Hollow: Bunny Elder Mysteries

Prologue

A faded black ‘56 Dodge pickup rattles over the empty lanes, carrying its two passengers slowly through the sleeping village.

Hunched over the out-sized steering wheel, the driver peers carefully from side to side, occasionally shaking his head ruefully and muttering, as though searching vainly for something.

Across the cracked brown upholstery his companion seems unmoved by these signs of  distress. 

Leaning awkwardly against the rusty passenger door, eyes staring fixedly ahead, he gives no response to his chauffeur’s increasing frustration.

Chapter One

All mountains and hills, fruit trees and cedars, every wild and tame animal, all reptiles and birds, come praise the Lord! – Psalm 148: 9 & 10

As dawn blushed the feathery tips of pines looming over the remote Sierra Nevada village of Clark’s Hallow, tattered wisps of night continued to scatter shadows upon the narrow lanes below.

Bunny Elder, her heart pounding, gasped for breath as she scurried along, arms and legs pumping rapidly in her urgency to reach the warmth and safety of her cottage.

Slowing to skirt a patch of thorny blackberry vines, she failed to see a vaguely human shape swaying in the lower branches of a towering sugar pine beside the path. 

Head bowed against the morning chill, Bunny was startled to feel bony fingers clutching at her shoulder.

Her agile leap of fright seemed at odds with the tangle of gray curls escaping from her knitted cap.

Gasping for breath, she willed her middle-aged legs to keep up the good work and run, but they merely trembled and gave way, tumbling Bunny into the weedy grass.

Spotting the cause of her terror, she began to blush and looked around to see if there were any witnesses to her attack of foolishness.

Why in the world do people want to decorate their yards with such nonsense? she fumed, with more than a touch of chagrin.

That stupid plastic Halloween skeleton nearly frightened the life out of me. 

Her disappointing over-reaction was proof she was not adjusting to single life as well as she hoped.

Brushing the dirt and leaves from her clothes, Bunny straightened her cap and attempted to retrieve her dignity as the fresh breeze sent a chorus line of autumn leaves tap dancing mockingly down the pavement beside her.

Standing as tall as her five feet one inch allowed, she marched on toward home.

Only the first week of October and Clark’s Hallow can’t wait to decorate for Halloween, Bunny muttered disapprovingly, while trying to recover from her spooky encounter.

Bunny was always reluctant to enter into the spirit of this particular holiday.

The celebration this year was making her more unhappy than usual.

Perhaps her recent widowhood was magnifying her customary discomfort about October’s annual glorification of hobgoblins.

Most children seemed to love Halloween with its deliciously spooky atmosphere and candy overload. But, even as a school girl, the scary bits made Bunny uncomfortable and the candy often made her sick.

Dressing-up was fun, but she never liked it when people wore masks. Even her friends and neighbors became just a little bit sinister on Halloween night.

Even now, those uneasy feelings remained.

Many years of marriage to a fundamentalist preacher introduced Bunny to the more sinister aspects of the holiday, as well.

There were tales of Satanic rituals, animal sacrifices and even more lurid devilish goings-on her late husband enjoyed railing against every October.

Looking back, it seemed to Bunny he was more animated by his anti-Halloween sermons than he ever was when preaching of God’s love. 

You would almost have thought Halloween was his favorite holiday.

Instead of candy or treats, Eustace insisted on handing out comic-book-style tracts presenting the punishments of Hell to the young Trick-or-Treaters. 

Children seldom returned to the Elders’ door once word got around about the sort of treats they could expect.

Bunny never liked those frightening tracts. She was sure Jesus would not have approved of them, either.

Scaring little ones seemed like bullying to Bunny. 

Hadn’t Jesus said whoever hurt the least of these would have to answer to him?  Well, perhaps Eustace had already had a good talking to from the Lord. Bunny hoped Jesus had not pulled any punches, either.

Her husband needed taking down a peg or two, even in the hereafter.

Bunny sometimes had trouble believing she was actually a widow.

She had resigned herself to enduring a loveless marriage until death do us part, without once supposing she would outlast Eustace.

Who could have imagined he would ever be so careless as to drive off a mountainside?

Continuing to walk the, now sun-dappled streets, Bunny observed  many houses with traditional jack-o-lanterns, black cats and large inflatable spooks on display.

Clark’s Hallow folks liked to celebrate this first event of the autumn holiday season in a very big way.

City founder, Rev. Evander Clark, would be saddened to see how the modern-day residents of Hallowed Ground, as he named it, approached the eve of All Saints Day.

Most of the current population did not even know the town began as a religious retreat. Many assumed the name was an early settler’s misspelling of Clark’s Hollow, because it nestled snugly in a small valley between northern California mountains.

Returning to her home, Bunny stepped into the shabby living room, draped her faded green corduroy jacket over the back of an equally faded chintz-covered chair and touched a match to the paper and kindling waiting in the rustic stone fireplace.

Ah, that’s better, she sighed, and turned to warm her back at the blaze.

Living in a series of poorly heated parsonages taught Bunny to appreciate a working fireplace. She adored a real wood fire. Smiling at the dancing flames flaring up around the logs, she admitted to herself the fireplace was the main reason she chose this small rental house after Eustace’s inexplicable accident.

If the deacons had not asked her to vacate the church-owned house when they did, she supposed she might have stayed on in the drafty parsonage indefinitely, just from inertia.

This house is so much cozier, she murmured approvingly of the tiny Craftsman-style bungalow she now called home.

Bunny could feel almost grateful to the church board for her hasty eviction notice. Almost.

The past few months since Eustace’s mysterious death had been painful for Bunny.

She was ashamed to admit it, but after the initial shock, her relief was greater than her grief. 

Life with Eustace had been disappointing right from the start.

Although he was never very affectionate, Bunny supposed once they married, his coldly formal manner would change towards her.

In her naivety, she even supposed it to be the result of Eustace’s desire, as a man of the cloth, to protect them both from succumbing to premarital temptation.

Eventually, she was forced to accept a cold formality was the norm for her husband.

Nevertheless, since his death she felt disoriented and confused by her sudden change in circumstances.

When the head of the deacon board came to her one afternoon, not long after the funeral, and explained there was a new pastor coming who wanted to move into the parsonage right away, Bunny had been stunned.

Churches seldom move with such speed when replacing a minister, especially after a pastor’s tragic, accidental death.

Bunny was too nonplussed to protest, however, and immediately began packing up and looking for a new home. 

Like most small mountain towns, Clark’s Hallow had a limited supply of affordable rentals. Bunny could have had her pick of any number of elegant summer cabins and chalets, but few homes fitting into her newly restricted budget.

Eustace never believed in financial security, preferring to outspokenly and ostentatiously trust in God’s provision. His philosophy precluded life insurance. It was his position purchasing a policy would have shown a lack of faith, undermining his effectiveness as a pastor.

That conviction certainly undermined Bunny’s effectiveness at paying the bills, now.

She knew she would have to start looking for a job soon, but in the meantime, Bunny relished her unaccustomed freedom. It was freedom to arise early for a long, cold walk, followed by an indulgent cup of hot cinnamon mocha, a cozy chair and a toasty blaze.

It was a delightful novelty to be able to call her life her own.

Early in their marriage, Eustace instructed Bunny that the life of a pastor’s wife belongs first to God, then to her husband and family, then to the congregation.

He failed to mention his belief that if any time remained in her day, it would mean she was not doing enough for the others.

She learned that part from experience.

Bunny was a Christian before marrying Eustace.

She was a believer, not just a professional Christian like some ministers’ wives she had known, and she sincerely wanted to please God, but somehow it seemed to mean pleasing Eustace and every member of the congregation, first.

She looked forward to finding a place in the church fellowship where she could worship and serve freely and without resentment, now she was no longer the Pastor’s Wife.

Bunny had very little money of her own.

What she had saved from her housekeeping allowance would have to stretch, somehow, to  provide for her needs...until God came through with a major miracle or she found a paying job, and she feared landing that job might take at least a minor miracle or two, considering her age and lack of experience outside the church.

Rising from her chair, Bunny crumpled some more old newspapers and poked them into the now smoldering fire.

The logs seemed to be a little damp this morning.

Bunny did not subscribe to the local weekly newspaper, but her sister, Jean, did and she brought Bunny her old papers from time to time. That came in handy this morning.

It took a lot more paper before the wet logs reignited.

Warming her hands before the crackling blaze, Bunny thought of her sister, and the lovely fireplace in the home she shared with her husband, Nick.

No a fire had burned in that fireplace in over ten years. Jean said it was too dirty.

Bunny felt a mess was well worth it, in exchange for the sweet aroma and snug atmosphere. 

Leaving the fire, reluctantly, she left the tiny living room to rinse out her empty coffee mug in the deep sink under the window in her farm-style kitchen.

This kitchen was the largest of her cottage’s four rooms, with just enough space for the round oak table and matching sideboard she inherited from a favorite aunt.

Bunny’s cats, Betty and Veronica, began rubbing themselves around her legs in an intricate double figure eight as she spooned their favorite tuna-flavored cat food into a big brown pottery dish.

Bunny made the dish one winter when Eustace was serving a small congregation near Pierre, South Dakota.

The Pierre High School held adult evening classes to help folks get through the long winter evenings and Bunny took up pottery.

Eustace said she was wasting her time playing with mud.

Her girls loved their food dish, though, so it wasn’t a complete waste, after all.

Perhaps the best aspect of her nomadic life with Eustace had been the experience of living in communities all over the country.

Even so, when her husband accepted the call to become pastor of the God’s Truth Baptist Church, in her own hometown, Bunny had been delighted.

The kitchen screen door’s rusty spring squealed, its protestations followed rapidly by her sister’s cheery, Hi, whatcha doin’, Buns? as Jean poked her head around the solid inner door.

Jean dumped a bundle of newspapers on the kitchen counter, poured herself a cup of coffee and settled down at the round table.

Have you heard about the contest?

What contest? Bunny asked.

The Chamber of Commerce is running a decorating contest for Halloween this year, just like the one they always do for Christmas, Jean replied with excitement.

I’ve already ordered some of the cutest lights and yard decorations from the television home shopping network. Wait until you see them. I’m going to get Nick to put them up as soon as they come.

Jean had a serious relationship with the shopping networks.

Nick liked to joke that if Jean failed to call in for three nights in a row, QVC would call her. 

Are you going to try to win the contest, then, Jean? Bunny asked.

"Oh, I don’t suppose I’ll win. There are too many really creative folks around here. Some of their decorations last year were like movie sets."

I thought they went too far, replied Bunny.

A few of the more ‘creative’ efforts last year were more like something out of a Steven King novel. There were a couple of streets I couldn’t step foot on until they changed over to Christmas decorations the week before Thanksgiving.

You’re just too sensitive. You always were a nervous little thing on Halloween. Always whining and crying.

I wouldn’t have been crying if you and Linda hadn’t left me in the dark to find my way home alone.

Oh, don’t be such a baby. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Nick’s taking me to the new mall in Redding. There’s a huge Pre-Pre-Christmas sale on at Goldstein’s. See you.

The screen door slammed behind her and Bunny got up and shut the inside door.

Back in the living room, Bunny put the old newspapers into a large wicker basket she kept near the hearth.

They filled it up quite nicely.

These should start lots of fine fires for me this week, Bunny spoke with satisfaction.

A photo on the top of the pile caught her eye. 

One of the men pictured looked familiar. The tall, thin man in the photo resembled a gray-haired version of her childhood sweetheart, Max Banks.

As she studied the photo, she remembered scrawling their entwined names all over her school notebooks.

This distinguished-looking older man with the well-trimmed mustache could never be the consuming passion of her youth.

Max, her first husband, had moved out of the area ages ago, destroying both their marriage and Bunny’s young dreams.

This man did look like an older version of Max, though. 

She wondered who he was. Too bad Jean had cut the caption off when snipping out that story about her grandson.

She had shown Bunny the story and taken the clipping for her scrapbook.

It is funny what can trigger old memories, Bunny thought. 

I just glimpse some stranger with a vaguely familiar jut to his jaw and my mind is full of images from the remote past.

After their painful divorce, Bunny had not allowed herself to think about Max.

It would have been all too easy to succumb to despair and loneliness. Max had been her first love and when they married just out of high school, they were both more immature than they realized.

Nevertheless, when the minister spoke the words joining them together as man and wife, it seemed to Bunny they had become a physical unit.

Max’s leaving ripped a piece out of her and left a scar that still ached from time to time.

Just like the quotation in the marriage vows, Bunny felt she had indeed been torn asunder.

It took years of self-discipline before she was able to think about Max in the detached and unemotional way she was doing now. 

She supposed she must be over him, at last.

Still, Bunny wondered what had become of Max Banks. They had shared some sweet moments once.

Best let sleeping dogs, even good-looking, long-lost ones, lie, she thought.

If she remembered rightly, Max had done his share of lying, as well.

Bunny straightened the basket of papers and left the room, thinking the one thing the local weekly was good for, besides stirring memories, was lighting a good, hot fire.

∞

Max Banks entered his office at the Clark’s Hallow Clarion Review and looked around with irritation.

He rifled through the papers on his desk, muttering to himself.

Oh, crap! Where’s the friggin’ copy? What did that stupid girl do with it this time?

Tyffinee! he shouted.

Yeah? What’s up?

The young woman lounging in the doorway chewed a strand of her many-colored hair.

At least today, most of her tattoos were under the cover of a long, black dress and overcoat.

Tyffinee, must you begin dressing for Halloween quite so early in the season? Banks asked in exasperation.

Very funny. These are my regular clothes, and you know it. What did you want? I’m busy working on the full-page ad for the football team.

Oh, that’s right. How is it coming? Are the players’ photos clear and sharp? Folks want to be able to recognize their favorites, you know....I’m looking for the write-up on the Halloween decorating contest. I asked you to leave it on my desk, remember?

Oh, yeah. I forgot. Well, I can’t do two things at once, now, can I? So, I haven’t got around to it. If you’re in such a gawdawful hurry, you’ll have to do it yourself.

Saying this, she turned and, like a dark, billowy storm cloud, settled at her desk in the outer office.

Well, I guess that’s just what I will have to do. Damn and blast that girl! Max growled to himself.

Banks would not have put up with an employee of her caliber back in his old company.

At United PetroChem he had worked his way up through the business, from the loading dock to Executive Vice President.

He had commanded respect, even a little fear, which would not be a bad thing to instill in the Goth goddess, Miss Tyffinee (Gawd! That spelling!) Rogers.

Banks grabbed his digital voice recorder and his notebook, left the office and climbed into his Cadillac SUV parked just outside.

He quickly  pulled onto the Clark’s Hallow main street.

He would have to see the same people Tyffinee had already interviewed.

He hated doing that. People tended to sound stilted or rehearsed after telling their story more than once.

Of course, this was not exactly eye witness stuff.

He was just talking to folks about their hopes and plans for the contest. He supposed the original quotes would not have been very different from what he would get now, if the people were not too annoyed at a second visit to cooperate.

The first house was in the center of town, one of the older Victorian two-stories adding so much charm to the community.

The couple living there were newcomers to the area. They met and married while working in the Silicon Valley during the technology boom and recently retired to the north state, while still young enough to enjoy all the great outdoor activities the area had to offer.

Sally and Yance Trainor were a pleasant couple who were making an effort to fit in and become part of the community.

Their outdoor holiday decorations were part of that effort, Banks supposed. They could afford to put on a good show, too.

From what he heard, last year, even without a contest, their house was a haunted mansion worthy of Disneyland.

He wondered if they would be able to improve on it this year.

Max forgot to call before coming, so he hoped they would be home and have a few moments to spare.

Banks seemed to be in luck, for as he drove up he saw Yance in the yard raking leaves, while Sally was sweeping the veranda.

The blue-gray house with white gingerbread trim was very lovely and not one bit spooky.

Hello, there! You’re Max Banks from the paper, aren’t you? What brings you here today?

Yance put aside his rake as he greeted Max and walked him to the house.

Sally, the newspaper boy’s here! You weren’t late paying our subscription, were you? he called out to his wife.

Oh, Yance, don’t be so silly! she replied from the porch step.

Hello, Mr. Banks. Come on up on the veranda and sit down. Can I get you all a drink or a bite to eat?

A very attractive woman in her early 60’s, Sally Trainor grew up in the Deep South, at a time when good manners were still expected.

It was strangely disconcerting for Max, coming as it did on the heels of his encounter with Tyffinee. 

He settled himself on a green and white striped upholstered glider while Sally bustled off to fetch refreshments.

Mr. and Mrs. Trainor, he said when she returned, I hope you’ll forgive me for not phoning before coming over, and, also, for bothering you a second time for an interview.

Why a second interview? Yance wanted to know.

Did my wife leave something out last time? I thought Sally would talk that young girl reporter’s ears clean off. Of course, your girl did have ‘em bolted on with about a dozen earrings. Probably as protection from women with the gift of gab like my Sally.

Yance had been the one to do most of the talking, as usual, but it was a favorite tease of his to accuse Sally of being too talkative. She ignored it, for the most part. It was one of the reasons theirs was such a comfortable marriage.

I’m afraid Miss Rogers has been kept too busy with the high school sports coverage to give the contest the attention it needs, so I’ve decided to do the story myself and get some fresh insights, if possible, Max explained.

Max didn’t like to get too far from the truth, even to be polite.

It was something he had learned the hard way over the years. Lies may be tempting, they may even seem like the ideal solution to a sticky situation, but in the end, they only lead to trouble.

He wished he had known such wisdom when he was young.

Banks asked the couple about their house, the decorations they used the previous year and their plans for the contest.

Yance answered all his questions in a lively, open manner. Sally even managed to squeeze in a few quips to add some humor to the piece.

Max thanked both the Trainors, gathered up his gear and drove off to the next house, hoping the rest of his interviews would go equally well. 

He was not looking forward to the last house on the list. The old mansion on Cemetery Lane had been a rental for many years now. It was neglected and sad. All year around it resembled the home of a particularly unsavory ghost.

The current tenant had filled out a contest entry, though, and was planning