The Testimony of Jacob Hollow
by Joe Joiner
Chapter 1
Arrival
I'm not sure where to start. So much happened so quickly I doubt I can remember everything the way you people would like me to, but I'll try. Right now I can't recall the exact series of mistakes that culminated with my arrival in Castle Bay, but I can summarize it simply enough, I guess.
I was lost.
Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Sadly enough, it's the truth. I had no idea where I was at the beginning of it all; I was just trying to get to Nantucket.
Details? Good Lord, you want me to spell out every little thing I saw or heard? We don't have time for that!
Fine, fine. It's not like I'm going anywhere, eh? As long as you have me trussed up like this you may have to scratch my nose every now and then, and you could at least have someone bring me some cold water and a straw. This could take awhile.
I've always liked sunrise, you know? It's like the reset button on a computer. If things foul up too much, you just hit that button and everything is refreshed and ready to go again. At least until the next screw up. This sunrise was no different. The sun crested the eastern horizon as it always has, and the golden rays were harsh and painful at first to my tired eyes. The sky was a crystal blue we don't see on the west coast, what with all the pollution. There wasn't a cloud to be seen in the vast sky, except for what looked to be a bank of fog that I could just see over the treetops some miles ahead of me.
I'd been driving all night, and for several days with little sleep, counting on coffee and caffeine pills to keep me awake. I'd run out of both, and the last of my stale sandwiches around midnight. Sure, I stopped a few times when I just couldn't go any further, but I'm one of those people that once I start a trip, I don't like to stop until I get to where I'm going.
I was behind the wheel of my old '74 El Camino. It was the only car I've ever owned, and I worked for three summers on my Grandfather's fishing boat to save up for it. It was far from new when it came into my possession, but to me, there was no sweeter piece of machinery on the road. What the hell did I know, I was only seventeen then, and I loved that Ford car/truck hybrid. The paint was a dull orange that at one time might have gleamed, but even after repeated waxing I could never get a shine on the thing, and a paint job was well beyond my limited means. Besides, I wasn't vain enough to need something flashy. Shiny, well-kept cars parked on the docks tend to be the targets of thieves and vandals, and I wanted her left alone when I was out to sea every day during season.
So fast-forward ten years and there I am, cruising along in my thirty year old car, which after a decade of my heavy driving and over two hundred thousand on the odometer; had developed a terminal case of automotive cancer. It happens to everything eventually, and I knew this would be the last trip the old girl would ever make. In the last hundred miles I'd noticed a distinct cloud in my wake, which was definitely not a good sign. At least I was almost there. I remember that's when it occurred to me how little traffic I'd encountered in the last few hours, and I felt a little nervous about it. What would I do if the car broke down? The cheap digital clock on the dashboard (which was hanging crooked as the adhesive strip on the back lost it's grip), informed me it was a little before seven. Still early enough for most folks to be eating breakfast before heading out to work, so that had to be it, I thought. It was as good an explanation as I could come up with at the time, anyway.
I had applied for the position of first mate on the Foamrunner, the newest ship belonging to the Coastal Pride Company out of Nantucket. I had seen their ad online and thought my application would be ignored, but to my surprise they not only called, but also flew me out to see the operation and check out the ship, which was due to officially launch in two weeks. God, it was like falling in love with my car all over again. What a boat! Two hundred feet long, with nets and booms everywhere, the ship was painted in patriotic red, white and blue. She was beautiful, with every inch freshly painted and gleaming. Man, she even smelled new, and I thought only new cars had that particular smell.
I met with Captain Tom Baggers and Bob Tremaine, who was CEO of the company and only a year older than me. He was a multi-millionaire who got his money the old fashioned way. He inherited it, along with the company, after his father took the family yacht on a midnight sail just as a hurricane was brewing. All they ever found was a few pieces of planking and an empty life raft. To give Bob his due, he ran the company well, and we hit it off over drinks later that night. The next day I flew back to California with a hangover and a job contract that guaranteed me more money over the next three years than I had made in the previous ten. Apparently the list of candidates for the position had been very short, and I came highly recommended. Bob said he expected me to have my own ship by the time my contract was up for renewal. I believed him and I swore that Coastal Pride would never have anyone who worked harder or longer hours than me.
I was expected to be onboard when Foamrunner launched, so that gave me two weeks to settle things in Frisco and say my goodbyes. My grandfather was both thrilled for me and sorry to see me go. He said I was the best mate he'd ever had, and that was high praise coming from a man I rarely heard give anyone a compliment. I was going to miss the old buzzard.
The drive so far had been exhausting, especially through the Rockies. That was when I began to question if my car even had one last trip left in her, but after conquering the mountains, the plains were a snap. Long flat stretches of empty road let the old girl purr like a kitten. It was a nice change. I spent the hours listening to whatever oldies station I could find, or singing along to my collection of vintage 8-tracks.
I angled north when I crossed the state line into Virginia and that leg of the trip was pretty much uneventful until I reached Maine. Somehow I either missed an exit or made a wrong turn, because I ended up lost in what had to be the most remote stretch of New England ever imagined. I was beginning to despair of ever encountering civilization again when I saw the road sign that told me I was twenty-two miles from Castle Bay, population 266, and the home of the Biocyte Research & Engineering Center. Well, any port in a storm. At least I could get something to eat and some fresh coffee along with directions to the main highway. I was only a state away from Massachusetts, and several days early, so the idea occurred to me to grab a room somewhere and get some much needed rest so I could report to work clean and awake. Castle Bay sounded like another of the countless company towns dotting the maps of America, but the company motto I had glimpsed on the road sign gave me an eerie feeling. Creating a better tomorrow, today. Just what in blues blazes did that mean?
I caught a look at myself in the rearview and winced at my reflection. I've never considered myself to be an Adonis or the epitome of male perfection, in fact, most of my closest friends used to joke that Ichabod Crane was my long lost twin brother. Headless Horseman jokes were always popular around Halloween when I was growing up. After several days on the road, my looks hadn't improved. My hair was disheveled and waving in a dozen directions, and my eyes sported dark bags of exhaustion. I was suddenly aware of the way I smelled, too. All I needed was a bottle of cheap wine and a three-legged dog to complete my transformation into a homeless derelict. "Top of the world, Ma!" I barked with a humor I really didn't feel, and my voice was strained and cracked. "God, I'm so tired." I knew I needed some rest, but my travel funds were running low, and a motel room would seriously deplete what was left. The idea of sacking out in the cargo bed of the Camino had less appeal. Most of my belongings were back there, and the thought of bedding down in last week's underwear wasn't very attractive. That left the front seat, but past experience had proved to be murder on my back.
I hated traveling on land. Put me on the water and I had an uncanny sense of direction. Grandpa always said I was attuned to the sea, like he was. He had been raised working the trawlers of the west coast, and he had taught me well. Like him, if I was on dry land I got lost easily. Thick forest lined both sides of the highway, a mixture of pine, fir, and what was probably oak or elm. The foliage was so thick the bright sunlight barely penetrated to the forest floor. Suddenly I missed the wide-open Pacific and I wondered if I had made the right decision.
That uneasy feeling wasn't going away, and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't quell the feeling that I was heading into danger. I tried dismissing it as new job jitters, but my intuition kept asking me whom I thought I was kidding. The .45 under my seat was a small comfort.
I looked back at the road just in time to see that I was about to run over someone standing by the side of the highway. I jerked the wheel to the left and sent the Camino into a long screeching skid that made it careen sideways on the asphalt for a hundred feet. The engine decided it had taken enough abuse and promptly stalled. The car came to a stop in a cloud of dust and smoky exhaust, and I cracked my head on the steering wheel hard enough to raise a lump. I'd missed going into the drainage ditch by less than three feet.
Jesus Christ, had I just hit someone?
"Nice driving, asshole!" a voice called out.
Apparently not.
As the air cleared I could see the person walking toward the car. As they got closer, I could see it was a girl, and when she at last stood by the car, my heart stopped beating.
Merciful saints, she was a stunner.
I kid you not. She was tall, about five nine. She had long honey-blonde hair that fell well past her shoulders, the kind of hair that makes a man want to run his fingers through. I wondered what it looked like spread out on a pillow. She had astonishing pale blue eyes and the features of a model. She was wearing a low cut tank top that revealed ample cleavage, and a pair of denim shorts cut off at mid-thigh. A backpack that had seen better days was strapped to her shoulders. Her legs were long and very tan. My heart started beating again, and I could feel it thudding in my chest.
"Does everyone in California drive like a maniac?" she asked.
I couldn't make my mouth work, so the best I could do was, "Uh..."
"Right," she replied. "Any more words of wisdom, Rainman?"
I cleared my throat and managed to say, "Umm..." I felt like an idiot, and she just stood there glowing like a goddess. The sunlight had turned her hair into a radiant golden aura around her flawless face.
She grinned with even white teeth. "Right again, Einstein. How do mentally handicapped morons get licenses?"
I shook the cobwebs away and finally blurted out a coherent sentence. "Sorry," I gasped, "I didn't see you."
"No shit," she said. "Too busy admiring yourself in the mirror?"
"Something like that," I admitted. "Look, I'm really sorry, I've been on the road too long." I opened the door to get out and she took several steps back. That was when I noticed the hunting knife strapped to her right calf. I stretched and then held out my hand. "Jacob Hollow," I introduced myself, "California moron at your service." I tried to smile without showing my own teeth, which hadn't seen a toothbrush for a couple of days.
She shook my hand timidly and stepped back again. "I'm Jenny Hopper," she said.
"Nice to meet you, Jenny. Where are you headed?"
She turned in the direction I'd been driving and lifted her chin. "Home," she replied. "Castle Bay. Is that where you're going?"
I nodded. "Seems so. Frankly, I was going there just to find out where I am. I got lost and ended up on this backwoods road. I haven't seen another car since three this morning, and no people until you jumped out at me."
"I didn't jump out..." she started, but I cut her off with a lifted hand. "I know you didn't jump out in front of me, that's just what it looked like." I looked toward the town and asked, "Is there a hotel in Castle Bay where I can catch a nap before I move on?"
She folded her arms under her breasts (and what that did for my imagination you can probably guess), and nodded. "Sure. Marty Parker runs the Seaside Bed and Breakfast off of Maple road. She'll have a room, and she's a good cook too."
"Thanks," I said, turning back to the car and grabbing the handle. As I settled myself in the driver's seat Jenny approached again. "Hey, I'm sorry if I was kind of abrupt, but you scared the hell out of me."
I shrugged. "No harm, no foul. Need a ride?"
She smiled that angelic smile again. "Am I that transparent?"
"No, I'm just quicker than most of the assholes back home. I'm also harmless. Scout's honor."
"You were a Scout?"
"I was until the first hike I went on gave me the worst blisters I've ever had. I quit after that, but once a Scout, always a Scout, or so they say. Seriously though, my mother raised me to be a gentleman."
"That's what the last guy who wanted offered me a ride said. Then he wanted me to take off my shirt."
I chuckled. "Fun as this debate about my character is, I'm tired, hungry and I probably smell like a moose. If you want a ride to town, get in. Otherwise, it's been a real hoot meeting you."
"Really? No conditions? No asking for a quickie in the woods?"
I crossed my heart and tried to look harmless, all the while thinking that I was already halfway in love with her. "All I'll ask of you is some conversation to keep me awake. How's that?"
"Thanks," she said, and ran around the car. I admired her once again as she got in, then quickly averted my eyes elsewhere so she wouldn't think I was some pervert. I doubt she bought it, but hell, I'm a guy, right? I started thinking of something to tell her about myself that might impress her, and that maybe I'd lay over in Castle Bay for a few days.
I was sure the car wouldn't start, subjecting me to further embarrassment, but surprisingly enough, the engine fired on the first turn of the key. I steered the car straight again before speaking. "So what puts you out on the road?"
She gave me a suspicious glance, and then decided I was just making conversation. "I was studying journalism at NYU. The semester ended last week and I thought thumbing my way home would be a fun adventure. That was my first mistake. Getting drenched in several downpours can ruin your day."
"I'll bet. What was your second mistake?"
"Accepting rides from raunchy old men that think they're entitled to grope me just because they're giving me a ride. I think it's high time I bought a car. I've had enough of the open road. She turned and looked out the window at the countryside passing in a blur. "I'm glad to be home. I missed it. College life is tough, and I've missed home cooking. My uncle does amazing things with leftovers."
She seemed a little too melancholy, so I tried to change the subject. "What do you do while you study to become the next famous journalist?"
Again, there was that sideways glance to see if I was prying, and then a shrug. "I worked for my uncle. He's the mortician in Castle Bay."
I was shocked. I couldn't imagine this beauty having anything to do with dead bodies. "No kidding? You worked with corpses?"
"The recently deceased," she said with such seriousness that I burst out laughing. She joined me a few seconds later. "Wow, how politically correct was that?"
"Perfect," I replied.
"I do that all the time," she went on. "I don't know why. Even Uncle Robert calls them stiffs." She leaned her head back against the top of the seat, allowing me a nice view of her smooth throat. "I know it's not a glamour job, but it keeps us eating."
I howled laughter. "I bet you eat well!"
She threw me a disdainful gaze, which dissolved into laughter. God, it felt so good to laugh then. I think that's part of the magic in all of us. We can use the simple gift of laughter to banish our worries and the inner demons that torment us, if only for a short time. I don't think I'll ever laugh like that again.
After she composed herself and wiped her eyes, she asked, "What about you? What does Jake Hollow do with himself?"
"I'm a fisherman. I grew up working on the boats my grandfather owns, and got offered a job with a good company in Nantucket. It's a great opportunity, so I jumped at it. I had plenty of time, so I thought I'd drive up and see the country." She gave a thoughtful nod, and I felt my head swell a little. She seemed impressed.
After a few minutes of silence I was startled when her hand touched lightly on my shoulder. Just enough to get my attention, her touch still made my pulse race. "You look done in," she said, and her voice was kind and very soft. "I can drive if you'd like."
"I'm okay," I said, wishing she would touch me again. "I can make it a couple more miles."
The road curved and suddenly the fog I'd seen earlier loomed before us like a billowing white wall. I put my foot on the brake and slowed to a stop before I could drive into it. Jenny looked at me questioningly. "What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure. I've had the heebie-jeebies since before sunrise, and now when I see this fog I start feeling panicky again."
The look she gave me then made me feel about two inches tall. "You've got to be kidding me. It's only fog. We get it here all the time."
"I know, I know. I just can't shake the feeling it's best to avoid this stuff."
I guess the look on my face spooked her. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I wasn't just jumpy; I was downright terrified. It's hard for a man to admit to a woman when he's frightened, even more so when the woman is someone he's attracted to. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't do anything. I felt like a lump of ice.
Jenny unfroze me pretty fast. "Look, Jake. I don't understand why you're so
freaked out, but I need to get home, and if you're going to let a little fog run you off like a scared rabbit, that's fine with me. I'll just get out here."
I looked from her face to the road, gathered my courage and swallowed my apprehension. We drove into the fog.
Inside it was deathly still. There was no sound except for the engine, and it seemed unusually muffled. The birdsong, which I had heard so clearly earlier, was now absent. There was no wind, as the treetops I could see were not moving. Not a single leaf was stirring.
I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw something that made me jump. The fog didn't swirl like fog normally does when a large object moves through it. In fact, I couldn't see any trace of our passage in that milky void. It was like we had been swallowed. What's more, wispy tendrils of the stuff were attached to the trunk, looking disturbingly like long ghostly fingers taking hold. I stifled a gulp.
"That's weird," I heard Jenny mutter, and I knew she was looking out the back window. I looked at her and our eyes met. I could see that now she was getting uneasy. I think fear is catching. It spreads faster than the common cold. She glanced out the window again. "I'm beginning to think you were right," she said, and then the engine died.
No warning, no shudder or chugging the way some cars do when they stall, it just quit. The power steering went hard in my hands as the Camino coasted to a stop. "Shit." I felt myself blushing for cussing in front of her, but she didn't seem to notice, or if she had, didn't care. I turned the key and was rewarded with nothing. Not even a dull click from the solenoid. The car was dead. Jenny looked at me with anxiety filling her gorgeous eyes. "I'm going to check under the hood," I said evenly, trying to sound nonchalant. "Maybe it's a loose wire on the alternator." I don't think I sounded convincing, because her right hand was stroking the hilt of her hunting knife and her breathing had quickened. I took a risk and lightly touched the back of her left hand. She jumped. "Jenny, it's going to be okay. We're not far from town." Reassurance is a hard thing to pull off when you're scared shitless, but I think I managed.
I opened the door and got out, and got another shock. I had expected it to be cool, but it was well beyond that. It was cold. Very cold. Worse still, the fog had an oily feel to it, and small tentacles of the stuff were brushing against my bare arms, raising goose bumps. I ignored it and walked to the front of the car. Raising the hood, a quick glance at the grime-encrusted engine confirmed that I had no idea what I was doing. I knew lines and navigation, not engines. "Goddamn it," I muttered.
Jenny got out, and I could see she noticed the temperature change right away, and that the greasy touch of the fog bothered her too. "What's wrong?" she asked, and I detected a hint of frustration in her tone.
"I have no idea. It's never quit like this before."
She gave the Camino a skeptical glare. "Sure it hasn't."
I ignored her sarcasm and slammed the hood shut. "Looks like we walk from here."
She rolled her eyes and shrugged on her back. "No shit, Sherlock. Figure that out all by yourself?"
Now she was getting snotty, and despite her supermodel looks it pissed me off. "You know, you were nicer when I almost hit you." (Actually, thinking back on it, she was pretty contemptuous then too). "My only mode of transportation has taken a dump, and you get insulting. Are all easterners as rude as you?"
She blinked in surprise and looked sheepish. "Sorry, Jake. I'm tired too, and this fog is kind of creepy. I didn't mean to come off bitchy."
Her sudden apology caught me off-guard, but I was willing to forgive her little temper tantrum. Then again, I would have forgiven her for kicking me in the crotch. "S'okay," I said. "I think the car is a goner, though. Want to help me push it off the road?" That's how Jenny affected me. My cherished El Camino had gone from 'her' to 'it' in less than half an hour. I didn't wait for her to answer me. I opened the door and dropped the transmission into neutral, grabbed the wheel and the doorframe and started to push. I made it about two feet before it got easier, and I knew she was helping. Good, I hated being on the wrong foot with her.
Once the car was parked on the shoulder, I grabbed my own backpack from the cargo bed, and the pistol from under the seat. Jenny gave a little gasp when she saw it, and I saw concern on her face. "I hate traveling alone," I explained. "There are all sorts of weirdoes hitchhiking these days."
She chuckled. "Do you know how to use it?"
I stuffed it into the backpack. "I can make it go bang, but I'm a lousy shot. Whatever I'm aiming at had better be fairly close or I'll miss for sure."
"Well, that's comforting," she said with mock sarcasm this time, but I could see that she was glad I had it. Clearly the fog was really getting to her.
She came around the car and walked next to me as we started down the road toward Castle Bay. The still dead silence was unnerving. We thought following the white line on the shoulder was probably safer than the yellow dividing line in the middle of the road. All we needed was for someone to come barreling along and run us both down. It was harder to see, but at least the gravel shoulder stood out. We walked in silence for about ten minutes, and I was starting to relax. After all, it was just fog, and in spite of its icy touch was just water vapor. It also had made Jenny walk close to me, and I was able to steal admiring glances at her out of the corner of my eyes.
I was just debating the possibility of holding her hand when the scream rang out from the trees to our right.
I can still hear that ungodly wail. It was like no cry I'd ever heard in my life. No animal of this world ever made that sound, but that it was a creature of some sort was all too clear. We could hear it breathing, a hoarse snuffling sound; and the sounds of something heavy moving through the brush, keeping pace with us. It continued to growl and moan, and it sounded like it had been gargling with broken glass.
Jenny muttered something I didn't hear, but later on she would use the word again, and it was one I had heard before.
Wendigo.
The demon spirit of the Micmac Indians that had populated this area for hundreds of years before we white men gave them the boot from their sacred lands. It was said by locals that the spirit haunted what was left of the virgin forests, guarding it from harm. Most people scoffed at the legend, but you could always sense that they didn't really mean it. Which explains why when I asked Jenny what she had just said, she blanched guiltily and said, "Bear. That has to be a bear. Maybe it's injured."
I knew perfectly well that no bear had made that sound, and to prove it, whatever it was screamed again, and it was a lot closer. For all I could tell, it was standing on the edge of the trees, but we couldn't see it for the damn fog.
I hate to admit it, but I spooked.
Then I ran.
Fast.
I left Jenny standing there as I took off down the road as fast as I could go, my sneakers making a slapping noise on the road.
Cowardly? You betcha.
My father fought in Viet Nam, and he often said he survived the war because he always felt it was better to be a live coward than a dead hero. He took no stupid risks, kept his ass out of the line of fire, and lived to tell about it. I guess my lack of courage came naturally. I'm not proud of it, and if I had realized that taking off like that I had ruined any chance I may have had with Jenny, I would most likely have done it anyway.
Mama Hollow didn't raise a fool, and there are lots of single girls out there.
I heard Jenny cry out as I fled that awful wail. "Jake, you pathetic asshole!" Then the unmistakable sounds of her hiking boots on the road as she ran after me. "Toss me the gun before it kills me!"
Screw that.
Crashing came from behind us as the screamer left the woods and chased us down the highway. Bear, my ass. It sounded enormous, and really irritated.
I've never been fleet of foot, in spite of my long legs, and I'm out of shape, so Jenny caught up with me in no time. In fact, she passed me and glared at me with such unmitigated disgust I felt my insides withering.
You know the old saying, when chased by a bear; you only have to run faster than the slowest guy? I was suddenly the slowest guy, and my chances for further survival were going downhill. The beast was right behind me, but still hidden by the mist, as a quick glance over my shoulder showed. But I could hear it coming, panting with the exertion of the chase, and I swear it was near enough that its tortured breath warmed my backside. Any second and it was going to be dining on Jake tartar.
I almost screamed.
Then I was out of the fog.
It ended that quickly. One moment I'm surrounded by a thick hazy blanket, the next I'm in the clear with open blue-sky overhead and the town of Castle Bay spread out before me. It was like I had stepped into a postcard. I was so stunned I stopped running, and remembered too late that we were being chased by something mean and hungry. I fumbled for the gun in my pack, but as I turned around I realized that the slobbering sounds had ceased the instant I had left the mist.
It was gone, and the silence fell around us heavy and deep.
I thought Jenny was going to ream my ass for leaving her the way I did, but she was too busy gasping at the sign on the side of the road. She stood with her arms limp at her sides, and her mouth slightly opened and her eyes wide. The thing that had chased us was quickly forgotten as she gazed at what had to be a familiar landmark for a hometown girl.
The sign read-
Welcome to Castle Bay
"You'll never want to leave."
Cheesy, but no worse than any of the hundred other small town mottos I'd seen over the last few days. What made this one distinctive from all the rest was the long trail of dark blood that ran down the front, partially obscuring some of the letters. A small puddle had formed in the gravel beneath the sign. The source of the blood was hanging over the top of the sign, and I felt bile rising in my throat. I had never before seen a severed human limb, and the arm draped across the sign was still fresh enough to drip.
Hell of a welcome.