Free Dark Hollow by Brian Keene

I took Big Steve outside. We’d missed his regular evening walk because I’d been drinking beer and listening to the neighbors tell me ghost stories.
    A thin sliver of moon hung in the sky, and the stars seemed cold and distant. A screech owl called out from the top of the oak tree. Next door, the bass line from a Wu Tang Clan song thudded from Cory’s apartment, along with the sound of screeching tires and gunshots as he played a video game. Cliff’s lights were off upstairs, and I wondered how he could sleep with all that going on underneath him.
    Big Steve led me slowly toward the alley. When we reached it he stopped and stared toward the woods. His tail was between his legs.
    I reached down and scratched his head. “It’s okay, buddy.”
    Big Steve didn’t move. His body was rigid beneath my fingertips.
    I followed his gaze and stared at the forest. Despite the glow from the sodium lights in the Fire Hall’s parking lot, the tree line was a wall of shadows. I looked at that impenetrable darkness, and suddenly I was very afraid. Big Steve growled at something I couldn’t see.
    The events of that morning played back in my mind again. I’d tried to convince myself that what I’d seen was just Shelly and her boyfriend getting their freak on. But in my heart I still didn’t believe it.
    Shivering, I turned back to the house. Our bedroomlight was on upstairs, and it looked warm and inviting. Safe. “Come on, bud. Let’s go night-night.”
    He cast one last look at the forest, and then trotted along with me. He wagged his tail and sniffed the ground as if everything were normal again. We went inside. I turned off the light and curled up next to Tara. Big Steve lay between us, facing the bedroom door, guarding it. He fell asleep, and I followed. fell asleep, and I followed.
    It was the last truly good night’s sleep I remember having.

FIVE
    On Tuesday morning I tried very hard to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened the day before. Some weird part of my brain convinced me that if I made believe everything was normal, it would be. Tara went to work, and I took Big Steve out for our morning walk, just like we always did. Shelly didn’t jog down the alley, but I didn’t let it trouble me. There could have been a million different reasons for her absence. Maybe she was sick, or she’d been early or was running late. I refused to think any longer about what I’d seen. Big deal. Shelly Carpenter was into kinky sex with guys in goat suits. So what? It wasn’t any of my business.
    A few years ago our small town made Forbes magazine’s list of “The 200 Most Desirable Communities to Live in with Populations under Ten Thousand.” At the time I’d joked that it was because we had a Wal-Mart, but there were plenty of other more tangible, realistic reasons. Our town offered instant access to Interstate 83, and a short, easy drive to York, Baltimore, Harrisburg, and Philadelphia, and it was only a little farther to Washington, D.C., or New York. Our property taxes stayed low, and housing was still affordable. We had good schools with teachers that still gave a damn, plenty of activities for adults and young people, the Lion’s Club, Masonic Lodge, Knights of Columbus, the annual Volunteer Fire men’s Carnival (which was held in the vacant lot across from our house), the antique district (which attracted tourist dollars), and a decent infrastructure. Churches abounded: Baptist, Lutheran, Brethren, Methodist, Catholic, Episcopalian, and a Jewish synagogue. Our residents loved the Lord in all of his denominations, and abhorred anything unholy (and, in the opinion of some townspeople, their resident mystery writer fell into that category). As a result of these leftover Puritan attitudes, we were a dry town, meaning we had no bars, taverns, inns, or liquor stores within the borough limits. You couldn’t buy a six-pack or a bottle of wine at the grocery store, and if you wanted those or a bottle of liquor,