Dark Hollow Read Free

sputtered again. Merle’s curses were loud and clear, and I chuckled. Then I heard the hiss of running water as another of my neighbors, Dale Haubner, a retiree, turned on his garden hose. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking out their springtime return from Southern climates. Honeybees buzzed in the clover growing next to the seesaw.
    But beneath all of these familiar noises 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 was what happened.
    The musical piping drifted toward us again, faint but clear. I became aroused again, and dimly wondered why. Shelly was gone, and there was nobody else in sight. I hadn’t been thinking about sex. It was weird.
    Big Steve planted his feet, raised his hackles, and growled. I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge. His growl grew louder, more intense. I noticed that he had another hard-on as well.
    “Come on,” I said. “It’s nothing. Just some kid practicing for the school band.”
    Big Steve flicked his eyes toward me, then turned back to the woods and growled again.
    The music abruptly stopped. There was no gradual fading away—it was as if someone had flipped a switch.
    It occurred to me that it was Monday morning, and all the kids were in school, so it couldn’t have been a kid practicing. Then Steve’s haunches sagged and he returned to normal, his nose to the ground and his 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 the path, 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. Flowers burst from the dark soil, lining the trail with different colors and fragrances.
    I stopped to light 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 gradually came to life. Birds sang and squirrels played in the boughs above us. A plane passed overhead, invisible beyond the treetops. Probably heading to the airports in Baltimore or Harrisburg. The sun returned, peeking through the limbs. But I couldn’t feel its warmth, and the rays seemed sparse.
    Big Steve pulled at the leash, and we continued on. 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. If I picked them, Tara would bake me a pie. Blue-tinted moss clung to the squat, gray stones that thrust up from the forest floor like half-uncovered dinosaur skeletons. And then there were the trees themselves—tall, stern, and proud.
    I shivered again. The air was growing chillier, more like the normal temperature for this time of year. 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 trail continued on well past that. How deep did it run? All the way out to the other side? Did it intersect with other, less-used pathways? Did it go all the way to LeHorn’s Hollow?
    I mentioned the hollow earlier. I’d been there only once, when I was in high school and was looking for a secluded spot to get inside Becky Schrum’s pants. It was our first date, and I remember it