The Hollow Season
By C.M. Clark
THE HOLLOW SEASON
Chapter One — Welcome to Idaho Springs
Idaho Springs, Colorado — 1984
The first mistake was deciding they weren’t drunk enough.
The second was leaving the hotel.
There were four of them, all barely old enough to understand that twenty-one wasn’t nearly as grown-up as it sounded. They had driven down from Boulder that afternoon in a battered Chevrolet that smelled of cigarettes, wet wool and something dead beneath the passenger seat that nobody had bothered looking for.
Idaho Springs wasn’t supposed to be the destination.
It was a stop.
A cheap room. A few drinks. Somewhere to sleep before they headed farther into the mountains in the morning.
That was all.
By midnight, they had decided Idaho Springs belonged to them.
‘Keep it down.’
Danny Morrison said this while laughing loudly enough to wake half the street.
‘You keep it down,’ Mark said.
‘I’m whispering.’
‘You’re shouting the word whispering.’
The girls laughed.
Lisa Hart stumbled against a parking meter and grabbed it with both hands.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘You all right?’
‘The town moved.’
‘That’s probably bad.’
‘No, I’m serious.’
Lisa straightened and stared down the empty street.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Downtown Idaho Springs looked different after midnight.
During the day it had been charming.
Old brick buildings. Shop windows. Restaurants. Bars. Mountains rising almost vertically around the town, making everything feel tucked safely into some little Colorado postcard.
At night the mountains became walls.
The buildings seemed older.
And the street was much longer than Danny remembered.
Lisa hugged herself.
‘Can we go back?’
‘We just got out here.’
‘I don’t like it.’
Mark grinned.
‘Scared?’
‘No.’
‘You’re scared.’
‘I’m cold.’
‘Same thing.’
He slipped an arm around her and she shoved him away.
Across the street, Kelly had discovered a cardboard sign propped inside a shop window.
OLYMPIC TORCH ROUTE — FEBRUARY 1984.
‘Look at this shit.’
Danny wandered over.
‘Government propaganda.’
‘The Olympics are government propaganda?’
‘Everything’s government propaganda.’
‘You’re an idiot.’
‘That’s exactly what they want you to think.’
Mark had brought the spray paint.
Nobody remembered him buying it.
Later, if any of them had survived long enough to explain themselves, this would have become one of those insignificant details that suddenly didn’t feel insignificant at all.
Where did Mark get the paint?
He didn’t know.
Maybe the petrol station.
Maybe Boulder.
Maybe somebody left it in the Chevrolet.
It didn’t matter.
Not then.
Mark shook the can.
The metal ball rattled loudly in the empty street.
Kelly looked around.
‘Don’t.’
Mark sprayed a crooked black line across the bottom of the Olympic sign.
‘MARK.’
‘Jesus.’
‘What?’
‘You’re writing your own fucking name?’
Mark stared at it.
‘Good point.’
He painted over it.
Danny was laughing so hard he had to lean against the building.
‘Master criminal.’
‘Fuck you.’
Another hiss of paint.
This time Mark wrote:
NO GODS
NO MASTERS
Danny applauded.
Lisa didn’t.
She was looking towards the end of the street.
‘Guys.’
Nobody listened.
‘Guys.’
Kelly turned.
‘What?’
Lisa pointed.
There was a motorcycle parked beneath a streetlamp.
A Harley.
Black.
Big.
Chrome catching the weak yellow light.
It sat alone outside the Buffalo.
‘Was that there before?’
Danny looked.
‘Yeah.’
‘No it wasn’t.’
‘Sure it was.’
‘No.’
Mark shook the spray can again.
‘Who cares?’
Lisa kept staring at it.
Something about the motorcycle bothered her.
Not the bike itself.
The silence around it.
She had grown up with motorcycles. Her father had owned two before her mother finally convinced him that forty-year-old men with bad knees shouldn’t pretend they were Hell’s Angels.
Motorcycles ticked when they cooled.
Metal contracted.
Engines smelled hot.
This one looked as though someone had ridden it there five minutes ago.
But there was no sound.
No heat rising from the engine.
Nothing.
Kelly whispered, ‘Maybe somebody’s inside.’
‘At this hour?’
‘It’s a bar.’
Danny started towards it.
Lisa grabbed his coat.
‘Don’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
That made him smile.
‘Excellent reason.’
‘Danny.’
He pulled away.
Mark followed him.
Of course he did.
Kelly hesitated, then went after them.
Lisa remained in the middle of the street.
‘Guys, seriously.’
Danny reached the Harley first.
It was enormous up close.
The handlebars rose high above the tank.
A leather vest had been thrown across the seat.
Danny touched it.
‘Don’t touch people’s shit,’ Kelly said.
‘I’m not.’
‘You’re literally touching it.’
Mark came around the back of the motorcycle.
‘Hey.’
They looked at him.
He was staring at the licence plate.
‘What?’
Mark smiled.
‘SONS.’
Danny laughed.
‘Of course it fucking does.’
A noise came from inside the Buffalo.
Not loud.
A chair scraping.
Maybe.
The four of them froze.
Lisa backed away.
‘Let’s go.’
Danny raised both hands.
‘Relax.’
The door opened.
A man stood inside.
Nobody moved.
He was big.
That was the first thing Danny noticed.
Not tall exactly.
Big.
Broad through the shoulders. Thick arms. Heavy boots. Denim and leather. Long hair falling around a face that remained hidden in the darkness of the doorway.
He looked like he’d been built for the motorcycle.
Mark lowered the spray can.
‘Hey, man.’
The biker said nothing.
‘We weren’t messing with your bike.’
Still nothing.
Danny glanced at Mark.
‘Come on.’
The biker stepped onto the pavement.
Lisa was already walking backwards.
‘Danny.’
The biker stopped beneath the streetlamp.
His face came into view.
Kelly screamed.
Later there would be no police interview.
No witness statement.
No description handed to an artist.
There would be nobody left to explain exactly what Kelly saw.
Only that she screamed first.
And then they ran.
Danny caught Lisa by the hand.
‘GO!’
They sprinted towards the hotel.
Behind them came the roar of a Harley Davidson.
Lisa looked over her shoulder.
The motorcycle was still parked outside the Buffalo.
She stumbled.
Danny yanked her upright.
‘Don’t stop!’
‘Danny—’
The engine roared again.
Closer.
‘The bike—’
‘RUN!’
They reached the intersection.
Mark was ahead of them now, Kelly close behind him.
He turned right.
‘This way!’
‘The hotel’s the other way!’
‘No it isn’t!’
‘YES IT IS!’
They stopped.
For one impossible second, the four of them stood beneath a streetlight arguing about a town they had walked through three times that evening.
The hotel should have been behind them.
No.
Ahead.
No.
Across the street.
Danny looked back.
The Harley was gone.
‘Oh shit.’
A headlight appeared at the far end of the street.
One light.
Bright.
Coming towards them.
‘Move!’
They ran.
The engine became deafening.
Kelly disappeared first.
One moment she was beside Mark.
The next she wasn’t.
Mark turned.
‘KELLY?’
A scream came from somewhere behind them.
Then another.
Then nothing.
Mark ran back.
Danny grabbed him.
‘Don’t!’
‘That’s Kelly!’
‘MARK!’
He tore free.
The motorcycle passed beneath a streetlight.
Danny saw the rider.
Saw something about his arms that didn’t make sense.
Too long.
Or perhaps the coat made them look that way.
The headlight went dark.
Mark screamed.
Lisa began sobbing.
‘We need to get inside.’
Danny dragged her towards the nearest building.
Locked.
Next door.
Locked.
Another.
Locked.
Behind them, boots struck pavement.
Slowly.
No hurry.
Danny pounded on a door.
‘HELP!’
Lisa looked through the glass.
The biker was crossing the street.
Walking towards them.
His Harley stood twenty yards behind him.
The engine was running.
‘Danny.’
He turned.
The biker was closer.
Much closer.
Too close.
Danny grabbed Lisa.
They ran again.
By morning, Main Street looked perfectly ordinary.
Shopkeepers unlocked doors.
Coffee brewed.
Cars rolled through town.
A few people complained about graffiti.
Someone found blood near a storm drain and assumed an animal had been hit during the night.
The Olympic sign was cleaned.
The Harley was gone.
Nobody found Danny Morrison.
Nobody found Lisa Hart.
Nobody found Mark Reynolds.
Nobody found Kelly Price.
And within a few days, the mountains had swallowed the story.
Present Day
Alex hated Idaho Springs before they reached the exit.
He hated the mountains.
He hated the old buildings.
He hated the tourists.
He hated the stupid brown highway sign announcing historic attractions as though history were something anybody his age was supposed to give a shit about.
Mostly, he hated Jessica.
‘There it is,’ Steve said.
Alex kept looking out the window.
‘What?’
‘Idaho Springs.’
‘Thrilling.’
Steve sighed.
From the passenger seat Jessica turned around.
‘You don’t have to love it immediately.’
Alex looked at her.
‘I don’t have to love it ever.’
Jessica turned back around.
That earned him the look from his father.
Alex knew the look.
Don’t start.
Unfortunately, starting was one of the few things he still enjoyed.
‘I’m just saying,’ Alex continued, ‘Aspen has mountains too. So the whole mountains thing isn’t exactly selling it.’
‘Nobody’s selling you anything,’ Steve said.
‘You sold the house.’
‘Alex.’
‘What?’
‘Enough.’
Alex leaned his head against the window.
Fine.
Whatever.
They had been driving for hours, following the moving truck east through Colorado, carrying what remained of their life towards the house belonging to the woman his father apparently loved.
Jessica Mercer.
Forty-three.
Divorced.
No children.
Owned a house in Idaho Springs.
Worked in Denver three days a week and remotely the other two.
Made excellent lasagne.
Liked old movies.
Thought Alex was ‘creative’.
Alex knew all of this because Jessica had spent the past year trying very hard not to become his mother.
Which somehow made him hate her more.
His mother had disappeared when he was eight.
Not died.
Disappeared.
There was a difference.
Dead people had graves.
Dead people had certificates and obituaries and casseroles delivered by neighbours.
Missing people had possibilities.
His father had stopped believing in those possibilities years ago.
Alex hadn’t.
They took the exit.
The town opened beneath them.
Old buildings crowded the narrow valley. Mountains rose on both sides, green and enormous beneath the late-summer sky. Cars moved along the interstate overhead. Tourists wandered between shops. Flags hung from buildings. People sat outside restaurants drinking beer in the afternoon sun.
It was prettier than Alex wanted it to be.
He hated that too.
Jessica pointed.
‘Main Street’s down there.’
Alex looked.
For a second he had the strangest sensation.
Not recognition.
Something close to it.
Like seeing a place from a dream he’d forgotten.
A row of brick buildings.
Old windows.
A bar.
People walking beneath them.
And someone standing alone on the opposite pavement.
A girl.
About his age.
Maybe seventeen.
Dark hair.
Pale face.
She was staring directly at their car.
Alex turned his head as they passed.
The girl didn’t wave.
Didn’t smile.
She simply watched him.
Then the car rounded the corner and she disappeared behind a building.
‘Who’s that?’
Jessica looked back.
‘Who?’
‘That girl.’
‘What girl?’
Alex twisted around.
He couldn’t see her anymore.
‘Nobody.’
Steve glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Already checking out the local girls?’
‘Jesus Christ, Dad.’
Jessica laughed.
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘There is literally nothing good happening right now.’
‘You’ll survive.’
Alex looked back through the rear window.
The street was gone.
But for some reason he kept thinking about the girl.
The way she’d looked at him.
Not curious.
Not interested.
Almost relieved.
As though she’d been waiting.
They passed beneath an old sign welcoming visitors to Idaho Springs.
Steve tapped the steering wheel.
‘New beginning.’
Alex closed his eyes.
He had no way of knowing that Steve had been here before.
A long time ago.
Steve had no way of knowing that either.
Not really.
Some memories weren’t forgotten.
They were buried.
And Idaho Springs had been waiting nearly fifty years for someone to start digging.
—————————————————
THE HOLLOW SEASON
Chapter Two — The Water Beneath Us
By Saturday morning, Alex had identified three things he didn’t completely hate about Idaho Springs.
The first was that nobody seemed particularly interested in him.
In Aspen, being seventeen meant being constantly observed by somebody. Teachers. Neighbours. Tourists. Parents of friends. People who knew his father. People who remembered his mother. People who lowered their voices whenever they realised who he was.
Idaho Springs didn’t give a shit.
The second was that Jessica’s house was better than expected.
He would never tell her this.
It sat several streets above downtown, old enough that none of the floors were level and every bedroom door had to be persuaded into closing. There was a narrow back garden, an ancient shed, radiators that clanked despite not being turned on, and a bedroom on the second floor that Jessica had given entirely to him.
Not decorated.
Not prepared.
Just empty.
‘Figured you’d want to make it yours,’ she’d said.
Alex had almost thanked her.
Almost.
The third thing was Main Street.
Main Street was weird.
Not haunted-house weird.
Not yet.
It was more like somebody had emptied three different towns into the same valley and never bothered separating them again.
Tourists wandered past buildings that looked as though miners might still come stumbling out of them. Motorcycles shared parking spaces with Subarus and enormous pickup trucks. People in expensive hiking clothes queued behind tattooed locals buying coffee. Victorian brickwork sat beside neon beer signs. Shop windows contained jewellery, rocks, antiques, souvenirs, T-shirts, sweets and things Alex couldn’t identify.
It wasn’t Aspen.
That was the important part.
Aspen knew exactly what it wanted people to think of it.
Idaho Springs didn’t seem to care.
‘This place is actually kind of cool.’
The words escaped before Alex could stop them.
Jessica turned around.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Steve, did you hear something?’
His father nodded gravely.
‘I believe our son just expressed mild approval.’
‘Girlfriend,’ Alex said.
Steve looked at him.
‘What?’
‘You said our son.’
Jessica tried not to smile.
Steve’s face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
‘You know what I meant.’
‘Yeah.’
Alex shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and walked ahead.
There it was.
The thing none of them knew how to talk about.
Jessica wasn’t his mother.
Steve knew it.
Jessica knew it.
Alex knew it.
But sometimes his father forgot to construct the sentence properly, and every time he did Alex felt like somebody had taken an eraser to a little more of his mother.
They walked in silence for half a block.
Jessica eventually caught up.
She didn’t apologise.
Alex appreciated that.
‘You hungry?’
‘Always.’
‘Good. Your dad promised me pizza.’
Steve caught up behind them.
‘I promised nothing.’
‘You absolutely did.’
‘I said we could get pizza.’
‘That’s legally binding in Colorado.’
‘I’m pretty sure it isn’t.’
‘You work in insurance.’
‘Exactly. I recognise liability.’
Alex looked between them.
They were disgustingly happy.
He hated that too.
Mostly.
They had spent the morning unpacking before Jessica declared that living out of boxes was making everyone homicidal and announced they were going downtown.
So now Alex was being given the tour.
There was the original Beau Jo’s, Jessica told him, an Idaho Springs institution famous for thick mountain pies and crusts people ate with honey.
‘Honey?’
‘On the crust.’
‘That’s fucked up.’
‘Try it before you judge it.’
‘No.’
‘Coward.’
A few doors down, tourists drifted in and out of small shops selling Colorado souvenirs, stones and crystals, handmade things, old things and expensive things designed to look old.
One window displayed polished minerals beneath tiny handwritten labels.
Alex stopped.
‘Those are cool.’
Jessica came beside him.
‘You like rocks?’
‘I don’t like rocks.’
‘You’re staring at rocks.’
‘They’re minerals.’
Steve laughed.
‘Oh, Jesus.’
Alex pointed through the glass.
‘That one looks like it has something inside it.’
Jessica leaned closer.
It was a chunk of smoky quartz, dark and cloudy in the centre.
‘Probably another mineral.’
‘No.’
‘What do you think is in there?’
Alex stared.
For just a moment, he thought something moved inside the stone.
A shadow turning behind cloudy glass.
He blinked.
Nothing.
‘Never mind.’
They kept walking.
Tommyknocker Brewery was busy. People crowded tables, talking over one another, glasses raised beneath warm lights. Somewhere nearby, food smelled of onions and fried potatoes.
Across the street a family posed for a photograph.
A dog barked.
Someone revved a motorcycle.
Alex flinched.
Steve noticed.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah.’
The motorcycle rolled past them.
An ordinary Harley.
Older guy riding it.
Grey beard.
Sunglasses.
Nothing strange.
Alex watched until it disappeared.
‘You ride?’ he asked his father.
Steve snorted.
‘Your mother would have murdered me.’
The sentence landed between them.
Alex looked at him.
Steve seemed to realise what he’d said.
Jessica suddenly became fascinated by a shop window.
Alex smiled despite himself.
‘She hated motorcycles?’
‘Hated isn’t strong enough.’
‘Why?’
Steve shrugged.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘She just did.’
Alex waited.
His father was staring down the street.
Something had changed in his face.
‘Dad?’
Steve blinked.
‘What?’
‘You just went somewhere.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yeah, you did.’
Steve looked towards the end of the block.
‘I thought I recognised something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jessica turned.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Probably.’
‘Probably?’
‘Jess, I grew up in Colorado. Everybody’s been through Idaho Springs.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘Then yes.’
‘When?’
Steve smiled.
‘Jesus. Interrogation over.’
They moved on.
Alex looked back at his father.
Steve had already forgotten the conversation.
Or wanted them to think he had.
They passed the Buffalo Restaurant & Bar without stopping.
Alex barely noticed it.
An old building.
Tables.
People eating.
A couple drinking beer.
A buffalo head mounted inside that he could see through the window.
Nothing special.
Steve stopped.
Jessica walked several steps before realising.
‘Coming?’
He was staring at the building.
‘Steve?’
‘Yeah.’
He didn’t move.
Alex followed his gaze.
‘What?’
Steve frowned.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re doing that thing again.’
‘What thing?’
‘Where you stare at something and then pretend you weren’t staring at it.’
Steve rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Déjà vu.’
Jessica looked at the Buffalo.
‘Maybe you’ve eaten here.’
‘Maybe.’
A burst of laughter came through the open doorway.
Steve flinched.
Not enough for Jessica to notice.
Alex did.
Then Steve walked away.
‘Come on. Pizza.’
Alex remained another second.
He looked through the doorway.
People.
Tables.
Glasses.
A waitress carrying plates.
Nothing.
Then someone moved in the darkness near the back.
A large man.
Alex couldn’t see his face.
Someone crossed in front of him.
When the doorway cleared, the man was gone.
‘Alex!’
He turned.
Jessica was waving him along.
‘Coming.’
He jogged after them.
By early afternoon he’d eaten enough Beau Jo’s pizza to require medical intervention.
Jessica had been right about the honey.
He refused to acknowledge this.
‘You dipped it twice,’ she said.
‘I was testing it.’
‘You dipped four pieces.’
‘Extensive testing.’
‘Scientific method.’
‘Exactly.’
Steve dropped money on the table.
‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’
Jessica pointed at Alex.
‘Your genetics.’
Alex laughed.
Actually laughed.
It surprised all three of them.
Nobody commented on it.
That helped.
Outside, the afternoon had warmed.
Jessica announced that they were going to the hot springs.
Alex groaned.
‘Why?’
‘Because you live in Idaho Springs now.’
‘I understand how addresses work.’
‘Then you need to understand the springs.’
‘I understand hot water.’
‘Not this hot water.’
Steve handed Alex his backpack.
‘Just surrender.’
‘I hate both of you.’
‘Progress,’ Jessica said.
The hot springs were different from what Alex expected.
He had imagined some tacky swimming pool with fake rocks.
Instead there was something almost ancient about the experience.
Mineral water.
Steam.
The smell.
Heat rising around his shoulders while the mountain air remained cooler above him.
People spoke quietly without seeming to realise they were doing it.
The sound of water echoed strangely.
Alex sank lower.
For the first time since leaving Aspen, he stopped thinking about Aspen.
Jessica and Steve sat farther away, talking.
He couldn’t hear them.
Didn’t want to.
Alex closed his eyes.
Water moved around him.
Warm.
Almost too warm.
He thought about his mother.
He didn’t know why.
He saw her standing in their old kitchen.
Not the last time he’d seen her.
Earlier.
Much earlier.
She was younger.
Laughing.
Sunlight behind her.
Then the memory changed.
His mother’s face disappeared.
Another face replaced it.
A girl.
Dark hair.
Pale skin.
The girl from Main Street.
Alex opened his eyes.
Someone was standing behind the steam.
He sat upright.
A woman.
No.
A girl.
He wiped water from his face.
‘Hey.’
She turned.
For one second he thought it was her.
Then the steam shifted.
Wrong person.
Blonde.
Older.
She walked away.
Alex exhaled.
‘Idiot.’
He lowered himself back into the water.
Something brushed his ankle.
He jerked his leg away.
Nothing.
Probably somebody’s foot.
Except nobody was close enough.
Alex looked down.
The mineral water distorted everything beneath the surface.
His legs disappeared into shimmering darkness.
Something touched him again.
This time it felt like fingers.
Alex stood.
Water poured from him.
Several people looked over.
‘Alex?’
Steve was watching him.
‘What?’
‘You okay?’
Alex stared into the water.
‘Yeah.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
He climbed out.
Jessica looked concerned.
‘Too hot?’
‘Something like that.’
He wrapped himself in a towel.
Behind him, the water settled.
Nobody noticed the small ripple moving against the others.
Towards the edge.
Towards Alex.
Then stopping.
That evening they walked Main Street again.
The town was changing.
Day-trippers were leaving.
Headlights moved towards the interstate.
Shopkeepers pulled displays inside.
Restaurant windows glowed brighter as the valley darkened.
The mountains seemed to move closer.
Alex liked Idaho Springs less at night.
He couldn’t explain why.
Jessica stopped to talk to someone she knew.
Steve wandered towards a shop window.
Alex stood alone.
Then he saw her.
Across Main Street.
The girl.
Dark hair.
Same pale face.
Same age.
Same expression.
This time Alex didn’t look away.
Neither did she.
A car passed between them.
She remained there.
Alex crossed the street.
‘Hey.’
The girl watched him approach.
‘Do I know you?’
‘No.’
Her voice was quiet.
‘You were watching me yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
That wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
‘Why?’
She studied his face.
There was something unnerving about the way she did it.
Not attraction.
Recognition.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Alex.’
Something changed in her expression.
Sadness.
Then it was gone.
‘Of course it is.’
Alex frowned.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She looked past him.
Towards Steve.
Alex followed her gaze.
His father was standing outside the Buffalo again.
Staring at the building.
Jessica called his name.
Steve didn’t answer.
Alex turned back.
‘Do you know my dad?’
The girl was gone.
He looked left.
Right.
Nothing.
‘What the hell?’
He walked to the corner.
No sign of her.
Across the street, Steve finally moved away from the Buffalo.
Alex looked at the old building.
Lights glowed behind the windows.
People ate dinner.
Someone lifted a beer.
A waitress laughed.
Perfectly ordinary.
Then the front door opened.
A man stepped outside.
Large.
Leather vest.
Long hair.
Alex stopped breathing.
The man turned towards him.
For half a second their eyes met.
Then Jessica stepped between them.
‘There you are.’
Alex looked around her.
The pavement outside the Buffalo was empty.
‘Alex?’
‘What?’
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
He stared at the empty pavement.
Then at the building.
‘No.’
Above Main Street, darkness settled into the mountains.
Below it, beneath concrete and brick and old mine workings, hot water moved through fractures in the earth.
It had been moving there long before Idaho Springs had a name.
Long before Main Street.
Long before the Buffalo.
People came to the town because of what rose from beneath it.
Heat.
Minerals.
Water.
They never spent much time wondering what else might rise with it.
————————————————
THE HOLLOW SEASON
Chapter Three — Good Dog
Idaho Springs, Colorado — 1967
Walter Briggs had been living in the van for eleven days before the dog appeared.
Living was perhaps generous.
Existing.
Sleeping.
Drinking.
Driving whenever somebody told him to move along.
Walter had been doing a lot of that lately.
He was thirty-eight years old, divorced, unemployed and travelling west because west was the direction men travelled when there wasn’t anything waiting for them back east.
California was the official destination.
He had a cousin in Sacramento.
Or San Diego.
Somewhere beginning with San.
Walter had the address written on a piece of paper in the glove compartment.
He hadn’t looked at it since Nebraska.
Colorado had slowed him down.
The mountains did that.
They made everything feel farther away.
He’d stopped in Idaho Springs intending to buy petrol and something to eat. Instead he’d found a place outside the busiest part of town where nobody seemed particularly concerned about an old Dodge van sitting overnight.
One night became three.
Three became seven.
By the eleventh, Walter had acquired something resembling a routine.
Coffee in the morning.
Walk into town.
Find breakfast.
Spend an hour or two watching people.
Maybe pick up odd work if somebody offered it.
Drink in the afternoon.
Return to the van before dark.
The people in Idaho Springs were friendly enough.
That was one reason he’d stayed.
The other was the water.
Walter had started visiting the hot springs because his back hurt.
Ten years loading freight had left him with a permanent knot above his right hip, and the hot mineral water loosened it better than anything a doctor had ever prescribed.
He liked the smell too.
Other people complained about it.
Walter didn’t.
Smelled like the earth was alive.
That evening he stayed in town later than usual.
Two beers became four.
Four became six.
By the time Walter stumbled back towards the van, Main Street had emptied considerably.
He stopped once to piss in an alley.
Stopped again because he thought somebody was following him.
Nobody was.
‘Getting paranoid, Walt.’
His voice bounced strangely between the buildings.
He laughed.
Somewhere behind him, something scratched.
Walter turned.
‘Hello?’
Nothing.
He continued walking.
Scrape.
Walter stopped.
There it was again.
Not footsteps.
Claws.
Clicking against pavement.
‘Dog?’
Silence.
Walter squinted into the darkness.
Something moved between two parked cars.
‘Come here, boy.’
A head appeared.
Walter smiled.
‘There you are.’
The dog didn’t move.
Big thing.
That was all he could tell from where he stood.
Dark fur.
Long muzzle.
Maybe a shepherd.
Maybe some kind of mutt.
‘You lost?’
The animal stepped into the light.
Walter’s smile faded.
It wasn’t a shepherd.
He wasn’t sure what it was.
Its front legs were too long.
The back legs looked too short.
The shoulders rose unnaturally high, giving the animal a sloping shape that reminded Walter of a hyena he’d once seen in a magazine.
But this wasn’t Africa.
This was Colorado.
‘Ugly bastard, aren’t you?’
The dog stared at him.
Its eyes reflected the streetlight.
Red.
Walter knew animal eyes did that sometimes.
Red.
Green.
Yellow.
Something about light hitting the back of the eye.
Nothing strange.
Still.
He didn’t like the way it looked at him.
‘Go home.’
The dog’s head tilted.
Not like a dog hearing an unfamiliar sound.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Almost mockingly.
Walter’s skin prickled.
‘Go on.’
The animal opened its mouth.
Walter expected a bark.
Instead came a sound almost like a person breathing through damaged lungs.
Walter stepped backwards.
The dog’s mouth closed.
‘Nope.’
He turned.
Walked faster.
Behind him:
Click.
Click.
Click.
Claws against pavement.
Walter didn’t look back.
‘Go home.’
Click.
Click.
Click.
‘Go on.’
The clicking stopped.
Walter glanced over his shoulder.
Empty street.
‘Good.’
He walked another block.
Then another.
By the time he reached the van, he’d convinced himself the whole thing was funny.
Some mangy mountain dog had scared the shit out of him.
Too much beer.
That was all.
He unlocked the driver’s door and climbed inside.
The van smelled of cigarettes, old clothes and the remains of a sandwich he’d forgotten to throw away.
Home.
Walter shut the door.
Locked it.
Climbed into the back.
He’d built himself a bed from an old camping mattress and two army blankets.
Not comfortable.
Better than the driver’s seat.
He removed his boots.
Found the bottle of bourbon beneath the mattress.
Took a swallow.
Then heard something outside.
Scratching.
Walter froze.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
‘Oh, come on.’
He crawled towards the front.
Nothing through the windscreen.
He checked the passenger window.
Nothing.
Scratch.
From the back doors.
Walter laughed nervously.
‘Persistent little bastard.’
He opened a cupboard.
Found half a packet of beef jerky.
‘This what you want?’
He unlocked the rear door.
Opened it perhaps six inches.
Darkness.
‘Here.’
Walter tossed a piece outside.
It landed in the dirt.
Nothing came for it.
‘Suit yourself.’
He closed the door.
Locked it.
Returned to bed.
Two minutes later:
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Walter sat up.
‘Eat the goddamn jerky.’
Silence.
Then something bumped the side of the van.
Hard.
Walter stared at the wall.
Another impact.
The van rocked.
‘Jesus Christ.’
Walter grabbed the tyre iron he kept beside the mattress.
He climbed forward.
‘Get out of here!’
Something moved past the windscreen.
Fast.
Too fast.
Walter lifted the tyre iron.
‘GO!’
Nothing.
He waited.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Two.
Finally he lowered the iron.
‘Fucking dog.’
Walter turned.
Two red eyes were looking through the small rear window.
He screamed.
The creature disappeared.
Walter stumbled backwards, hitting the dashboard.
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’
His heart hammered.
The rear window was nearly six feet from the ground.
Walter stared at it.
No.
The dog must have jumped.
That’s all.
Jumped.
Put its paws against the doors.
Walter swallowed.
Then the eyes appeared again.
They didn’t rise from below.
They moved sideways.
Into view.
As though the animal were standing outside.
Standing.
Walter couldn’t breathe.
The head came closer to the glass.
The muzzle looked wrong.
Too short now.
Or perhaps he’d remembered it wrong.
The eyes were too far apart.
The brow above them—
Walter felt his stomach turn.
There was something human in it.
Not a human face.
Worse.
Something that suggested one.
The creature smiled.
Walter screamed and lunged for the driver’s seat.
The van shook violently.
Something struck the rear doors.
Once.
Twice.
The metal bent inward.
Walter jammed the key into the ignition.
‘Come on.’
The engine turned.
Didn’t start.
‘Come on!’
Another impact.
The rear doors buckled.
Walter pumped the accelerator.
The engine coughed.
‘COME ON!’
Something scraped along the roof.
Walter stopped.
Silence.
Then:
Footsteps.
Across the roof.
Not four feet.
Two.
Walter looked up.
The metal sagged beneath something heavy.
One step.
Another.
Another.
Towards the front.
Walter began crying.
‘Please.’
The footsteps stopped directly above him.
Walter stared at the ceiling.
A hand appeared outside the windscreen.
It curled slowly over the roof.
Not a paw.
Not exactly.
Five long black claws.
Fingers beneath fur.
Walter screamed.
The windscreen exploded.
At 7:12 the following morning, a man driving into town noticed the van.
The driver’s door was open.
He slowed.
There was broken glass in the dirt.
He stopped because he thought somebody might have been hurt.
He called out.
No answer.
He approached the van.
Then stopped approximately fifteen feet away.
There was blood on the driver’s seat.
Blood on the dashboard.
Blood across the inside of the windscreen.
Blood on the ceiling.
Blood had run from the open door and dried in the dirt beneath it.
The man backed away.
He found a telephone.
Police arrived.
Then more police.
They searched the van.
They searched the surrounding ground.
They searched the creek.
They searched the road.
They searched the hills.
Walter Briggs was never found.
Neither were his clothes.
His boots remained beside the mattress.
His wallet remained beneath the driver’s seat.
His watch was found embedded in a clot of blood near the rear doors.
There was enough blood inside the Dodge to make one conclusion unavoidable.
Walter Briggs had not walked away.
But there wasn’t a body.
There weren’t even enough pieces to make one.
The official theory involved an animal attack.
A bear, perhaps.
Nobody could explain how a bear had entered the locked van.
Nobody could explain why there were no bear tracks.
Nobody could explain the marks on the roof.
Or the five long scratches carved into the dashboard.
Years later, people would disagree about where exactly Walter had parked.
Some said near the springs.
Some said closer to town.
One retired officer insisted the van had been much nearer Main Street than anyone wanted to remember.
Eventually the story became one more thing people said about Idaho Springs.
A drunk.
A bear.
A missing traveller.
A bad night in the mountains.
The van was hauled away.
The blood was washed from the dirt.
Walter Briggs became a photograph in a file.
And the town continued.
But for several weeks afterward, people living near downtown complained about a stray dog wandering the streets after dark.
A very large dog.
Nobody managed to catch it.
Nobody ever got close enough to identify the breed.
One woman swore she saw it standing beneath a streetlight shortly before dawn.
When asked what she meant by standing, she refused to answer.
Then the sightings stopped.
Mostly.
Because strange stories don’t survive by being told correctly.
They survive by becoming ridiculous.
A dog becomes a bear.
A scream becomes a drunk.
Blood becomes an accident.
And eventually everyone agrees that nothing happened at all.
But something had happened to Walter Briggs.
Something hungry.
And somewhere beneath Idaho Springs, hot water continued pushing through ancient cracks in the earth.
Upwards.
Always upwards.
