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Dark Hollows
Steve Frech
‘My blood turned to ice… A perfect psychological thriller… Highly recommended. ’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars Jacob Reese enjoys the quiet life, running a coffee shop and renting out his cottage in The Hollows, Vermont. But the calm is shattered when a woman who looks eerily similar to his ex-girlfriend Laura turns up to stay in the cottage, and leaves a mysterious note in the guest book. Now Jacob’s seeing Laura everywhere—a glimpse of her face across the street, her music box left outside his house, a gift he gave her years before hanging from the trees. But it can’t be Laura. Because Laura’s dead. A gripping, twisted and haunting thriller. Fans of Gillian Flynn, Gregg Olsen and Mark Edwards will love Steve Frech. Readers LOVE Dark Hollows: ‘Grips you from the beginning… I read it in a few hours. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘Fast paced. Hard to put down… Caught hold of me and had me hooked from the start. I was literally on the edge of my seat reading this book. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘Enjoyable, mysterious and well written. A great book. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘A mesmerising read. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘Uniquely perfect. ’ NetGalley reviewer
About the Author (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)
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
Cover (#ue765d87b-bd24-5b49-9623-e3fa2814f217)
About the Author
Title Page (#u87182863-9481-5af2-a543-17cd47457b16)
Copyright (#ud83a9b84-58e9-524b-9009-ad8c073e5bb0)
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!
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
Epigraph (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)
Just close your eyes,
And you and I,
Will brave the dark and go dancing.
The Dreamer’s Waltz
Chapter 1 (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)
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 guestbook. I flip through the pages until I find the latest entry. The ink is so dark and sharp, it had to have been written not more than an hour ago.
We were in town from Manhattan to do some leaf-peeping and had a wonderful time. The Hollows is a beautiful little town. We loved the shops on Main Street and strolling through the cemetery at the Old Stone Church. What can we say about Jacob’s cottage? So amazing! We began every morning with a walk through the woods to check out the hills and always stopped at “The Sanctuary”. Jacob is the perfect host. The wine and the s’mores were just the right touch. And then, there’s Murphy! Such a sweetie! Can’t wait to come back!
~ John & Margaret Thelson
I snap the guestbook closed and look around the cottage. It never fails; whenever someone from Manhattan signs the guestbook, they always have to mention that they’re from Manhattan. Hopefully, they’ll post the review on Be Our Guest this afternoon, once they get home.
The Thelsons were standard New York City types; taking their yearly fall pilgrimage up north to see some trees. They were a wealthy couple who would call this quaint, one-bedroom cottage “roughing it”, even though it had all the amenities, a couple of bottles of wine, and a fire pit outside. Still, they were pleasant, and they’ve left the cottage in good shape. The turnaround should be quick, and I’ve got it down to a science.
Murphy walks through the open front door. He’s done scouting the fire pit for any stray graham crackers or marshmallows left by the Thelsons, and goes right for the kitchen to see if there are any scraps lying about.
“Happy hunting, Murphy,” I say. He deserves it. He’s one of my best selling points.
I clap my hands and rub them together. “All right. Time to get to work.”
First thing I do is bring in the wineglasses and wash them in the kitchen sink. Then, I collect the bedsheets and towels, put them in a bag, and carry it to the house. Murphy follows close behind. I take the bag down to the basement and pop the contents into the washing machine. Even though we’ve done this process hundreds of times, Murphy bolts as soon as I open the lid because to him, the washing machine is still some sort of monster. Once I get that going, I head back upstairs. Murphy’s on the porch, waiting for me.
“Coward,” I say.
He responds by letting his tongue flop out of his mouth and starts panting.
As we begin walking back to the cottage, Murphy spots the ducks that have settled onto the glassy surface of the pond. He pins his ears back and sprints after them.
“Murphy!” I shout.
He stops at the water’s edge and looks at me.
“Nope. Come on.”
He stares at the pond and then back at me as if to ask, “But do you not see the ducks?”
“Come,” I say, with a forceful slap on my leg.
He runs to catch up, but instead of following me into the cottage, he lies down on the cottage porch to enjoy the cool New England morning.
I restock the complimentary toiletries and clean the bathroom. No disasters there. One time, I had a young couple from Los Angeles stay for a weekend and after drinking too much wine, they destroyed the bathroom. I almost left them a bad review, but they were in the “Elite Class” on Be Our Guest, so I held my fire. Thankfully, they left me a glowing review.
I finish scrubbing the tub and stand up a little too quickly. The pain in my side flares again, but it barely registers.
Time to tackle the kitchen. I clean the plates from the s’mores and refill the basket by the coffee maker with packs of Groundworks coffee. I wipe down the counter and sweep the floor. After that, I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet. I have my routine down, working my way from the bedroom, then the bathroom, down the hall, and into the living room/kitchen area.
I push the vacuum around the bookcase, which is filled with some of my favorite books—a few thrillers, some Michael Crichtons, A Christmas Carol, et cetera. No one reads them while they’re here, but they make for good pictures on the Be Our Guest website. There’s also a row of DVDs no one watches: Casablanca, When Harry Met Sally, Vertigo, Roman Holiday, and Dead Again. As I glide the vacuum cleaner over the rug by the fireplace, my eyes catch the stick doll I made years ago, resting on the mantel. It’s a crude figure made of twigs tied together with twine. It adds a nice, rugged touch to the place. In Boy Scouts, they taught us to use pine needles instead of twine, but those don’t last long—
“For me?” she asked in mock flattery.
“Just something I learned in Boy Scouts.”
She saw right through my bullshit.
“Well, I shall treasure it always,” she said, clutching the doll to her chest, toying with me …
