The Hollow Gods (The Chaos Cycle #1)

Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

Mason

It was just after sunset when Dr. Mason Evans drove into Black Hollow—several hundred kilometres northwest of Vancouver. At the end of the gravel road was a quaint old farmhouse that looked to have at least four bedrooms on the second floor. There were no signs and, had it not been for gas station employees who gave him directions, he never would have known this was the bed and breakfast he was looking for. The maps on his smartphone were of little use here, and this pleased Mason because it reinforced the idea that he’d gone somewhere no one could find him. He was finally free. He had six months to restore his mental health, and he knew that it wouldn’t happen in the city where he’d spent his entire life.

Mason recalled the conversation with the head of oncology at Vancouver General Hospital. A week had passed, but it was still fresh in his mind:

“Are you sure about this?” Dr. Lindman had asked. He’d peered over his glasses at the younger man, his thin, greying hair slicked back against his skull.

“I’m sure,” Mason remembered smiling uncomfortably. “I’m obviously not well-equipped to deal with the stress. I need some time.”

“You got a recommendation from the psych department,” Lindman had called him out. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. There is nothing you could have done. Amanda would have died anyway—the leukaemia was one of the most aggressive I’ve ever seen—”

“If I hadn’t put her through experimental treatment, she’d still be alive. She’d have more time. I made the wrong call.” Mason hated being pitied. Lindman had disapproved of his decisions through every step of the way. Now he was trying to comfort him. Mason was a thirty-two-year-old man for Christ’s sake. Did he really seem that pathetic?

“Yes,” Lindman had nodded. “You made the wrong call. And you’ll do it again.”

Those words still haunted Mason.

Remembering the exchange left him ill as he pulled his beat-up Honda Accord in front of the rustic inn. He didn’t want to end up like Lindman—a man too jaded to believe in miracles. This was the last year of Mason’s residency, but it didn’t matter that he was almost finished. After that conversation, he needed time away from oncology, and Black Hollow had called to him through a friend’s Facebook page. Jazlyn, an old colleague from med school who’d dropped out and settled for nursing, was now working at a local hospital and routinely uploaded photos of the town and its surrounding landscape.

Now that he was there, Mason knew Jazlyn wasn’t just a talented photographer. The bed and breakfast was as idyllic as a picture book. The window trims could have used a fresh coat of paint, but the grey brick chimney and pale wood panelling were reminiscent of a Victorian farmhouse. The porch was hidden snugly behind white posts that arched to form a sturdy gate leading to the front door. All around were expanses of forests and clear water lakes left untainted by urban life. It was the opposite of the big city: the constant rush, the noise, the depersonalized bubbles everyone existed in. For a while, Mason’s job was the only tether he had to other people. He still wanted that connection, but without the impermanence and heartbreak.

The lady who ran the little inn had given him an irresistible deal; compared to Vancouver, his living expenses would be minimal. Sooner or later, he’d probably want to call his family and let them know where he’d gone—but not now. He’d left without a word, only notifying his landlord that he was moving out, and giving the Dean of Medicine a printed statement. Mason had disappeared off the face of the civilized world in hopes of leaving his mistakes buried in the dust behind him. Where he’d gone, he was certain they couldn’t follow.

He strolled up the creaky porch steps. Nabbing a grimy newspaper on the way, Mason read the headline. It was just over a week old.

Elle Robinson, 19, Stumbles out of Woods after Five-Day Search—Fears of Supernatural Kidnapping Run High.

How odd , Mason thought, scanning the article.

Over the years...missing girls of similar age...all appear to have no memory...why they ventured into the forest...no idea how long they’d been missing...

Surely, they were just runaways who returned on their own, likely too embarrassed to confess their motives.

Fearing more kidnappings, citizens anticipate the Dreamwalker’s return...Concern for Miss Robinson’s life inspires pressure on local government to intensify wolf cull.

“She can’t kidnap our girls without her wolves,” said the Robinsons’ neighbour. “They’re the ones luring girls away. We need to stop them.”

Mason raised both eyebrows. He definitely wasn’t in the city anymore. These rural folks were quite precious, he decided. He dropped the paper in the garbage bin and dusted off his hands. The welcome sign on the door was beckoning him inside.

Barrelling in, he stopped only to absorb the interior décor: floral patterns, lace framing almost every piece of fabric, antique wooden furniture, and a grandfather clock behind a makeshift reception desk crowding the narrow entry hall. The accoutrement added to the charm of the lodgings.

The house was silent save for the ticking of the giant clock. As the hand struck half-past eight and the bell chimed, a woman seemed to float into the room. She looked about fifty, wearing comfortable-looking jeans and a loose, chequered blouse. Her auburn hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she tucked the loose strands behind her ears after freeing her hand from an oven mitt. She flashed Mason a bright, dimpled smile that spread wide across her heavily freckled face.

“Gooood evening!” she greeted cheerily, and a little out of breath. “Welcome to Annabelle’s Bed and Breakfast. I’m Annabelle!”

“Oh—is that what it’s called?” Mason joked, extending a hand, “Mason Evans, a pleasure.”

“That’s right! Apologies for the lack of signs. Bad storm took out the last one.” She squeezed his hand, then opened a three-ringed binder and flipped through the pages. “Mr. Evans, yes? I believe we exchanged a few emails just the other day. You were interested in renting a room on a weekly basis, if I recall?” She glanced up at him for confirmation.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s right,” he replied, wondering if she could smell the city on him.

“Please, call me Annabelle.” She waved him off with a chuckle. “No need for formality here.”

“Right. Sure. Got it.” He paused before continuing, “You mentioned there was no need for a reservation?”

“Yes, that’s right!” she remembered suddenly, shutting the binder before groping around the desk for her glasses. “Well, you’re in luck! It’s slow this time of the year, so you’re the only one around. You can have our best room! Bathroom’s fully loaded with a brand-new toilet and showerhead we just installed, and there’s a memory foam mattress we threw on the bed just last week.” She winked.

“Sounds great, ma’—Annabelle.”

“Oh! And there’s a TV, too. Nothin’ fancy, but it’s got basic cable if you like watching the news. There’s also this nifty little phone cable that you just plug into your laptop for the Internet!”

“A LAN cable?”

“Oh, is that what it’s called?” She smiled with a hint of mischief, returning his jest from earlier.

Mason smiled back, feeling more at ease.

“We’ve also got a laundry room you can use any day except Sunday when I do the linens,” Annabelle gestured down the corridor, then pulled out a brass key attached to a tag with the number four on it. “Let me show you to your room.”

Mason followed her through the entrance hall and up the stairs. The room was larger than he’d expected, with a broad window facing the forest. There was also a connecting bathroom, just as Annabelle had said.

“That reminds me!” She clapped her hands together. “If you’re interested in learning more about the town, my son Mathias had an online blog about this area. He absolutely loved Black Hollow and was an avid photographer. Might be more interesting than visiting one of those dreary tourist centres.”

Loved? Did he not care for the town anymore? Not wanting to be rude, Mason took down the blog’s URL, and the lady of the house left him to his own devices.

He didn’t have much to unpack: enough clothing so that he’d only have to do laundry once a week, toiletries, a novel he’d intended to read for years, his passport, and a laptop. Once everything was where he wanted it, Mason stripped off his belt and the beige khakis it held in place. He’d lost nearly fifteen pounds during his residency, the long hours melting the meat right off his bones. Once an avid frequenter of the varsity gym, his career had demanded more paperwork and fewer squats—a trade he’d happily made. As Mason undid his pinstriped shirt, one of the buttons caught on his hair, making him yelp as he yanked it free. His blonde curls were getting fluffy and in need of a trim. After changing into flannel pants and a t-shirt, he pulled out his laptop and plugged in the LAN cable poking out from behind the bed. To avoid the temptation of checking his email, he instead went straight to Mathias’s blog.

The contents were vast, ranging from articles about the town’s history to ethnographic research Mathias himself had conducted. Some of the posts were critical, while others raised questions about folklore in the study of history. There was plenty of lore on wolves, and several times he referenced a specific legend about a figure known as the Dreamwalker. The whole thing felt very National Geographic . The legend had a long history and held remarkable sway over the villagers’ customs and beliefs. Mason skimmed the posts for some kind of summary of the story but found nothing. He figured the blog was mostly intended for locals—people who already knew this Dreamwalker myth.

However, he discovered that the legend also featured an ancient willow tree nestled somewhere in the forests surrounding Black Hollow—a tree which people claimed could not be found at will. Yet many residents reported having seen the tree when they least expected it. The willow was allegedly the real-life site of the legend, and as proof of its existence, those who did encounter it often took pictures. Somehow, though, its exact location remained a mystery.

At the bottom of the page was a scanned photo of Mathias with his hand resting on the willow’s trunk. Who had taken the picture? Mason surmised this was the willow from the story in question. Was it truly impossible to find at will? The claim struck him as a challenge—perhaps a ploy to give tourists something to do. According to the sources on the blog, the tree was somewhere in the woods near the local farmer’s market. The market itself looked interesting, so it wasn’t difficult for Mason to decide where he would head first.

With his room in order, Mason wandered out to explore Annabelle’s farmhouse. As he traipsed down the stairs, he saw her seated in the living area. She looked up from her book and smiled.

“This is my lounge, as I like to call it. Feel free to come down any time for a chat, or if you just want to hang out.”

It was a decent-sized room with high ceilings and a brass chandelier above a wooden coffee table. There were two leather armchairs and a suede, burgundy couch, and each was adorned with pillows swathed in knitted covers. Separating the living area and the kitchen was a thick brick wall with a fireplace that looked well-worn.

Mason noticed a photo collage mounted on the wall above the hearth. A portrait of a young man in his mid-to-late twenties hung at the top. He had Annabelle’s mischievous eyes, catlike as he smiled. With his reddish-blonde hair, button nose, and fully freckled face, the resemblance to her was striking.

Under the portrait was a collection of pictures. In each, he either posed alone or with Annabelle. In some, he was a child running through a sprinkler or eating cupcakes, and she a young woman—perhaps in her twenties. In one candid shot, he looked to be in his late teens, tinkering with an old Buick and smiling to himself, like he knew the photographer was lurking nearby. He was stout but athletic, like he might have been a starter on his college rugby team. One photo in particular caught Mason’s eye; it was the one from the blog—of Mathias standing next to a magnificent old willow tree with his hand resting on the trunk. His smile was serene, perhaps a little sad, his muscular body visibly thinner and his face gaunt and pale.

“Your son?” Mason asked, engrossed in the little shrine.

“Yes, my son, Mathias,” she said quietly. “He was a good kid. Grew up to be a wonderful man.”

“Where is he now?”

Annabelle’s shoulders dropped. “He passed away several months ago. A long battle with leukaemia. He struggled with it for nearly eight years, since his university days.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mason fumbled. His face was hot with embarrassment, but underneath his flustered exterior, he felt chilled to the bone. Was this a cosmic joke? Amanda had been nineteen years old, in her second year of university. After losing nearly twenty pounds and visiting clinics for a series of unusual infections, weeks of fatigue, and unexplainable bruises, she was brought into the hospital for testing. It was Mason who had diagnosed her with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia, and the prognosis was poor, just as it must have been for Annabelle’s son.

But there were so many people with cancer. Statistically, this was nothing to be surprised about. He tried imagining how the doctors might have broken the news to Annabelle and how she might have coped. Mason remembered Amanda’s parents tumbling through four of the five stages of grief during her treatment: denial, anger, bargaining, then back to denial before the depression set in. He wasn’t sure if they ever reached the final stage: acceptance. He certainly hadn’t.

“Do you have any help here?” Mason quickly changed the topic, banishing the memory of Amanda’s lifeless face.

Annabelle shook her head. “I’m afraid not since Mathias. It’s always been just the two of us. Still in the habit of saying we , even though he’s gone. This whole business was his idea, really.”

Mason’s heart sank. How could life take a good son from his mother? Especially when he was the only one she had. Mason didn’t know what to say, so he just stared at the photos, trying to keep himself together.

The relief he’d felt running from Amanda’s death faded as doubts tugged at the corners of his mind. How long would it be before his family started to worry? Would he really be okay to go back to work after six months?

You don’t have a choice, something in him chastised. You haven’t come this far for nothing.

He bit down on his resolve and swept away the doubts; there could be no failure. Staring down Mathias and the willow tree, Mason seared the image into his mind. Soon, he would be his old self again. Whether it was overcoming grief or debunking small-town superstitions, there was no problem Mason Evans couldn’t solve, no mystery he couldn’t unravel. And tomorrow, he was starting with that willow.