, I couldn’t put you out like that.”

Dave held up a hand. “I insist. Besides, I sleep on the couch all the time.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, okay, then. Thanks.” She passed back into the bedroom. After a moment, though, she popped her head back out again. “Dave?”

He looked up from fluffing a couch pillow. “Yeah?”

“Seriously. I appreciate this. I think I would have
gone out of my mind if I had to spend the night alone at my place.”

The thought
You’re welcome to sleep here any time you want
crossed his mind, but he squashed it. In truth, he’d imagined bringing Cheryl back to his place plenty of times, and much like most things he’d fantasized about, the real experience was something quite different. Instead, he said, “I’m glad to have you here. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to spending the night alone, either.”

She caught his gaze and held it for a moment. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something else, but she stopped, and giggled. Dave found it endearing.

“Night.” She closed the door behind her.

That night, he did dream of an alley, but the Hollower wasn’t there. Cheryl was, and the way she kissed made for a pleasant sleep until the morning.

The following morning, DeMarco went for her warrant. She brought the Feinstein tape, and all the files she could find that bore a strong connection to the contents of it.

District Attorney May Davis’s office was located on the third floor of the municipal building. Anita DeMarco had been there many times on business, and several times just to chat over coffee and ogle the handsome FedEx guy who delivered packages almost like clockwork every Monday afternoon. DeMarco didn’t have many girlfriends, or many friends period, if one got down to the nitty-gritty of it. She didn’t think she needed many, though. DeMarco was content. She dated sometimes—even went out with Bennie once in a while, although those dates consisted more of “staying in” and
didn’t require any real effort or emotional commitment. DeMarco was fine with that. She made pleasant small talk with the medical examiner when she saw her. A few of the guys down at the station joked and laughed with her, or invited her for beers after shifts sometimes. She had her sister in Colorado. And she had May Davis.

May had grown into her late forties with an easy kind of summery grace, poise, and natural beauty. Firm, flowery-smelling, and fairly young-looking, May embodied classy without being condescending, professional without being sterile, sexy without being overt. She was a presence.

May’s office, DeMarco thought, served perfectly as an extension of her personality, a place not overrun by the power of the position, but sophisticated and inviting. DeMarco believed places soaked up the atmosphere of their inhabitants. Over time, wood weathered and paint chipped from the wear and tear of holding up families and businesses, holding in criminals, comforting the sick, the injured, the lonely. In May’s office, freedom was bargained. Justice was measured. Lives changed. But the fine mahogany desk and leather-bound law books lining the shelves, the framed law degrees and pictures of her kids, took it all in stride. Behind her, a window looked out over the center of town. She kept the shades open all the time. Weather never seemed to affect May at all.