figured—I mean, we were never really introduced, and, well . . . I’m Erik.”
“Nice to meet you.” The words tasted stale in his mouth.
“So much for pleasantries,” Erik said, and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Look, I’m not sure how to say this, but . . . if you’ve seen that thing, whatever it is, please tell me. I’m not asking for details—whatever your vice is, man, that’s all you, and it’s none of my business. But I need to know. I need to know it isn’t just me.”
“Vice?”
Erik gave him a sheepish grin. “Mine was coke. Been sober five years, eight months. Almost nine.” In the moonlight, his cheeks grew ruddy. “I call that thing Jones, ’cause every time I see it, it makes me want to get high again.”
Dave exhaled slowly. “My sister calls it the Hollower.”
There was a pause as Erik shifted his weight. “So it’s real, then? I mean, a real thing? What the fuck is it?”
“I don’t know—I meant it when I said that I didn’t know.” Dave glanced at the door. “I thought it was only me—well, me and Sally, my sister. And only her because of me. And maybe Cheryl because of me.”
This time, Dave heard that desperation creep into his own voice. “I can’t let it do to Cheryl what it’s doing to me. Or to Sally. I can’t be responsible for one more. It kills people. It tortures them in their heads and it kills them.”
Erik nodded solemnly and shifted his weight to his other foot. “What do we do?”
“Stay out of its way. Stay alive. Maybe stay away from each other.” Dave turned the key in the ignition and they both jumped at the volume of the radio. He smacked at the knob and turned it off.
Erik leaned in the window. He smelled like Right Guard. His face was flushed despite the cold night air. “What if that’s what it wants? Divide and conquer, man. You and I, at least that’s something, some comfort in knowing we’re not crazy. But Cheryl, man—she’s alone.”
“It’s better that way.”
“Yeah? You think so? I don’t know about you, dude, but I don’t think being alone is better at all.”
“I’m sorry,” Dave told him, and he was. He wanted to spare this kid and Cheryl any further pain, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t take on any more broken clocks in his life. He couldn’t live with failing anyone else.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and drove away.
Sean stood in an alley, but he wasn’t himself. He was taller, with delicate hands, like a girl’s, and wisps of blond hair that kept drifting out of place into his eyes. He looked down, aware of breasts and the desire to giggle over them, and at the same time, not surprised they were there.
The sensation of cold came on suddenly, and he shivered.
The sharp wintry breath of the alley whispered a name he couldn’t understand. It chilled his blood.
He was afraid, but he wasn’t sure why. Help, he needed help with something, but what? He sprinted off down the alley and the sound of his footsteps—light girl-footsteps—echoed between the buildings.
In response, the high-pitched chatter of a thousand bug legs closed in around him, the stink oftrash and bug-meat heavy in the thick darkness collected in the corners between the garbage cans.
They sound like they did when they were in that balloon
. . . .
Sweat trickled from his pores and turned cold, but he ran as fast as those skinny little girl legs would carry him. The chirp of the bugs grew louder, closer, more insistent. A crunching from the ground behind him grated across his nerves, and he imagined the bigger bugs surging up over the littler ones, crushing them in their wild frenzy to push forward.
He opened his mouth to scream, but the voice was not his—weak and afraid, it was lost in the noise around him. He dove into a boxy corridor of shadow, and turned just in time to see (
oh, shit, oh no, oh no
) the thing from across the street bearing down on him full force, only there was no trench coat, no
“Nice to meet you.” The words tasted stale in his mouth.
“So much for pleasantries,” Erik said, and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Look, I’m not sure how to say this, but . . . if you’ve seen that thing, whatever it is, please tell me. I’m not asking for details—whatever your vice is, man, that’s all you, and it’s none of my business. But I need to know. I need to know it isn’t just me.”
“Vice?”
Erik gave him a sheepish grin. “Mine was coke. Been sober five years, eight months. Almost nine.” In the moonlight, his cheeks grew ruddy. “I call that thing Jones, ’cause every time I see it, it makes me want to get high again.”
Dave exhaled slowly. “My sister calls it the Hollower.”
There was a pause as Erik shifted his weight. “So it’s real, then? I mean, a real thing? What the fuck is it?”
“I don’t know—I meant it when I said that I didn’t know.” Dave glanced at the door. “I thought it was only me—well, me and Sally, my sister. And only her because of me. And maybe Cheryl because of me.”
This time, Dave heard that desperation creep into his own voice. “I can’t let it do to Cheryl what it’s doing to me. Or to Sally. I can’t be responsible for one more. It kills people. It tortures them in their heads and it kills them.”
Erik nodded solemnly and shifted his weight to his other foot. “What do we do?”
“Stay out of its way. Stay alive. Maybe stay away from each other.” Dave turned the key in the ignition and they both jumped at the volume of the radio. He smacked at the knob and turned it off.
Erik leaned in the window. He smelled like Right Guard. His face was flushed despite the cold night air. “What if that’s what it wants? Divide and conquer, man. You and I, at least that’s something, some comfort in knowing we’re not crazy. But Cheryl, man—she’s alone.”
“It’s better that way.”
“Yeah? You think so? I don’t know about you, dude, but I don’t think being alone is better at all.”
“I’m sorry,” Dave told him, and he was. He wanted to spare this kid and Cheryl any further pain, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t take on any more broken clocks in his life. He couldn’t live with failing anyone else.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and drove away.
Sean stood in an alley, but he wasn’t himself. He was taller, with delicate hands, like a girl’s, and wisps of blond hair that kept drifting out of place into his eyes. He looked down, aware of breasts and the desire to giggle over them, and at the same time, not surprised they were there.
The sensation of cold came on suddenly, and he shivered.
The sharp wintry breath of the alley whispered a name he couldn’t understand. It chilled his blood.
He was afraid, but he wasn’t sure why. Help, he needed help with something, but what? He sprinted off down the alley and the sound of his footsteps—light girl-footsteps—echoed between the buildings.
In response, the high-pitched chatter of a thousand bug legs closed in around him, the stink oftrash and bug-meat heavy in the thick darkness collected in the corners between the garbage cans.
They sound like they did when they were in that balloon
. . . .
Sweat trickled from his pores and turned cold, but he ran as fast as those skinny little girl legs would carry him. The chirp of the bugs grew louder, closer, more insistent. A crunching from the ground behind him grated across his nerves, and he imagined the bigger bugs surging up over the littler ones, crushing them in their wild frenzy to push forward.
He opened his mouth to scream, but the voice was not his—weak and afraid, it was lost in the noise around him. He dove into a boxy corridor of shadow, and turned just in time to see (
oh, shit, oh no, oh no
) the thing from across the street bearing down on him full force, only there was no trench coat, no
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