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Dark Hollows. Steve Frech
Читать онлайн.Название Dark Hollows
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isbn 9780008368227
Автор произведения Steve Frech
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство HarperCollins
STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.
Dark Hollows
STEVE FRECH
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Steve Frech 2019
Steve Frech asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9780008368227
Version: 2019-10-31
Table of Contents
About the Author
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgements
Thank you for reading Dark Hollows!
About the Publisher
Just close your eyes,
And you and I,
Will brave the dark and go dancing.
The Dreamer’s Waltz
I’m standing in the basement of a run-down, abandoned warehouse, staring at the padlock on a heavy steel door. The walls are coated in grime and there is the sound of dripping water from somewhere in the darkness.
The padlock begins to tremble. It’s subtle, at first, but then grows violent, as if some enraged, unseen force is trying to pull it open. The padlock rattles against the door.
“No … please … please, hold …” I whisper, my voice weak in pain and fear.
The shaking intensifies. It begins to infect the door and the walls, filling the basement with a low rumble.
“Don’t … I’m so sorry … Please …”
The rumble grows into a deafening roar. It feels like the entire building is going to come down on top of me. Bile rises in my throat.
“No … no …”
Everything stops.
I know what’s coming. I know what’s behind that door.
Oh my God, what have I done?
The lock snaps open.
I bolt upright in bed. Sweat pours down my face and my lungs pull in rapid gulps of air.
In the dawning light of morning, I can see Murphy, my black Lab mutt, lying in his bed in the corner of the room. He cocks his head at me.
I grip my side and hiss through clenched teeth. Sitting up so fast causes the old injury in my side to flare with pain, but it passes. I steady my breath and wipe the sweat from my eyes. I throw off the covers, hop out of bed, and head to the bathroom. The nightmare is nothing new. I’ve been having it for years, reliving the panic and shock of that night over and over, but I’ve learned to quickly put it out of my mind.
After throwing some cold water on my face, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt and head downstairs to start a pot of coffee. Murphy joins me in the kitchen, but instead of coming over to the counter, he sits next to his food bowl and gives me those big, dinner-plate eyes.
“What? Are you hungry?” I ask.
His tail thumps against the floor.
I feed him a little dry food from the bag in the pantry, and then go to the window over the sink and glance down the drive, past the pond, to the cottage sitting at the edge of the woods.
The Thelsons’ car is gone. No surprise there. They said they were getting an early start back to Manhattan.
Coffee in hand, I walk to the front door and pat my leg as I step out onto the porch.
“Let’s go, Murph.”
Murphy inhales the last of his breakfast and hustles after me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him chew, even when he was a puppy. He springs off the porch and down the steps. We walk past the pond, towards the cottage. As we pass the truck in the driveway, I make yet another mental note to fix that damn taillight. Somehow, all the mental notes I make about it go unremembered.
I walk around the fire pit and note the wineglasses sitting next to the chairs. I step over to the front door of the cottage, take out my key, and open the door. Before doing anything, I go to the kitchen table and open the