Dark Hollows. Steve Frech

      Murphy, who’s been lying on the soft needles trying to chew his red tennis ball into oblivion, jumps up to join me.

      We need to get back. I want to double check that there’s nothing suspicious at the cottage before the next guests arrive.

      *

      We arrive back at the cottage and everything is as it should be.

      Since he’s already wet from our hike, I throw Murphy’s ball into the pond a couple of times. He gleefully plunges into the water after it. Soon, it’ll be too cold but for now, he doesn’t seem to mind. I throw it one more time. When he brings it back to the shore, he signals that he’s done with our game by ignoring my requests to bring the ball to me, and carries it up to the porch, where he goes back to work trying to destroy it.

      *

      The Shermans arrive at three on the dot.

      They park their Buick in front of the cottage and get out. They’re an older, retired couple and present quite the picture. She’s tiny. I’m guessing not more than five feet tall, with unnaturally brown hair with gray roots, and bright red lipstick. Mr Sherman is six foot four, with tired eyes and a drooping neck. She’s full of energy. He’s decidedly not.

      She starts walking towards me, all smiles and a slight limp.

      “Are you Jacob?” she asks.

      “That would be me. You must be Linda.”

      “Yes, indeed, and this is my husband Franklin.” She gestures to him with a flash of her hand.

      I nod. “Pleased to meet you both. Any problems finding the place?”

      “Oh, no. I’m the navigator for our little trip, and I got us here without a hitch, didn’t I, Franklin?”

      “Yes, you di—”

      “Yep, without a hitch.”

      I glance over at Franklin. He may have had more to say, but his expression lets me know that this is probably the way of their conversations.

      Linda turns slowly, I assume on account of a bum hip, and takes a deep breath. “Well, this really is beautiful.”

      Murphy awakes from his nap on the porch and comes down to join us.

      “And there’s Murphy!” she exclaims.

      Murphy approaches, and she gives his head a good scratch. I’m glad he’s tired. His standard energetic greeting would have been too much for her.

      “So, I read in your reservation that you two were doing a little Haunted New England tour?” I ask.

      “Oh, yes. We’re hitting all the haunted sites, aren’t we, Franklin?”

      “Yep. We came fro—”

      “We came from Salem,” she quickly interjects. “Spent a few days there, hoping to see some ghosts.”

      “Any luck?”

      “No. Beautiful town, but a little bit of a let-down. Too touristy, right, Franklin?”

      “It was a little crowd—”

      “So many people. Too many people, and they were dressed up in costumes. We may have seen a ghost. Who knows? But I don’t think we did. I have to confess, I’m psychic about such things.”

      “Really?” I ask, playing along.

      “Oh, yes.”

      “Well, I also saw in your reservation request that you were heading over to Maine after this, so maybe you’ll have better luck there.”

      “We’re hoping to find some ghosts here in The Hollows.” She gets a giddy smile. “Oh, I love that name. The Hollows.” She savors the words. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the name was the result of a frustrated surveyor. “We stopped in Tarrytown, too. That’s the real name of Sleepy Hollow. Nice place, but too modern. No luck with any ghosts there, either. But maybe here in The Hollows. I mean, there are ghosts everywhere you know, and I have to tell you, I’m getting a strong sensation from this place. So, you have to have some ghosts, here.”

      I shrug. “Not that I know of. We had our own little witch trial way back in the sixteen hundreds, where three women were hung from a tree in the Old Stone Church cemetery, but nothing else.”

      She waves me off. “We’ll find ’em. Won’t we, Franklin?”

      “We’ll look for—”

      “Yep. We’ll find ’em.”

      “Well, I certainly wish you happy hunting, and even if you don’t, you’ll still love the cottage. Do you need help with your luggage?”

      “No, thank you, dear. Franklin can handle the bags, can’t you, Franklin?”

      This time, Franklin only grunts an affirmation.

      “Great. Well, the key is in the lockbox. I have to head into town. If you’re out tonight, you can come see me at the coffee shop on Main Street. It’s called Groundworks, and you can tell me how your ghost hunt went.”

      “Sounds wonderful.”

      “If you need anything, you have my number?”

      “Sure do.”

      “All right, then. Welcome to The Hollows.”

      “Mmmmm, The Hollows,” she says once again, relishing in the words.

      “Come on, Murphy,” I say, and start walking towards the truck. He follows, and a few moments later, we pull out of the drive and head towards town.

      *

      They’ve finally started bringing in the tents on the green for the Halloween celebration. Extra picnic tables have also started appearing for the face-painting, pumpkin-carving classes, and food stalls that will arrive soon. More decorations are going up along Main Street. Orange and black ribbons adorn the gas lamps, and jack-o’-lanterns are popping up in the shop windows. The Hollows does not mess around when it comes to Halloween. It prepares the same way New York might prepare for New Year’s, or Boston for St. Patrick’s Day.

      Groundworks is already jumping by the time I get there. Todd and Sheila are in the weeds, trying to keep up with the ever-growing line that is almost to the door. I hop behind the counter and go into machine mode, cranking out drinks left and right. Murphy finds his bed by the register and sinks in. Just his presence soothes some of the nerves of the customers who have been waiting for their lattes, coffees, and cappuccinos.

      For the next few hours, it’s turn and burn. I try to stay three steps ahead. Organize, prioritize, move, and above all, smile.

      I need this.

      The constant movement and concentration send the thoughts of last night and this morning further and further from my mind.

      Eight o’clock rolls around.

      Sheila flips the sign on the door to state that we’re closed, even though there are still people in the shop. We’ll let them finish their drinks, but no one else can come in. This leads to the nightly ritual of having to turn away some disappointed people. Most accept it and move on. Others plead. Some of them are belligerent. It’s the same every night.

      When the last of the customers leave, I tell Shelia and Todd that they can head home. I’ll finish up on my own. I thank them for their hard work, and give them their paychecks. When the franchise deal works out, I’m giving them big, fat bonuses. They don’t know that, yet.

      Finally, Murphy and I have the store to ourselves. I sweep and mop the floor, restock the stations, and wipe down the machines. I take the garbage to the dumpster in the parking lot out back. Once all the grunt work is done, Murphy and I go to the office. I slip into the swivel chair at the cluttered desk. I bring up the accounting software and get ready for the tedium of running the reports and processing