Hollow Heart

Table of Contents

Title Page

Declarations

Welcome CLP

Cracked Sky

Tales From the Lake Vol 4

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

The end?

Cracked Sky

Cracked Sky Excerpt

About the Author

Connect with CLP

Mission Statement

Copyright © 2019 Ben Eads

Join the Crystal Lake community today

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All Rights Reserved

Cover Art:

Ben Baldwin—www.benbaldwin.co.uk/

Layout:

Lori Michelle—www.theauthorsalley.com

Proofread by:

Paula Limbaugh

Kat Nava

Naching T. Kassa

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

PROLOGUE

MAKING DEALS WITH the dead had to stop.

Ever since Dalton had first met The Architect, his life moved like a cog in a rusted clock, ticking down the minutes to find the one who escaped what lived in the hollow. Dalton hoped this would be the last time he would meet with The Architect. The problem with peeking behind the curtain was the same as always—once seen, it could not be unseen. Curiosity becomes weaponized. From that moment on, you become a mechanism.

As Dalton drove to the hollow, for what felt like the millionth time, he hoped The Architect would accept his best friend, Terrell, instead.

Knowing the perverted shit you’ve been up to, I wouldn’t even flinch.

It would be too easy to reach over his BMW’s center console and strangle the fat fuck. Despite the BMW’s large interior, Terrell’s body touched Dalton’s right arm, no matter how far he recoiled. His body odor stank of rotten fruit.  

Every meeting, Dalton gave himself a good ninety-five percent chance of survival. Tonight? More like fifty-fifty. Even the Xanax that usually turned his head into a balloon did little to calm his nerves.

Focus. Focus. Stick to the plan.

Once the sun set,lights of homes and trailers blinked out in the rearview, as if winking at him, saying, "Good luck, buddy."Dalton’s headlamps hit the weathered sign welcoming him and Terrell to Shady Hills, in the heart of Florida. He let off the gas, creeping toward the hollow. Gravel crunched under the tires, striking the sides of his once pristine car. Red and orange leaves slapped the windshield, whipped around by an early winter breeze.

Old, massive oaks and birches flanked the dirt road they turned on. Remembering the lavender smell of his daughter’s hair, her infectious giggles, helped him focus.

Despite the car’s heating system, the cold crept in between his ribs, caressing his lungs, his heart. He caught himself staring at Terrell and looked away before his best friend noticed. The sound of Terrell’s lips smacking on the pastries made his stomach feel worse. Bile rose in his throat.

Enjoy your last meal.

A faint thump from a diseased heart pumped under the ground, playing an odd rhythm. His foot vibrated with the gas pedal.

Preparing himself, Dalton mentally checked off all the pain he’d suffered here: his wife’s death rattle; finding his brother hanging from a noose; what Terrell did with his daughter. All of them paled in comparison to having a meeting with what he called home.

Terrell threw a half-eaten Boston cream on the floorboard, spilling its contents down his three chins. Drops stained his black hoodie. Yo. I hate Boston creams. Know what I’m saying?

We’ll pick up another box on the way home. The adult diaper under Dalton’s pants rustled, reminding him of the mess coming. Seeing The Architect made his intestines grumble. Dalton clenched his butt cheeks together and hoped for the best.

He brought the car to a stop in front of the hollow, hands and legs trembling, despite the Xanax.

Terrell will wig the fuck out when he sees it.

Illuminated by the car’s headlights, Terrell pointed to the opening of the forest. Just what in sweet hell are we doing? Why is it so damn cold? This is Florida.

You’ll see. Dalton kept the headlights on and got out of the car. Snow cut through his suit and jacket, sticking to his face, his lips. Licking them, he tasted old loamy earth.

Dead leaves and twigs crunched under his feet like the bones of tiny animals as they approached the opening of the hollow. Dalton saw the red glow in the center of the hollow, shrouded in moonlight. Come on, Terrell. Let’s get this over with.

I’m coming, I’m coming. Terrell wandered through the night’s mist toward the opening of the hollow. Man, I’d feel a lot better if you did this thing with me. We’ve been as thick as molasses pie since elementary school. Who’s waiting for us?

You’ll see.

Fine. Won’t ask anymore, Terrell said. All three of his chins swayed when he shook his head.

Dalton pointed to the hollow. See the opening?

Terrell squinted. Yeah.

"Walk up to it, and when you see the fireflies, wait for The Architect."

Terrell’s eyebrows rose. He scratched his head. The Architect? Why would someone call themselves—?

My good man, I can create anything, The Architect said through the thickest and oldest British accent Dalton had ever heard. My masterpiece is almost done, my lads.

While clouds hid the moon, Dalton could barely make out The Architect waiting in darkness, so his memory filled in the rest. He looked as if he’d just finished a hard day on Wall Street, circa 1920, with mutton chops and a bowler hat to top it off. His body shook, as though he were warped celluloid played on a dusty, old projector.

Like each meeting, Dalton’s left eye twitched, the migraine soon to come.

I can do this.

The Architect approached them, splitting the grass below his feet. Reality bowed, faintly shimmering around him. Something deep in the hollow had pressed Play, and all Dalton could see were those double pupils, rolling in their oily sockets. Tiny black rivers ran from the corners, tracing geometry across a face as pocked and scarred as the moon which kissed it.

Bringing his hands together in a steeple, The Architect stopped in front of Terrell. A switchblade smile cut his face, reminding Dalton of an artist’s flip-book in motion. What do we have here, my lad?

Dalton cleared his throat, pushing the acid back down. I—I need more time to find Harold’s dad. While I’m searching, Dalton motioned to Terrell, you’ve got him instead.

Terrell’s jaw dropped. The hell you doing, Dalton?

You disappoint me, Dalton Gladen, but let’s see what you brought, The Architect said, approaching Terrell. Come to me, my lad. Let’s have a look at you. Three hundred pounds of Terrell rose from the ground, until he was nose to nose with The Architect. He grabbed him by the throat, lifting him higher into the air.

Kill him.

The forest’s wildlife and insects fell silent. Dalton could only hear The Architect and Terrell.

Terrell’s hands went to his neck as he choked. It—it hurts. Stop. Please.

"It hurts? The Architect cocked his head. Pain is just one of my hobbies. A hobby the world will soon know."

The Architect placed his right thumb on Terrell’s forehead, just above where his eyebrows met. Your spine was crushed in two places. Your hips, shattered. A few years ago, yes?

Terrell managed a nod.

Dalton tried to move, to breathe. Nothing.  

The Architect licked his cracked lips. Your nerves smell sweet, indeed. Small pieces of rusted barb wire grew over his teeth, splitting his cheeks. A few barbs stuck out from below his eyes, teasing the air as they grew toward Terrell’s face.

Dalton. Help, Terrell managed.

The Architect’s fingers caressed Terrell’s face, wiping away tears. I know where every nerve in your body starts and ends. Those pathways, His barb wire maw spun in a circle, like heavy machinery, they know so, so much.

God, I hate that sound.

Sparks flew as the barb wire smashed together, forming a sawblade that whirred to life, sending sleeping birds from their nests. Metal cutting metal echoed off the massive oaks and birches. The Architect’s face split as the blade came out. Dalton strained to hear The Architect’s words over the din.

Whether they’re in your spine, your teeth, your intestines—I will find each and every one of them. Once I string them around your spine, you will be my new cello. The Architect leaned in close to Terrell’s ear, mouth whirring faster. Black oil splashed Terrell’s face. My lad, you will sing.

The Architect shoved a hand into Terrell’s mouth, and Dalton tracked its progress on the way down, relishing every moment. After I’m done playing you, I’ll wipe that cesspool you call a mind, and you’ll forget me, which is for the best, so that we may start again. He yanked a handful of fat from the depths of Terrell and flung it to the ground. A wet plop echoed through the hollow. Flies hummed. Steam rose from the pile, making Dalton