Dark Hollows. Steve Frech

      “Seriously?”

      “Yep.” I turn back to the door. “Email me the reports.”

      “Could I have gotten more?”

      “You said three!”

      I push open the door, and am greeted by a blast of cold air.

      “Good night, boss!” I hear her call out.

      “Good night!”

      *

      I’m buzzing the entire ride through the woods and farmland back to the house. I pull into the driveway, and see that there’s a fire in the fire pit outside the cottage. Rebecca is sitting in one of the chairs next to it. I park and hop out, followed by Murphy.

      As I start walking towards her, I’m suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. Something’s off, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not sure if Murphy’s reading my body language or what, but even he seems cautious.

      Rebecca is watching me as I approach.

      I stop next to the fire pit, which is directly between us. The flickering light plays across her darkened features and red hair.

      “Hi,” she says.

      “Hi.”

      “You know the taillight on your truck is out?”

      “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to fix it.”

      “How did your business meeting go?”

      “Good …”

      Why am I so uncomfortable? I’ve come home to this scene many times. It’s always ended with pleasantries and, sometimes, inebriated conversation. Why does this feel so different?

      “Is something wrong?” Rebecca asks.

      I try to shake it off. “No. Sorry. The meeting gave me a lot to think about. That’s all.”

      “Oh.”

      “How do you like the cottage?”

      “I love it. It’s perfect.”

      “Good.”

      That’s when I see it—the stick doll. She’s holding it in her hands. My mouth goes dry and my knees soften. The image in front of me is paralyzing—her smile, that red hair, her holding that doll.

      For a split second, she’s someone she can’t possibly be.

      “Are you sure you’re okay?”

      “W—what?”

      She notices that I’m looking at the doll. Her eyes drift down to it and back up to me. Maybe it’s just a trick of the dancing glow of the fire, but I catch something accusatory, something righteous in her gaze.

      “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just admiring it inside, and I had it in my hands when I came out here to start the fire.”

      “No. No reason to be sorry.”

      It has to be a coincidence. It has to be.

      This afternoon, I had wanted to talk to her, to get to know her. Now, I want to get away from her. I need to get away from her.

      I finally find my voice. “Well, I’m going to head inside. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

      She cocks her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang out?”

      She’s being deliberate. That smile. The doll. The red hair. All she needs is the scar. This can’t be a coincidence, can it?

      “I—I’d love to,” I stammer. “But that business thing I was just at …”

      She nods, sympathetically. “A lot on your mind?”

      “Yeah.”

      I feel like a wounded mouse staring up at a grinning cat.

      “So, if you need anything …” I weakly offer.

      “I’ll call you.”

      “… great.”

      I turn and begin walking away.

      “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