Clare picked up her end of the rope and heaved the sled back onto the path. It rocked before stabilising, and Dorran took up his half of the rope. With the extra weight, Clare had to dig her feet into the snow to get it to move. She was grateful she had Dorran with her. He’d been right when he said it wasn’t something he could do alone.
She tried not to stare at the hollow, even though a morbid curiosity kept pulling her attention towards it. The creature watched them, not blinking, its jaw hanging open. As she got closer, she had a better view of its features. She thought it might have been male before it became warped. It no longer wore any clothes. The skin over its face was drooping as though it had been melted, and the nose was little more than a bump. Its chin seemed to have receded into its neck, until its entire head and throat looked like one form.
They were nearly level with it. The hollow leaned farther out from its cover. Its throat began to vibrate as a low chattering noise came from it. The sound left Clare feeling cold. The face was human, but the mind definitely wasn’t.
Clare kept her head down. Dorran pulled the sled with one hand, but in the other, he held the axe. The blade was raised, not high, but at the ready.
To their right, a narrow, dark gap appeared between the trees: the path leading to Winterbourne. They were giving the hollow the widest berth possible. Even so, the creature reacted to their presence. It sank low, drawing tension into its legs. The chattering grew louder. Its small, watery eyes followed them, seeming too close to the badly spaced teeth in its slack mouth.
Then they were at the path and turning away from the hollow. Clare lifted her head again as she tried to keep moving despite the shaking in her limbs. She could see Dorran in her peripheral vision. He kept the axe at the ready, his head tilted to watch the monster behind them.
We did it. We walked right past one.
An idea rose. Maybe the hollows weren’t attacking because they couldn’t recognise her and Dorran as human. With the masks in place, neither of them had a face.
It almost felt too good to hope for, but if she was right, the possibilities were incredible. It meant they could venture past the house’s walls without being afraid. It meant they could get to Beth—
A branch snapped behind them. She looked over her shoulder. The elation faded. The hollow had followed them. It kept its distance, staying nearly twenty feet back, but when they took a step, so did it.
She wished she could see Dorran’s expression. He flexed his grip on the axe, his shoulders visibly tight even under the layers. They both increased their pace.
The hollow matched them. No, Clare realised. Worse than matched. It’s gaining. It seemed to be picking up speed, its long legs loping forward, its torso bent. The melted, deformed face still fixated on them.
And it was no longer alone. Clare could hear them at their sides: the rustle of dead pine leaves being crushed. Strained branches creaked. She tilted her head and glimpsed scuttling movement among the boughs.
No. Please, not now, not when we’re so close.
She didn’t dare speak to Dorran. Making any kind of noise felt like too much of a risk. They kept their heads down as they dragged the supplies back along the path. Dorran’s mask turned from side to side as he watched their surroundings. He adjusted his hold on the axe again.
The path ahead was growing lighter. They were at the edge of the forest. But the noises around them were surging. The animalistic chattering came again, first from the hollow following in their wake, then echoed by the ones in the trees. Clare strained to breathe through the stress choking her. She tried to guess how many there might be. Too many.
Every time she thought she had them located, more noises emerged from the underbrush, from the branches above, from every side, and even from ahead. A small shape darted across the path. Clare prayed it wouldn’t attack. She could fight the larger hollows, if it came to that. She didn’t know if she would be able to kill a child.
Then they stepped through the edge of the forest, and the clear white field, glaring in the late afternoon sun, stretched ahead of them. Winterbourne loomed in the distance.
Not far now. Twenty minutes, if that.
She chanced a look over her shoulder. Dozens of eyes glittered from between the trees. They’d stopped at the edge of the forest, holding to their shadows.
Above, the storm clouds stretched across the entire sky. The wind felt colder as it gusted through the mask. Clare couldn’t stop shaking. She fought to keep her footing steady, to keep herself upright and moving.
Snow crunched behind them, and Clare flinched. She didn’t stop to look. Neither did Dorran. They both faced the manor, shoes digging into the show, adrenaline battling exhaustion.
Then Dorran cried out and fell. Clare turned in time to see him swipe the axe at a hollow that had raced in their wake with deceptive quietness. The creature, a stocky buckled one, pulled at his leg. Its spine rippled like an accordion. Its flesh was almost as white as the snow. When it opened its mouth, a tongue with a deep split down its centre arced out, flicking through the frozen air, before coiling back inside like a snake.
Clare dropped the sled’s rope. Dorran’s axe connected with the hollow’s shoulder, and dark-red blood sprayed across the white field. The monster coiled back, snapping and hissing, then dove forward again, aiming for Dorran’s throat.
Instead, it hit the end of the pitchfork. Clare yelled as she forced the implement forward, the tines plunging through the hollow’s chest. She could feel the bones cracking and cartilage breaking. The hollow barely seemed to notice. It reached forward, lumpy arms and knobbled fingers scrabbling along the wood, trying to grasp Clare.
Dorran was back on his feet. He had a better shot this time. Clare held the pitchfork as still as she could while he swung. The axe sank into the hollow’s skull, cleaving it in half between the eyes. More blood bubbled out of the hole, but there was less than Clare would have expected. It seemed thick, almost as though it had been dehydrated, as it dribbled over the creature’s torso. The bulging eyes turned in opposite directions. The jaw fell slack, and the cleft tongue slid over the bottom lip. Dorran pulled his axe free as Clare shook the creature off the tines.
They stood for a moment, staring down at their work, panting and shaking. Then Clare looked up. Three hollows had stepped away from the forest’s edge. They watched her. Their expressions almost seemed curious.
A slow, muffled rumbling noise made prickles run along her skin. The storm was coming. It progressed slowly, creeping across the landscape. Heavy drops of sleet hit the trees, the snow, the house.
Dorran found her arm and tugged on it. “Move,” he whispered. “As quickly as you can.”
She grabbed the rope, stumbled, and caught her balance. The hollows stood in front of the forest. They were still, but she thought they must have come closer when she wasn’t looking. Another two had appeared between the trees.
Dorran took up the other end of the rope. His axe was stained black. Specks of blood were scattered over his arm and his chest. It smelled foul. Rotten. She bit her tongue to stop from gagging. They moved forward. The sled was too heavy to allow them to run, but they took fast steps, panting in lungfuls of burning air.
Chewing noises came from behind them as the hollows descended on their fallen comrade. They huddled over its body, fingers digging into the skin to expose the softer insides, teeth tearing off strips of fat and muscle. They ate like animals. Horrible wet smacking noises floated through the frosty air.