Hearthway Hollow: The Locklears (special preview)

My mother eventually came up with the name. “You call this place your hearth, and whatever way possible you have brought us all here,” she told him one evening. “It’s only fitting we keep with that.” She ran her fingers through his long hair. “Hearthway,” she says. “Maybe...Hearthway Place? Hearthway Cove?” She frowned a bit. “Something along those lines.”

Abe looked at her and smiled. “This place was originally a hollow in the woods. Hearthway Hollow.”

“That sounds very fitting,” Vivienne beamed. “So, how will you get everyone else to love Hearthway Hollow as much as you?”

“Perhaps with time,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just go ahead and slap it on the front page. Who knows?”

He just slapped it on the front page. By the time I had two more sisters, everyone referred to the town as Hearthway Hollow, although that was not how it was officially recognized. It would take a few more years before that was set into motion.

I am the eldest of six children between Abe and Vivienne. The two of them couldn’t keep their hands off one another for long, and it led to a big family. We eventually had to move from the tiny cabin we had been born in and into a home my father built between papers. It was one of the many tokens of love he gave to my mother. He built the house to resemble the French chateau she had grown up in as a child. He filled the yard with lavender plants, so much so that even to this day, the land around the place is taken over by it. I grew up with the scent of it on the breeze, and to this day when I smell it, I am brought back to the past and to my loving parents’ arms.

Vivienne eventually became a school teacher once a school was founded close enough to Hearthway Hollow. She taught a high school French class she said was more like babysitting than teaching. Eventually, when Hearthway Hollow founded a school, she was made its first principal. Until ‘79 rolled around through, she was stuck traveling to get to work.

Werwolves were finding their way to the Hollow more regularly, attracted to the large gathering of them already there. This brought trouble to our door more often than not. Abe and his brothers were often called out to deal with the werewolves who came in looking for trouble. I can remember waking up in bed to hear my dad leaving the house, my uncles and others from the town gathered outside. My sisters would climb into bed with me, knowing something was wrong.

Back in those days, the werewolves of America were a scary lot. I suppose today, those still sticking to their lone wolf guns are just as frightening. Only thing was, back then, they were much more wild. Coming across a feral werewolf was more likely than the loner we get today. The feral wolves would stalk into town, taking whatever they wanted, doing anything they desired. I would come across more than my fair share as a young woman, even raising a few.

It was on Halloween of my eighth year, and the town was putting on a festival to celebrate. As the years went on, the festival would become a major component of the Hollow’s DNA, something that was to be a very special part of living here. I was barely eight, dragging my two younger sisters along while our mother was recuperating from daughter number four back home. Dad was taking us out that evening, and I had never been more excited for anything in my entire, tiny life.

Our grandmother had made us each costumes. I was a ghost, my sister, Adele, was a black cat, and Matilda was a pumpkin, sitting as she was still chunky and round. I had lost a tooth a few nights before, and was excited to bury it under the oak tree in the center of town. I can’t remember how I got the idea into my head, but I think it was dad who told me the tree would grow teeth or something. Not sure, I just remember wanting to see tree teeth.

“Dad,” I tugged on his hand as we walked into the square. “Will we get to eat everything we get?” I asked him eagerly.

“It depends on what your mother says,” Abe said with a smile. 

“But Mama isn’t here!” I whined. “Can’t we at least get the candy apples? I promise I won’t tell her about it.”

“She’ll know, she probably already knows.” He took my little hand into his great big one. Even to this day, I miss that hand. The way it made me feel safe and loved even in my darkest times. Coming out to my parents, I was terrified, I wasn’t sure they would understand, or if they would want me anymore. But when my father took hold of my hand in his, I felt that love, I felt secure. I still seek that hand out to this day, even though he has been gone for so long. I grasp my own hand as I think about him, knowing he’s with me still.

At eight years old, nothing was better than my dad. He was my hero, my whole world, and the most amazing person to ever occupy it. Being able to go trick or treating with him was the coolest thing I could imagine. He let me and my sisters eat what we wanted, within reason, of course. He eventually tricked us into believing if we started saving some candy for later, we could plant it to grow more. I now realize my dad used the excuse of ‘plant it’ for everything to trick us kids.

As the jack-o-lanterns were being lit, there was a shift in the air. I could smell it on the wind and every hair on my body began to prickle and stand on end. Abe pulled me and my sisters close to him, kneeling down beside us to whisper. Before he even said anything, I knew there must be something dangerous coming.

“Dad,” I looked at him urgently.

He gave me a stricken look. “Go to the paper,” he told me. “Get inside and lock the doors. Do not come out until I come to get you. Do you understand me, Winnie?”

I was starting to cry. “Dad,” I whimpered.

“I need you to be a brave girl for me, Winnie,” he urged. “Take Adele and Matilda and get them safe. I promise, I’ll come get you and, tomorrow, I’ll get you something special.” 

I grabbed Adele’s hand and picked up Matilda. As we walked to the paper, I set Matilda down to get the key from under the doormat.

“She’s getting away,” Adele said.

I turned and looked back, seeing pumpkin Matilda toddling into the woods. I shoved Adele inside and chased after Matilda. She was sitting down in the dirt, crying when I found her.

“Get up!” I snapped at her.

Matilda was still crying. 

“Get up!” I grabbed her, trying to tug her onto her feet but she continued to act as limp as a ragdoll.

“Matilda!” I snapped at her.

“She must be scared,” a dark voice echoed in the shadows.

Matilda started screaming and she grabbed hold of me. 

“Something wicked in the woods,” the voice rasped. A wolf came out of the woods. He was mangy and gross looking. Patches of fur were missing, showing off rashy, oozing flesh beneath. Some of his teeth were missing, a few others were black, and when he breathed, I could smell his horrible rotting breath. 

Matilda continued to scream in panic, screaming for Mommy, Daddy, whoever would come and save us first. 

The rotting werewolf came closer towards us, drool dripping from his jowls like a busted faucet. “Little babies,” he coaxes. “Are you scared? Come closer. I’ll help you.”

I was so scared I couldn’t move. I had never seen anything half as frightening as the rotting werewolf was. I loved scary stories, I would beg Mama to read them to me all the time. I thought they were fun, but this had me shaken to my core.

The rotting werewolf lunged at us. He grabbed the back of Matilda’s pumpkin costume with his teeth, ripping her from my arms. I’ve never heard a noise more horrible than when Matilda screamed then. I heard her crying for me over and over, and even now it haunts my dreams.

Luckily, she plopped from the costume and I was able to grab her back up. I ran for our lives, barreling away as I clutched Matilda to me. The rotting werewolf chased after us, snarling and heaving. I finally ran back onto the porch of the paper where Adele was standing in the open door. I shoved her inside, toppling over her with Matilda. I slammed the door in the rotting werewolf’s face, but he smashed through the glass. His gnarled and strange arm ripped inside, slashing me across the face as I put myself in front of my terrified sisters. 

The wood of the door splintered as the rotting werewolf threw his body against it. Blood was in my eyes, it was staining the perfectly white ghost costume my grandmother made me. I was trembling, almost vomiting. I then heard the familiar howl of my family. The rotting werewolf was ripped away and the sounds of a violent struggle rang through the once happy night.