on, to focus on conscious functioning. Behind the empty words, behind his eyes, which blurred in and out of focus, his reason and security were crumbling.
Can’t be, can’t be, we killed it. We killed that one and the others left and we were done. We were safe. We were supposed to be free and this can’t be, it couldn’t have found us, it can’t hurt us because we were supposed to be okay —
“You’re not okay,” the Sally-thing said, reading his thoughts. All the color bled from its face, and the blood of the wounds where the facial features should have been faded as well. The face itself, as if it were made of hot wax, melted off the head, dribbling in pale corpse-gray rivers down the neck and staining the nightgown with a kind of sallow stain. Dave turned his head away.
“Found you.”
The horror of the words, the memories it brought back of that night at Feinstein’s house, made him turn back to the figure on the bed.
It sat upright, restored and straightened out on the tangled covers, looking so much like the other Hollower that every nerve in Dave’s body sang with fear. The black fedora hat, the long black trench coat, the black clothes beneath, devoid of marking or distinction, the black gloves, the black shoes that, although appearing to be planted firmly on the carpet, never actuallytouched any part of this world. And the bald white orb of the head, luminous, smooth and unbroken by anything even remotely resembling a face.
It leaned forward on its knees. “Found you.”
Then it exploded in a cloud of dust and ash. Dave squinted, shielded his face from the spray, but the light snow of gray never touched him. He opened his eyes and surveyed the room.
The Hollower—this new Hollower—was gone.
Dave looked around the room. Everything seemed okay, except…
The hole. There was a hole in the wall, tilted slightly down, as if sinking into the depths of the house itself. He rose slowly, falling once on shaky legs, and crossed the room. Peering deep into the hole, he saw an endless darkness that reminded him vaguely of the night sky over Feinstein’s house. And as he watched, there was a low rumbling. He had just enough time to throw up his arm to shield his face before a spray of pain knocked him on his back in the center of the room. When he looked down, he saw shards of the broken wall embedded in his arm. He looked up at the hole, and it was gone. The wall stood perfectly smooth. But there was a word there, carved into the drywall. And where the cuts in the wall appeared, a black ooze coagulated in the crevice.
DIE
Then that faded, too. Dave shut his eyes, sinking onto the carpet with the shards of wall still in his arm, possessed of a horrible idea. This one was different. It wasstronger. It didn’t have to touch him to hurt him, and…it knew tricks the other didn’t. It knew different ways to use his own world against him. And it very much meant to see them all dead, perhaps with a drive and an ability even the other Hollower, in all its terrible power, didn’t have.
Tomorrow he’d call Erik. But to night, he was tired. Too tired. He fell asleep where he lay and didn’t—couldn’t—move a limb until morning.
CHAPTER SIX
It was downtime between shifts, and Shirley was out getting the morning guys’ coffee. Sitting there at his desk, the light dawn casting shadow in the relatively quiet headquarters, Steve frowned over the files on his desk.
He would have thought, based on what he’d seen in the jails downstairs a few days ago, that the stress of being promoted to detective sergeant and the morbid strangeness of his most recent hom i cide case were affecting him mentally and emotionally, affecting his judgment. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a police officer. Maybe he didn’t have the intestinal fortitude for it. Maybe there was something unbalanced in his brain, something that ran in the family (“ Your father’s right …”) that made him prone to seeing
Can’t be, can’t be, we killed it. We killed that one and the others left and we were done. We were safe. We were supposed to be free and this can’t be, it couldn’t have found us, it can’t hurt us because we were supposed to be okay —
“You’re not okay,” the Sally-thing said, reading his thoughts. All the color bled from its face, and the blood of the wounds where the facial features should have been faded as well. The face itself, as if it were made of hot wax, melted off the head, dribbling in pale corpse-gray rivers down the neck and staining the nightgown with a kind of sallow stain. Dave turned his head away.
“Found you.”
The horror of the words, the memories it brought back of that night at Feinstein’s house, made him turn back to the figure on the bed.
It sat upright, restored and straightened out on the tangled covers, looking so much like the other Hollower that every nerve in Dave’s body sang with fear. The black fedora hat, the long black trench coat, the black clothes beneath, devoid of marking or distinction, the black gloves, the black shoes that, although appearing to be planted firmly on the carpet, never actuallytouched any part of this world. And the bald white orb of the head, luminous, smooth and unbroken by anything even remotely resembling a face.
It leaned forward on its knees. “Found you.”
Then it exploded in a cloud of dust and ash. Dave squinted, shielded his face from the spray, but the light snow of gray never touched him. He opened his eyes and surveyed the room.
The Hollower—this new Hollower—was gone.
Dave looked around the room. Everything seemed okay, except…
The hole. There was a hole in the wall, tilted slightly down, as if sinking into the depths of the house itself. He rose slowly, falling once on shaky legs, and crossed the room. Peering deep into the hole, he saw an endless darkness that reminded him vaguely of the night sky over Feinstein’s house. And as he watched, there was a low rumbling. He had just enough time to throw up his arm to shield his face before a spray of pain knocked him on his back in the center of the room. When he looked down, he saw shards of the broken wall embedded in his arm. He looked up at the hole, and it was gone. The wall stood perfectly smooth. But there was a word there, carved into the drywall. And where the cuts in the wall appeared, a black ooze coagulated in the crevice.
DIE
Then that faded, too. Dave shut his eyes, sinking onto the carpet with the shards of wall still in his arm, possessed of a horrible idea. This one was different. It wasstronger. It didn’t have to touch him to hurt him, and…it knew tricks the other didn’t. It knew different ways to use his own world against him. And it very much meant to see them all dead, perhaps with a drive and an ability even the other Hollower, in all its terrible power, didn’t have.
Tomorrow he’d call Erik. But to night, he was tired. Too tired. He fell asleep where he lay and didn’t—couldn’t—move a limb until morning.
CHAPTER SIX
It was downtime between shifts, and Shirley was out getting the morning guys’ coffee. Sitting there at his desk, the light dawn casting shadow in the relatively quiet headquarters, Steve frowned over the files on his desk.
He would have thought, based on what he’d seen in the jails downstairs a few days ago, that the stress of being promoted to detective sergeant and the morbid strangeness of his most recent hom i cide case were affecting him mentally and emotionally, affecting his judgment. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a police officer. Maybe he didn’t have the intestinal fortitude for it. Maybe there was something unbalanced in his brain, something that ran in the family (“ Your father’s right …”) that made him prone to seeing
Similar Books
