Dark Hollow Read Free Page A

well—1987, 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, listening to Ratt’s Out of the Cellar and talking about school and stuff.
    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, Patricia, in 1985, and then disappeared. He hadn’t been seen since, and his children were scattered across the country. His son, Matty, was doing time for armed robbery in the Cress on state penitentiary up north. His daughter, Claudia, was married and living in Idaho. And his youngest daughter, Gina, was teaching school in New York. None of them had ever returned home, as far as I knew. Because the old man was legally still alive, the children were unable to sell the property, and Pennsylvania law prevented the county or the state from seizing it. So it sat, boarded up and abandoned, 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, and surrounded by a vast expanse of barren cornfields, the rolling hills not worked since the murder and Le Horn’s disappearance. 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 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 chain saw roared and no ax 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 something moved in the black space between the trees…
    Something big. It crashed toward us, branches snapping like gunshots beneath its feet. Becky screamed and gripped my hand tight enough to bruise it. We got the hell out of there. We never saw the thing, whatever it was, but we heard it snort—a primal sound, 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 his tail tucked between them. The growl started as a low rumble deep down inside him, and got louder and 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. He’d never gotten this worked up over something. He sounded vicious. Brave.
    Or terrified.
    Suddenly, as if summoned from my memories, something crashed through the bushes toward us. Big Steve’s hair stood on end, and his growl turned into a rumbling bark.
    “Come on, Steve. Let’s go!” My heart raced in my chest. I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge. He barked again.
    The noise drew closer. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled. The branches parted.
    I screamed.
    The deer, a spotted fawn, leaped over a fallen tree, darted across the path, and vanished again into the undergrowth, its white tail flashing. It looked about as scared as we were.
    “Jesus fucking Christ!” I gasped for breath, trying to get my racing pulse under control.
    Big Steve,