Cinder Hollow: Story 1, Part 1

A horror miniseries (with some humor, of course)

Bill

A cold breeze brushed through the trees. The leaves stirred like a thousand hushed voices, each one whispering a dark secret, or perhaps a warning. The sound had always unnerved Bill, but now that he was all alone, with the last of the sunlight fading, it was enough to drive him mad. He used to laugh when people said the forest was haunted. He wasn’t laughing now.

He yelped as he tripped over another branch, steadying himself against a thick pine. His breathing was ragged, his frail heart fluttering with fear.

What a pair of old fools they were. Old fools who still acted like cocky young men — they should have given up an hour ago. One too many beers, combined with their hubris, had told them they’d be fine for a little while longer. They were just about to leave, too — Derek had wandered a few feet into the bushes to take a quick piss. One minute he was there, and the next he wasn’t. That must’ve been fifteen minutes ago.

Bill took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. The fresh, earthy scent filled his lungs. Then he flicked on his flashlight, the tiny one attached to his car keys, providing just enough light to make out the path ahead.

He carried on, each footstep crunching through the dead leaves. “Derek?” he shouted, knowing it would likely spook the boar they’d been tracking, but he was well past caring. It was time to go home; they could try again tomorrow, or better yet, just buy some steaks from the butchers. Maybe stick to fishing from now on.

Maybe it was just his hearing, but it was far too quiet here. Much quieter than usual. Bill had been hunting in these woods for sixty years — the place was always full of noise. Deer bleating, coyotes howling, the melodic song of birds of every kind. Where were they all tonight?

The bushes ahead rustled, just a little. Bill tightened his grip on the rifle, letting go of the flashlight button, plunging himself into darkness again. Probably just a rodent. At least that’s what he told himself.

Then he heard it. Derek’s desperate voice. “Bill!” he cried. Bill had known his buddy long enough to hear his panic.

“Derek?” Bill ran, his old legs barely keeping pace as he ducked under branches and hopped over dark shapes in the dirt.

“Bill!” Derek cried again, but this time it was strained, raspy, like he was choking.

He was close. Bill could tell that much. He ran a few more yards, shining his flashlight.

A shadowy figure lay at the foot of a tree.

Bill stepped closer, holding his breath, his heart thudding in his ears.

It was Derek. Most of him, at least.

There was a bloody crater where Derek’s insides used to be. Hollowed out, like something had scooped him clean. A few jagged ribs stuck up in all directions. Steam seemed to rise from the gaping wound, the stench of death clogging Bill’s throat. Derek’s eyes were gone too, replaced by two black holes. His head lay against the tree, mouth wide open, the empty sockets staring back at Bill — lifeless, yet filled with terror.

Bill stifled a scream with his hand, his old knees buckling as he fell onto his backside, dropping the tiny flashlight. Whimpering, he patted the ground with trembling fingers, searching for it, his mind racing.

Just as his fingers found the light, something shot past him, fast and silent, just outside the beam. A wildcat, maybe? No. Even they don’t move that quickly.

A growl — no, a hiss — seemed to surround him, the sound bouncing off the trees in every direction.

Bill stiffened, gripping his rifle tight, aiming wildly into the shadows while fumbling to keep the flashlight steady. “Who—who’s out there?”

“Bill.” A harsh, raspy voice muttered from behind.

Bill spun around, his wide eyes locking onto the figure looming in the darkness.

His heart seized in his chest. The flashlight flickered, and for a second, he wished it would just go out.

Then he screamed.

Ross

Officer Emily Ross watched Vickers take another swig from his hip flask, wrinkling her nose at the sharp, peaty scent. "Should you really be drinking on the job?"

Vickers sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't you start as well." he muttered, swaggering through the automatic doors into the hospital reception.

Her new partner hadn't exactly impressed her. When she'd introduced herself at that shithole of a police station, he'd just grunted. Then, he'd ignored her the entire day, making her feel as welcome as a fart in a cookie jar.

And his appearance... Under his wrinkled plaid shirt, he wore a stained football jersey, and his saggy cargo pants dragged on the ground, frayed at the cuffs from his boots. To think she’d spent ages ironing her uniform.

Vickers slapped his palms on the tired reception desk and leaned in. "Detective Raymond Vickers," he said, cutting off the receptionist mid-sentence. "This here's..." He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder.

Ross raised her eyebrows. “Are you serious?”

Vickers gave a lazy shrug. "We’re here to see William Brooks. Heard about his accident, need to ask him a few questions."

"Room ten, down that way," one of the receptionists mumbled, barely looking up as she pointed to a corridor.

Ross scanned the dingy hallway, scrunching her nose. The walls were off-white, chipped, and stained. Torn posters and empty leaflet racks lined the hall, and the musty smell reminded her more of an abandoned thrift store than a hospital. She shuddered at the thought of ever needing treatment here.

Her shoes squeaked on the linoleum as she caught up with Vickers. "Do the police always investigate hunting accidents here?"

"Who else is gonna do it?" Vickers didn’t glance back.

A nurse brushed past her without a word, knocking her shoulder. "I don’t know... some kind of animal control unit, maybe?"

Vickers scoffed. Silence. Ross felt like an idiot.

Her stomach churned as she pictured the body in the forest. She'd seen stabbings, shootings, gang violence in the city — but nothing like this. She’d come here for a quiet life. Had she made a mistake?

"What kind of animal would take someone’s eyes out?" she asked quietly.

"That’s what we’re here to find out," Vickers replied, knocking on the door to Room Ten.

Ross stepped in and swallowed hard. She’d been briefed on Brooks’ injuries, but the sight of him still hit like a punch to the gut.

William Brooks lay in bed, his face bandaged, with dark stains where his eyes should have been. Jagged cuts ran down his cheeks, like claw marks. He shifted slightly, his head tilted toward the door.

Vickers stepped forward, speaking softly. "Jesus, Bill."

Bill’s head turned at the sound of Vickers’ voice. "Raymond? Is that you?"

"It’s me, buddy. How you doing?"

"I’ve been better." His voice cracked as he forced a weak laugh.

Vickers smirked. "Well I got news that might cheer you up. The guy in the next room wants to buy your glasses."

Ross stared in shock, but Bill gave a shaky chuckle that quickly turned into sobs. "I'm scared, Raymond."

Vickers’ smirk faded. He leaned in closer. "I know, buddy. Tell me what happened."

Bill sniffled, wiping his face. "We were tracking a boar. Big bastard. It was getting dark, we should’ve turned back."

"A boar did this?" Ross asked, incredulous.

"Who’s that?" Bill’s head shifted toward her voice.

"My new partner," Vickers said, waving in her general direction. "Officer Ross."

Bill cleared his throat. "Well, Officer Ross, it wasn’t no boar that did this. And it sure as hell wasn’t human… even though it looked like one."

Ross felt a chill crawl up her spine. "What do you mean?"

"It—it looked like a woman," Bill stammered, his voice trembling. "But the way she moved... so fast. Her eyes, her face... they weren’t right."

Vickers leaned in. "Bill, are you sure about that?"

Bill’s breathing grew more frantic. "It’s like I can still see."

"What, like phantom limbs?" Vickers said. "I've heard—"

"No!" Bill interrupted, gripping the sheets. "It’s like I can see through her eyes."

Ross froze, goosebumps rising on her arms. Bill’s voice had turned to panicked gasps.

"It comes in flashes," Bill continued. "Sometimes she’s in the trees, sometimes on the ground. She killed the boar — tore it apart with her bare hands. Last I saw, she was up on the mountain, looking down at the town, then..." His voice broke. "Oh, Jesus Christ, she’s here!"

Vickers straightened, his hand instinctively moving toward his gun. "Bill, what the hell are you talking about?"

Bill's voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "She’s in the hospital. God help us."

Suddenly, the lights flickered out, plunging the room into darkness. The emergency bulb buzzed to life, casting a sickly glow over the room. Then, from somewhere down the corridor, came a scream — high, sharp, blood-curdling.

Ross’ heart sank. Her mouth went dry. She forced herself to breathe. I’m a cop. I’m trained for this. But her hands were shaking.

Vickers pulled his gun from his holster. "You stay put, Bill. We’ll handle this."

Bill was trembling, muttering, "God help us all."

Ross fumbled for her gun, her fingers cold and stiff. She followed Vickers as he cautiously opened the door, stepping into the corridor.

Other patients peered out from their rooms. Vickers flashed his badge, his voice stern. "Police! Everyone back in your rooms. Keep your doors locked."

They moved down the corridor, following the scream. The emergency lights flickered on and off, casting them into darkness every few seconds. The air felt thick, the hospital eerily quiet.

At the reception desk, Ross stopped short. One of the receptionists was slumped in her chair, her eyes and most of her throat torn out. Blood pooled beneath her.

The other receptionist was still alive, but barely. Blood streamed from her neck, and though her eyes and eyelids had been ripped out, she seemed to look right at them.

"She... she can see you," the woman rasped before her last breath escaped her.

Ross’ blood ran cold. Bill was right. It's here.

Her radio trembled in her hand. "Officer Ross, requesting back-up—"

"Don’t bother," Vickers said grimly, flicking off the safety on her gun. "They’ll have gone home by now."

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Vickers may have just saved her life.

They followed the blood trail to the stairs. The dim emergency lights barely reached the landing above. Ross clutched her gun, keeping close behind Vickers.

Just as they reached the top, a thudding sound echoed from the corridor ahead. Then a strained voice, barely a whisper: "Help me..."

Vickers charged through the door, Ross close behind.

The corridor ahead was dimly lit by moonlight from the windows. A figure lay face down in a pool of blood.

Vickers crouched over the body, cautiously reaching for a pulse. The figure's face was hidden beneath a tangled mess of hair.

Ross leaned closer, wrinkling her nose at the sharp scent of antiseptic and blood. The figure wore a doctor’s jacket, but it didn’t fit right — too loose, crumpled. One arm twisted beneath them at an unnatural angle, but there was no tension of pain. The body was too still. Too... deliberate.

A weak voice rasped from the figure. “Help... please.”

Vickers narrowed his eyes. “Doc? You okay?”

The doctor shifted — slowly, stiffly. Her head lifted, shrouded in shadow. Beneath the hair, the eyes were too wide. Too focused.

The voice croaked again, lower this time, mocking. “Help me.”

Vickers stood, backing up a step. His hand hovered near his gun. Something wasn’t right.

The “doctor” rose, joints popping in quick, jerky motions, as if something was inside the coat, moving it rather than wearing it.

Ross’ breath caught as the figure stood fully, the jacket hanging loose around a thin, mismatched form.

Then it lunged.

A wild swing of its arm sent Vickers crashing against the wall, dropping to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Ross shouted, raising her gun, but hesitated. The figure shuffled into the light, its face horribly wrong. The skin hung loose on one side, taut on the other. Its jagged smile didn’t reach its eyes, which gleamed with malice.

It lurched toward her. Ross squeezed the trigger — click. Nothing.

The creature hissed in amusement, knocking the gun from her hands and shoving her to the ground. Its breath was hot and foul on her face as it leaned in, reaching for her eyes.

She braced herself for death when — bang — the creature wailed, staggering back. Vickers fired again and again, dark tar-like blood spilling from the creature’s wounds as it fell to the floor.

Gasping, Ross scrambled to her feet, backing away.

Vickers stormed over, eyes blazing. "You should’ve checked your weapon the second it was issued."

Ross stared at the ground, humiliated. "I—I'm sorry—"

"Save it," Vickers snapped. "Just make sure—"

Smash!

They both ducked as the window behind them shattered. When they looked up, the creature was gone.

Ross stared at the broken glass, trembling. "What the hell was that thing?"

Vickers tightened his jaw. "I don’t know. But I know someone who might."