The Hollow Gods (The Chaos Cycle #1)

Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

Mason

Several days passed after Mason’s adventure at the market. He still had the stone he’d bought, keeping it by his bedside as though it were a lucky totem. He enjoyed the way it glistened, and every so often, he’d hold it up to the light to admire how the green, gold, and purple shimmers melted into one another, the hues changing with the angle. Just as the stone could appear grey with one glance and suddenly a myriad of colours with another, life really was all about perspective.

It wasn’t what he’d expected from Black Hollow, but between leisurely hikes, outdoor reading, and gorging on local fare, Mason immersed himself in the town lore, if for no other reason than to play Sherlock Holmes. The legends scratched at the walls of his rational worldview, planting a dark seed in his mind. With every passing moment he spent researching Mathias’ blog and scoffing at its claims, the seed burrowed deeper, soaking up the rains of doubt until something thorny began to grow. His fixation intensified as he fancied himself a seeker of truth, determined to fortify his doctrine.

Nothing in Mathias’ blog provided the answers Mason wanted. The villagers believed the Dreamwalker would return one day, but the myth about her and the willow remained a mystery. There was one blog entry he thought compelling—a critique of the town’s enthusiastic support for a recent government initiative to slow the decline of caribou populations: a wolf cull. Mathias found the town’s beliefs overbearing, if not ridiculous. He also referenced the history of conflict with wolves in Black Hollow—and one that was particularly bloody:

Based on our town’s history, we tend not to view violent initiatives against the wolf population as a necessity for ecological balance, but rather, as a necessity for our own survival. Mythology is indeed a powerful shaper of sociocultural thought. However, I find it troubling that the people of Black Hollow, who pride themselves at maintaining our local history and culture, would turn a blind eye to the unyielding repetition—the endless resurrection of violence—that has always come from believing too firmly in a fable.

Unyielding repetition? Endless resurrection of violence? Could something like that truly be credited to a fable? Mason removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t understand how a fairy tale could inspire violence. What exactly was this violence, anyway? It wasn’t as though Black Hollow regularly made headlines.

Library archives were the only place he’d find reliable information. None in town were large enough to hold the kind of data Mason wanted, but a quick drive to a nearby university would solve that. And while he couldn’t borrow anything, nothing was stopping him from reading in-house and using the photocopy machine.

“I’m heading out for the afternoon,” he called to Annabelle from the lounge.

Poking her head out from the kitchen, she flashed him a bright smile. “You have yourself a good one, Mason!” she called back as she waltzed around the oven.

“Sure thing!” He saluted her with a lopsided grin and headed out the door.

Mason knew well that searching the archives was no easy task. They were organized by place of origin and date—not by their subject matter. Looking for a specific kind of document meant guessing who was most likely to have produced it. If the issue was violence, the best candidates were journalists and government officials.

It took Mason two hours to compile enough sources to sift through. Newspaper articles, police reports, town council blueprints clipped to damage reports—several of them going back to the 1860s. The town was no stranger to catastrophe, suffering from riots and man-made disasters that often led to property and habitat destruction. Among the violent crimes spattered throughout the last century, Mason noticed a troubling pattern: local women being murdered by close family at far higher rates than what would have been typical for such a small town.

As Mason tore through the documents, he grew frustrated at how poorly the older texts were preserved; hardly any of them were legible anymore. It didn’t help that the archives room was barely lit. The smell of dust and the ceiling light’s incessant flickering contributed to a skull-crushing headache.

As Mason sat on the floor, surrounded by paper, one thing became clear: The town had witnessed recurring eruptions of hysteria over abductions allegedly carried out by the Dreamwalker and her wolves. Several articles mentioned a trial that occurred in conjunction with a mass wolf cull in 1868. Accompanying the reports were written testimonies by citizens who lived through the event. Mason wasted no time photocopying them before filing them away in his backpack for safekeeping. He would look at those later.

But aside from the trial, there was little to go on. The available reports were vague, with not a word about the people involved—no mention of mayors, church officials, or authority figures. Mason flipped through the pages with growing impatience, until something seized him—an image clipped to one of the police reports from the trial of 1868. There was no caption at the bottom of the illustration—no credit to the artist responsible—but it must have been important to be included in an official report.

It was a grotesque depiction of a massive black wolf with a broad, spiky tail and hackles that shot up like daggers. Its jaws were open wide—nearly unhinged—tongue hanging out over long, tainted fangs. The claws were stylized as sharp, curved blades emerging from the wolf’s paws. The eyes were bright, crimson red—unlike anything in the natural world. In the background, three women hung from crosses, flames at their feet as they looked towards the sky with agonized expressions. Mason leaned in close and examined them; they were all young, all dressed in plain clothes and drawn with the same face. Were they predecessors to the more recent murder victims? His gaze shifted to the wolf’s eyes, the red paint raised from the page like dried blood. The way its jaw sliced open gave the impression of a wicked grin—a malevolent promise soon to be fulfilled.

Then, from somewhere in the room, the voice of the old man from the market echoed like a call from a distant land.

“In the flames, their daughters burned, traitorous daughters, against them they turned. Lost in the forests where they lay with darkness, their souls devoured and their bodies in her likeness. To exorcise the demons and to banish her from this world, they set them alight, they lay out the lure. Oh, cleansing flames, may this lay her to rest, may this cleanse our shame. May we send her back to the realm of dreams, may we absolve our sins, whatever the means. But oh! How they were fooled. Oh! How they were wrong; the wolves cried in despair, haunting all with their song. Their blood now soaks the earth, awakening the forest as we approach her rebirth.”

As the words reverberated through the air, ink slowly bled into the page beneath the monstrous image of the wolf. Each letter emerged with slow, deliberate revelation, as if the old man himself were engraving them as he spoke.

Mason’s entire body went numb; his teeth chattered as he watched the ominous rhyme write itself into the page. His vision blurred, a chill seeping into his bones as his heart hammered and his chest began to hurt. The light flickered more erratically, shadows dancing on the floor with a life of their own. He released the file as though it was on fire, then felt a distinct hum against his thigh. His hand crept into his pocket, feeling around each of the three, smooth edges.

The dream stone was with him.