Hollow Heart: A Horror Novella by Ben Eads

Author:Ben Eads [Eads, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
Published: 2019-11-28T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Tall grass gave way to hard clay, carpeted with the forest’s detritus. Boughs of ancient oaks hid the moon above them. Sticks and moss crunched under their feet, echoing back to them from inside the hollow. Harold bumped Mary’s arm and cocked his head. “We’ll go in on the side, flank it.”

Mary exhaled, her chapped lips making a pffffttt noise. “Better than just walking in and saying, ‘Hey, ya’ll. Thought we’d stop on by.’”

“Yep.”

Harold walked toward the side of the path, ten yards from the hollow’s entrance.

Fireflies darted through branches above the hollow, their trails a splash of autumn against the gray of November. Scarlet threaded through the insects, like a network of veins. That’s when they heard the scream.

Harold covered his ears. “Stop. Oh, God. Stop.”

Mechanical laughter bounced off trees.

Mary grabbed Harold’s shoulder, turning him toward her. “That’s her. That’s Mom.” She let go of him and ran toward the voice, shotgun in hand.

“Wait.” Harold held her arm, pulling her to a halt, her face awash in the fireflies’ pastel colors. “We go slow, like we said. Okay?”

Swatting at Harold, Mary pulled her arm away. “Fine. Let go, Harold.”

They both came to a stop before the large, rusted door. Under it, crimson bled into the wind, floating like blood in a pool. A small square of steel recessed in its center.

“Fuck me,” Harold slapped his face, preparing himself. “I guess this is it.”

He looked at Mary and saw the same look he’d seen on the faces of countless soldiers, right before breaching a door.

The first snow fell upon his shoulders, carried by gale-force winds. Harold’s teeth began to chatter.

A scream echoed up and down the hollow.

Mary slapped the door. “Mom. I’m here!”

Harold approached her, placed his arm around her. “Mary—”

Mary bucked out, pointed the shotgun at the door.

“No.” Harold said.

“I’m coming, Momma,” Mary said, barely audible over the wind.

Harold didn’t have time to plug his ears. For the first time in his life, he was happy most of the damage was done back in the desert. An air-raid siren wailed in his head.

“Dead end,” Harold said.

Creak-creak-creak. Creak-creak-creak.

Harold couldn’t turn around. It wasn’t the weather anymore. Memories of childhood when he’d rather stay with the neighbors filled him. Even in the wheelchair his father always found a way to reach him. One day a belt, another day an ashtray. The wounds felt fresh.

“Harold?” Mary came into focus.

“Yeah?”

Creak-creak-creak.

She slapped his face. “Wake up, please.”

“Don’t you hear that?”

Harold turned and Mary screamed at the thing in the wheelchair. Yellowed flesh pulled taut across the bones. Sprigs of hair swayed atop his liver-spotted head. Smoke drifted from his oxygen mask as he pulled it off, snapping the rubber that secured it.

His father inhaled, the sound of rain hitting wet gravel.

Mary pointed the shotgun at his father.

“Guns won’t work, darlin’,” Harold’s father, Oliver, said. He pulled the face mask, billowing smoke, to his mouth and breathed deeply. “You’re not supposed to be here, the both of ya’.”

“You’re not supposed to be here, Oliver,” Harold said.

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