Dark Hollows

“Good night,” she calls out.

“Good night,” I say over my shoulder.

Murphy follows me up the gently sloping lawn to the house. All the while, I’m fighting the urge to look back.

Once inside, I stand with my back to the door, trying to catch my breath. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of water. I down it in one gulp, pour another one, and repeat the process. After standing there for I don’t know how long, I go to the cabinet over the fridge. I pull out a bottle of bourbon, pour myself a healthy dose, and down that as well. I wrangle my nerves and head into the living room, keeping the lights off. I go to the window, and peer through the curtains.

The fire pit glows but she’s no longer there. The light in the cottage is on. There are instructions as part of the rental agreement that you are not to leave a fire in the fire pit unattended, but I’m not going back down there. I want to stay in here, and convince myself that I’m being paranoid.

It was a coincidence. It has to be.

I pull the chair over to the window, sit down, and watch through the small space in the curtains.

There is no movement from the cottage. Only the single, solitary light.

*

I’ve been sitting here for hours, watching. Murphy’s curled up in his bed with his favorite red tennis ball. It’s midnight, and I’m slowly coming to my senses.

Of course, I’m being stupid. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Yes, it was uncanny. All she needed was the scar above her eye, and that would have settled it, but she didn’t have one. It was a bunch of little coincidences that my mind assembled into an impossible conclusion.

Finally, the light in the cottage goes dark. The fire has long since burned out.

I’m an idiot.

I rise from the chair, joints aching, and head upstairs to my bedroom.

“Ridiculous,” I say aloud as I crawl into bed.

Murphy pads into the room. He comes around to the side of the bed, rests his snout on the mattress right in front of my face, and looks at me.

“Yeah. Fine. All right. Just for tonight. Up-up.”

He leaps onto the bed, and curls into a ball near my feet. He’s not supposed to do this. He’s got his own bed in the corner, but I’ve got too much on my mind to argue with him.

“You’re going to feel so stupid in the morning,” I tell myself and turn off the light.

The lock snaps open.

I continue to stare at it, immobilized with fear. I’m sweating. I can taste the bile in my throat. I know what’s coming. I know what’s behind that door.

“No … no …”

The handle turns with a groan that echoes through the basement.

I open my eyes.

The sun is coming up.

I go through the process of catching my breath and remembering where I am. That’s two nights in a row. That never happens. Not since they first started. It’s usually once every few weeks. The most troubling thing about this time is that the nightmare was slightly different. It always ends with the lock popping open. This time, the nightmare kept going, and the handle turned. That was new.

I roll over and glance at Murphy, who is taking up more than half of the bed. He’s lying on his back with his legs splayed out in what I callously call his “highway dog” pose.

I shake the image of the dream from my head and play the events of last night over in my mind.

I was right. I was seeing things that weren’t there. I’m also right about feeling stupid.

I take a shower and absent-mindedly run my finger over the two dime-sized scars in my side, while I think about Rebecca. I’m going to apologize to her for being so awkward last night. I want that positive review and the curiosity about who she is has come back.

I go down to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. I look out the window above the sink at the sun peeking over the hills. My gaze drifts down to the cottage.

I stop.

The car is gone.

That’s not unheard of. Some people head out early to catch the sunrise or to make good time to their next destination. What makes me stop is that the door to the cottage is open.

Coffee in hand and Murphy close behind, I head out the door, step off the porch, and start walking towards the cottage. The woods are playing their early chorus of birdsong. A morning mist hangs a few feet above the ground. As I get closer, I realize that no, my eyes are not playing tricks on me. The front door is wide open.

I stop outside the door, and peer into the cottage.

“Miss Lowden?”

The sound of my voice stops the nearby birds, leaving the air filled with an unnerving silence. There’s no hint of a reply from inside.

Murphy waits by my side, sensing my tension.

“Rebecca?”

Nothing.

I step through the door. The air inside the cottage is cold, meaning the door has been open for hours. Nothing’s been touched. The coffee packets wait in the basket by the coffee maker. There are no water droplets in the sink. The throw pillows on the couch are exactly where I left them yesterday.

“Hello?”

I start walking down the short hall to the bedroom. Halfway down, I turn my head to look into the bathroom. The towels and toiletries are undisturbed.

I continue to the end of the hall. The bedroom door is closed. I stop next to the door and stand motionless, listening for any sound from within. I glance back down the hall. Murphy is waiting anxiously in the living room, prepared to flee at any moment.

I tap the door.

“Rebecca?”

There’s no response, which means either she’s not in there, or she is in there, and there’s something really wrong. I gently grasp the knob, turn, and slowly open the door.

The stick doll is on the bed, propped up on the pillows. The guestbook is lying open before it. Angry red letters are carved across the pages. The coffee cup slips from my hand, and falls to the floor.

I step closer, and a name stares back at me from the pages of the guestbook.