Hollow

HOLLOW

Gwen, desperate to feel something, kills someone. But she quickly learns that one kill is never enough. Can Gwen stop before she turns on her own family?

                                                                      *****

It was just an experiment. Simply kill one person to see what it felt like. See if it filled the void within her. It didn't. Nor did it the next time. Or the next. Gwen is an ordinary person. Wife to Amanda. Mother to Grace and Alexandra. Suddenly she is no longer ordinary as she finds herself battling her urges and demons before she hurts those close to her. But is it already too late?

 

"The creative imaginary of words. Its almost like your a Jack the Ripper. I'm thinking how does he know in such creative detail how a person dies. I'm just going to chalk it up as creative ability. There are people who find Stephen King unsettling because his mind is such a beautiful terror :-) but luckily you have great rapport with your readers. Congratulations on an excellent start to this book."

 

"Thank you! It was amazing!"

"Your writing is just amazing!"

"Very poetic. It reminds me of Edgar A. Poe, albeit less cryptic and more clear-cut. No pun intended."

 

EXCERPTS

I walked away feeling what I can only describe as dejected. No, that's not quite right. Not just dejected. Disappointed. A little bored, maybe. 

Why do we do things? Because we must? Because we can? Because, if you ask any teenager, 'I don't know?' Or, just because? I crossed the road because, unlike the hedgehog who wanted to see his flat mate, I needed to. I ate the milk chocolate Hob-Nob biscuit because I wanted to. I killed her just because. 

No, there's always a reason, isn't there? 'Just because' doesn't cut it. It's a cop out. Maybe the reason is something elusive. Something you can't put into words, but it's still there. So, I slid the knife across her throat, because I wanted to know if I could. If I'd like it or if I'd be disgusted and horrified. I'd taken a life. I'd been covered in blood. She'd farted in fright just before she fell. 

I expected her death to be graceful. She would slide to the floor as her soul hissed at me, drifting to the hereafter but wishing it could linger within its body to protect it from anything else I might inflict upon her. I hadn't planned on doing anything to the woman either before or after I killed her. I am not a rapist and nor am I a necrophiliac. I'm not deranged or a monster, just curious. Grace had abandoned her, though. She farted, gurgled and dropped. 

 

The gate was large with vertical wooden slats screwed to a frame. A completely inadequate latch held it shut. One of the slats had shifted sideways slightly, giving me a way to see into the back of his house without being seen. At first, I couldn’t see anything. The house was silent, It looked cold, standing alone in its just off mid-terrace place. The houses either side had some semblance of warmth in the colour of the curtains or the shabby chic wooden hearts hanging down or the trampoline in the garden. Arseshit’s was... barren. The grass in the garden was fake. A decked area was to one side, but no furniture or barbecue was in residence. Horizontal blinds hung at most of the windows, partially pulled up, and I could see inside. No pictures adorned the off-white walls of the living or dining room, whichever it might be. In the kitchen, blind and curtainless, washed pots were neatly stacked. That was all.  

I waited. His car had still been parked outside and I doubted he’d take the time or make the effort to walk anywhere. He was in there. Hiding, maybe, in case a certain crazy woman came knocking. 

Well, knockity knock! 

And, as if the thought was the deed, there he was! 

 
 

The six of them, at three sides of the table, were poised in a variety of poses. Drinking from a cup. Chatting to the one in the next seat. Smoking an unlit cigarette. They were dressed in clothes from the same era as the room, having seemingly fallen through the same time-space rift. Their hair looked real, but their faces and hands were of a high gloss finish that reflected the light from the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, wrapped in a plain yellow shade. 

Their likeness to actual real people was uncanny and I think that was what was creeping me out. They were playing musical statues and were waiting for Elvis or Sinatra to resume singing from the ancient record player sat on a small table in the corner. 

I felt foolish with trying to speak to them, but figured my mistake was understandable. Maybe Newt was also confused and that was why he was laid next to Wendy instead of jumping from lap to lap. Or he could have been protecting her. Dogs supposedly knew things, didn’t they? 

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©2021 by Shaun Allan