The Hollows(20)

‘Stop,’ Ryan said, giving the phone back. ‘Frankie, relax, okay? I promise you, they’re empty threats made by a bunch of backwoods losers. Let’s go get an ice cream. My treat.’

He strolled off ahead of her, like he didn’t have a care in the world. She tried to follow his example, to persuade herself it was just trolls; nothing to worry about. But she was sure she had seen something on Ryan’s face when he’d been reading the messages. Surprise. A flicker of fear before his smile returned.





Chapter 9


Frankie and I had dinner at the site restaurant, then went to the store to hire a DVD: School of Rock, starring Jack Black.

When we got back to the cabin, Frankie paused just inside the doorway.

‘It seems different in here.’

‘What do you mean?’

She looked around, sniffing the air. ‘I don’t know. I guess I’m imagining it.’

The movie was one of her favourites but she didn’t laugh as much as usual. She seemed jittery, but insisted there was nothing on her mind. I wondered if she’d fallen out with Ryan already. Perhaps she was missing her mum or friends, and feeling cut off from the ‘tea’. Not that I was allowed to attempt to use teenage slang; it apparently made me sound like a sad old man.

‘I’m going to bed,’ Frankie said when the film finished. She had a Stephen King book she’d borrowed from Ryan, one I’d read years before, and even though I worried it might be a little scary for this setting, I was of the firm belief that any reading should be encouraged – not that Frankie needed any encouragement to bury her head in a book. Despite her attachment to her phone, she was always reading, which pleased me enormously. Another book lover on the planet.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ I asked. ‘You know if there’s something on your mind you can always talk to me about it.’

She hesitated.

‘Come on, you can tell your old dad.’

That was obviously the wrong thing to say because she pulled a face and said, ‘I’m going to bed.’

I poured a glass of wine and went outside. It was balmy on the deck, and stars were dotted in the spaces between the trees. Out of nowhere, a wave of melancholy hit me. My failed marriage. The thousands of miles between my daughter and me. My failed career and my empty bank account.

That prompted me to go inside to fetch my notebook. I’d already scribbled down a bunch of stream-of-consciousness ideas, but they needed organising. I turned to a fresh page and started to write.

The murders. Was it Everett Miller? Why did he do it? Where did he go? Rumours he’s still here now – crazy but could add extra element of mystery.

Dark tourism. Growth of true-crime podcasts. What makes people so obsessed with this stuff? Talk to some of Connie’s fans. How do management of Hollow Falls really feel about it? Good for business?

Greg had seemed shocked when I’d mentioned it to him, but would he really care, if it brought in visitors?

Rituals/paganism. Local history of dark beliefs? Influence of music/media?

Victims. Who were they? Reach out to their relatives? How do they feel about fact justice was never done?

That, I realised, was an important angle. Eric and Sally had been cheating on their spouses. What must it feel like to discover your husband or wife had been murdered while being unfaithful? That alone, I was sure, would make this an interesting article. Perhaps I could talk to Eric’s wife and Sally’s husband, if I could track them down.

Finally exhausted, I took a shower. When I wasn’t thinking about my article, Nikki from the bookstore kept popping into my head. Of course, I encountered women I found attractive all the time, but few of them lingered in my mind the way she did. I was sure there was some chemistry there. I had only spoiled it by revealing I was a journalist. Maybe I should go back and see her . . .

I was lost in reverie for so long that the water began to run cold. When I got out of the shower I found that steam had drifted from my en suite into the bedroom, filling the room and fogging the windows. I dried myself and put my robe on. The windows were still steamed up and I absent-mindedly went over to wipe at them with the palm of my hand, revealing the glass beneath.

A face stared in at me.

I jumped back, then quickly went to the window again, peering out.

There was no one there. Had I imagined it? Seen my own reflection? It had definitely seemed real: a face a few feet from the window, looking right at me. Except – and I shuddered to think of it – there had been something wrong with it. Like it wasn’t human. It was as white as milk with large, black eyes, and there had been something protruding from its head.

The horned god.

I tried to laugh, to tell myself it was ridiculous. I remembered Tamara in the cabin opposite telling me about the couple who were convinced their cabin was haunted. I was as bad as them. I guess I must have been unsettled by what Frankie had said too, about our cabin seeming different.

I looked out again and convinced myself it must have been my own mirror image, distorted by condensation. Or maybe light reflecting off the rental car parked outside.

I closed the blinds.

And heard a scream.

Frankie.

I sprinted through the door and ran straight to her room.

She was standing in front of her bed, in her pyjamas, frantically brushing at them. She was making distressed sounds, almost as if she were still sleeping, trapped in a nightmare. I immediately looked over at the window, expecting to see it open, signs that an intruder had been in the room.