Terminal

Read on for a special preview… THE HOLLOW On sale in Summer 2006

It was on the first day of spring that Big Steve and I saw Shelly Carpenter fucking the hairy man. Winter had been a hard one. Two books to write in five months’ time. Not something I recommend doing, if you can help it. There was a lot of pressure involved. The sales of my first novel, Heart of the Labyrinth, caught my critics, my publisher, and even myself by surprise. It did very well—something that a book of its kind isn’t supposed to do, especially a mass-market paperback with no promotional campaign behind it.

So, flush with success, I quit my day job—only to learn that I wouldn’t be getting a royalty check for at least another year. We’d already blown through the advance: mortgage payments, car and truck payments, new living room furniture for my wife, Tara, and a new laptop for me. Plus, I’d spent quite a bit of my own cash traveling to book signings.

If I’d had an agent, maybe he would have explained that to me. Or maybe not. Personally, I’m glad I don’t have an agent. They require fifteen percent of your earnings, and I was broke. I could have gone back to work at the factory, but I figured that if I applied myself to the writing, I’d be making about as much money as I would at the factory anyway, so I decided to follow what I love doing.

Tara still worked, insisting that she pay the bills while I stayed home and wrote, but we couldn’t survive on just one income. Thus—two more books for two different publishers in five months’

time, written just for the advance money, which would see us through the winter. Nice chunk of change, but when you totaled up the hours I was working, the advance for the next two novels came out to about a buck eighty an hour.

But we needed the money.

The pressure got to me. I started smoking again, and drank coffee nonstop. I’d get up at five, make the daily commute from the bed to the coffee pot to the computer, and start writing. I’d work on one novel until noon, take a break for lunch, and then work on the second novel until late evening. After a full day of that, I’d take care of business—reading contracts, responding to fan mail, checking my message board, giving interviews—all the other things that constitute writing—and then go to bed around midnight.

During those rough months, I’d have gone insane if not for Big Steve. Tara brought him home from the pound to keep me company during the day. Big Steve was a mutt—part beagle, part Rottweiler, part black Lab, and all pussy. Despite his formidable size and bark, Big Steve was scared of his own shadow. He ran from butterflies and squirrels, fled from birds and wind-tossed leaves, and cowered when the mailwoman came to the door. When Tara first brought him home, he hid in the corner of the kitchen for half a day, tail between his legs and his entire body shaking. He got used to us fairly quick, but he was still frightened by anything else. Not that he let it show. When something—it didn’t matter what, the Ferguson kid or a groundhog—stepped onto our property, the Rottweiler inside him came out. He was all bark and no bite, but a robber would have had a hard time believing that. Big Steve became my best friend. We watched TV together. He listened while I read manuscript pages out loud to him. He liked the same beer as me, and the same food. Most importantly, Big Steve knew when it was time to drag my ass away from the computer. That was how we started our daily walks, and now they were a scheduled routine. Two per day—one at dawn, shortly after Tara left for work, and the second at sundown, when she was on her way home. Tara commutes to Baltimore every day, and it was at those times—when she first left and when she was due home—that the house seemed especially lonely. Big Steve had impeccable timing. He’d get me outside and that always cheered me up.

Which brings us back to Shelly Carpenter and the hairy man.

When Tara left for work that morning, on the first day of spring, Big Steve stood at the door and barked once—short and to the point.

Behold, I stand at the door and bark; therefore I need to pee.

“You ready to go outside?” I asked.

He thumped his tail in affirmation, and his ears perked up.

I clipped his leash to his collar (despite his fear of anything that moves, there is enough beagle in Big Steve to inspire a love of running off into the woods with his nose to the ground, and not coming home for days). We stepped outside. The sun was shining, and it felt warm on my face. Tara and I had planted a lilac bush the year before, and the flowers were blooming, fragrant and sweet. Birds chirped and sang to each other in the big oak tree in our backyard. A squirrel ran along the roof of my garage, chattering at Big Steve. The dog shrank away. The long, cold winter had come and gone, and somehow, I had made it through. I’d finished both manuscripts, Cold As Ice and When the Rain Comes. Now, I could finally focus on the novel that I wanted to write. I felt good. Better than I had in months. The weather probably had something to do with that. Now it was spring. The time when nature lets the animal kingdom know that it’s time to make lots of babies. Spring, the season of sex and happiness. Big Steve celebrated the first day of spring by pissing on the lilac bush, pissing on the garage, pissing on the sidewalk, and pissing twice on the big oak tree—which further infuriated the squirrel.

Our house is sandwiched between Main Street and a back alley that separates us from the Fire Hall. The Fire Hall borders a grassy vacant lot and a park, the kind with swings and monkey bars and deep piles of mulch to keep kids from skinning their knees. Beyond the playground lies the forest—twenty square miles of protected woodland, zoned to avoid farmers or realtors from cutting it all down. The forest is surrounded on all sides by our town, and the towns of Seven Valleys, New Freedom, Spring Grove, and New Salem. They all have video stores and grocery outlets and pizza shops (and our town even has a Wal-Mart), but you wouldn’t know it while standing inside the forest. Stepping through that tree line is like traveling through time to a Pennsylvania where the Susquehanna Indians still roamed free and the Quakers and Amish were yet to come. At the center, at the dark heart of the forest, was LeHorn’s Hollow, source of central Pennsylvanian ghost stories and legends. Every region has such a place. LeHorn’s Hollow was ours.

An artist friend of mine once visited us from California. Tara and I took him for a walk through the woods, maybe half a mile inside, and he said something that has always stuck with me. He said that our woods felt different. I’d scoffed at the time, reminding him that his own state had the majestic redwood forests (Tara and I had spent part of our honeymoon walking amongst the coastal redwoods, and I’d wanted to live there ever since). But he’d insisted that our small patch of woods was different.

He said they felt primordial.

After Big Steve finished watering the yard, he tugged me toward the alley, his ears perked up and tongue lolling in hopeful anticipation.

“You want to go for a walk in the woods? You want to sniff for some bunnies?”

He wagged his tail with enthusiastic confirmation.

“Come on, then.”

He put his nose to the ground and led me forward. Shelly Carpenter jogged by as we reached the edge of the alley.

“Hi Adam,” she panted, running in place. “Hi Stevie!”

Big Steve wagged the tip of his tail and darted between my legs.

“Oh, come on, Stevie. Don’t be shy! You know me.”

Big Steve’s tail thumped harder, confirming that yes, he did indeed know her, but he shrank farther away.

Shelly laughed. “He’s such a fraidy cat.”

“Yeah. Runs from his own shadow. Out for your morning jog?”

“You know it. Isn’t it beautiful today?”

Her thin T-shirt was damp with sweat, and it clung to her bouncing breasts, revealing perfection. Her pert nipples strained against the fabric, hinting at the dark areolas beneath. Before she could catch me leering, I looked down. Mistake. Her gray sweatpants had ridden up, hugging her crotch like a second skin.

I glanced back up. Shelly was staring at me.

“You okay, Adam?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Sure. I was just thinking about my deadline.”

“You’re always daydreaming.”

“That’s the way it is with writers.”

“How’s the next book coming?”

“Good.” I smiled, and bent down to pet Big Steve. Mistake number two. My face was inches from her groin. I imagined that I could smell her sweat—and something else. Something intoxicating. The scent of a woman.

What the hell was wrong with me?

She placed a hand on her hip and arched her back. “What’s it going to be?”

I jumped. “W-what?”

“The book.” Her breasts bounced up and down as she began jogging in place again. “What’s it going to be about?”

“I’m not sure yet, actually. Still working it out in my head. But it’s going to be big.”

“Well, I’d better let you get back to work, then. See you. Tell Tara that I said hi.”

“Okay. Will do. See you later.”

She raised her hand and waved, then blew Big Steve a kiss. We stared after her as she jogged down the alley and crossed over into the park. I watched her perfect ass moving beneath her sweat pants. Then she vanished from sight. The next time I saw that ass, she was bent over a log and the hairy man was grinding his hips behind her.

Big Steve panted, then turned around and licked his balls.

I knew how he felt. My erection strained against my jeans.

I took a deep breath, trying to stave off the guilt that welled up inside me. I’d never cheated on Tara, but the opportunities were there. Not dozens of them; at least, not yet. But there were several women who’d brought bourbon and crotchless panties to my book signings, and asked me to sign their breasts with magic marker. They sent me emails telling me how much my writing turned them on. Genre groupies. It was flattering and tempting and great for selling books. But it was surprising too—especially considering my modest success. I often wondered if it would get worse the bigger I got.

The thing I was most afraid of was myself—my own libido.

But I’d never done anything. And my overreaction to Shelly’s workout attire left me feeling puzzled and guilty.

At the time, I dismissed it. Just something in the air.

I know now how right I was.

Big Steve strained against his leash, urging me forward. We crossed the alley and walked onto the field, heading in the same general direction that Shelly had gone. Steve put his nose to the ground, catching a scent.

In the branches of the oak tree, two squirrels began humping away, making babies. I wondered if Tara and I would ever have a baby. Then I thought of the miscarriage. Sadness welled up inside me.

Steve tugged at the leash, chasing the bad memories away like the good dog that he was. The wet grass soaked my shoes and his paws. I took us around the playground. It wouldn’t do to have the neighborhood children come flying down the slide and land in a pile of dog shit. As if reading my mind, Big Steve dutifully dropped a pile in the grass. Then we moved on. Paul Legerski’s black Chevy Suburban roared down the alley. He blew the horn and I waved. My next-door neighbor, Mike, started his lawnmower. It sputtered, stalled, and then sputtered again. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking out their springtime return from southern climates. But beneath it all there was another sound. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. But Big Steve’s ears were up and his head cocked. He’d heard it too.

As we stood there, it came again—a high, melodic piping. It sounded like a flute. Just a few short, random notes, and then they faded away on the breeze and weren’t repeated. I looked around to see if Shelly had heard it, but she was gone, as if the woods had swallowed her up.

In a way, I guess that’s what happened.

The musical piping drifted toward us again.

Big Steve planted his feet, raised his hackles, and growled. I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s nothing. Just some kid practicing for the school band.”

It occurred to me that it was Monday morning, and all the kids were in school. Then Steve’s haunches sagged and he returned to normal, nose to the ground and tail wagging with excitement over every new scent.

The narrow trail leading into the woods was hidden between two big maple trees. I don’t know who made it, kids or deer, but Big Steve and I used it every day. Dead leaves crunched under our feet as we slipped into the forest, while new leaves budded on the branches above us. I stopped to light up a cigarette while Big Steve nosed around a mossy stump. I inhaled, stared up into the leafy canopy over our heads, and noticed how much darker it was, even just inside the tree line.

Primordial, I thought.

I shivered. The sun’s rays didn’t reach here. There was no warmth inside the forest—only shadows.

The woods were quiet at first, but then came to life. Birds sang and squirrels played in the boughs above us. A plane passed overhead, invisible beyond the treetops. The winding path sloped steadily downward. We picked our way through clinging vines and thorns, and I spotted some raspberry bushes, which gave me something to look forward to when summer arrived. Blue tinted moss clung to the squat gray stones that thrust up from the forest floor like dinosaur skeletons. And then there were the trees themselves—tall, stern, and proud.

I shivered again. Stepping over a fallen log, I wondered again who’d made the path, and who used it other than Big Steve and myself. The most we’d ever gone was a mile into the forest, but the path continued on past that. How deep did it run? All the way out to the other side? Did it intersect with other, less-used paths? Did it go all the way to LeHorn’s Hollow?

I mentioned the hollow earlier. I’d only been there once, when I was in high school and was looking for a secluded spot to get inside Becky Schrum’s pants. I remember it well. 1988—my senior year. We saw a Friday the 13th flick (I can’t remember which one), and when it was over, we cruised around in my ’81 Mustang hatchback.

Eventually, we found ourselves on the dirt road that led to the LeHorn farm. The farmhouse and buildings had stood vacant for three years. Nelson LeHorn had killed his wife in 1985, and then disappeared. He hadn’t been seen since. His children were scattered. His son, Matty, was doing time in the Cresson State Penitentiary. His daughter Claudia was married and living in Idaho. And his youngest daughter, Gina, was teaching school in Brackard’s Point, New York. Because the old man was legally still alive, the children were unable to sell the property. So it sat, providing a haven for rats and groundhogs.

The LeHorn place sat in the middle of miles of woodlands, untouched by the explosive development that had marred other parts of the state, surrounded by a vast expanse of barren cornfields, the rolling hills not worked since the murder. In the center of the fields, like an island, was the hollow.

I’d parked the car near the house, and Becky and I had talked about whether or not it was haunted. And like clockwork, she was snuggled up against me, afraid of the dark. I remember glancing toward the hollow as we made out. Even in the darkness, I could see the bright, yellow NO TRESPASSING and POSTED signs, hanging sullenly from a few of the outer tree-trunks.

Becky let me slip my hand into her jeans, and her breathing quickened as I delved into her wetness with my fingers and rubbed her hard nipples beneath my palms. But then she cut me off. Not wanting to show my annoyance and disappointment, I’d suggested we walk to the hollow. I hoped that if her level of fright increased, her chastity might crumble. The hollow was a dark spot, created by four sloping hills, leading down to a place where no chainsaw roared nor axe cut. A serpentine creek wound through its center. We heard the trickling water, but never made it far enough inside to see the stream. Because in the black space between the trees, something moved.

Something big. It crashed toward us, branches snapping beneath its feet. We never saw it, but we heard it snort, and I can still hear that sound today. A deer, probably, or maybe even a black bear. All I know is it scared the shit out of me, and I’ve never been back to the hollow since. Big Steve brought me back to the present by stopping suddenly in the middle of the trail. He stood stiff as a board, legs locked and tail tucked between them. The growl started as a low rumble deep down inside him, and got louder as it spilled out.

I’d never heard him make a sound like this, and wondered if I’d mistakenly clipped someone else’s dog to the leash.

As if summoned from my memories, something crashed through the bushes. Big Steve’s hair stood on end, and his growl deepened.

“Come on, Steve. Let’s go!” I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge. The noise drew closer. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled.

The branches parted.

I screamed…