that. How deep did it run? All the way out to the other side? Did it intersect with other, less-used paths? Did it go all the way to LeHorn’s Hollow?
I mentioned the hollow earlier. I’d only been there once, when I was in high school and was looking for a secluded spot to get inside Becky Schrum’s pants. I remember it well. 1988— 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.
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 in 1985, and then disappeared. He hadn’t been seen since. His children were scattered. His son, Matty, was doing time in the Cresson State Penitentiary. His daughter Claudia was married and living in Idaho. And his youngest daughter, Gina, was teaching school in Brackard’s Point, New York. Because the old man was legally still alive, the children were unable to sell the property. So it sat, 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, surrounded by a vast expanse of barren cornfields, the rolling hills not worked since the murder. 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 sullenly 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 chainsaw roared nor axe 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 in the black space between the trees, something moved.
Something big. It crashed toward us, branches snapping beneath its feet. We never saw it, but we heard it snort, 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 tail tucked between them. The growl started as a low rumble deep down inside him, and got 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.
As if summoned from my memories, something crashed through the bushes. Big Steve’s hair stood on end, and his growl deepened.
“Come on, Steve. Let’s go!” I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge. The noise drew closer. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled.
The branches parted.
I screamed . . .
