I banged the iron knocker heartily. It raised a hell of a din, but there was still a really long pause before the door finally opened just enough for a single nun to stare out at me with a cold and entirely unwelcoming gaze. The black robes and starched white wimple gave her a nun’s usual anonymity. Her face could have been any age, and the only expression I could read was open disapproval. I nodded and smiled politely, introduced myself, and explained why I was there. The nun showed no interest at all, until I mentioned the Hollow Women. She fixed me with a firm stare and then opened the door wider.

  “I am Sister Joan. I know the story of the Hollow Women. We all do. We are the Holy Sisters of Saint Baphomet and sin is our business.” She smiled briefly, and I realised that was meant to be a joke. “You’d better come in, Mister Grant. And we will discuss the matter further. I should make it clear, none of us are at all interested in publicity.”

  I assured her it was the Hollow Women who were the story, not the sisters, and she stood back to allow me to enter. She locked and bolted the door very carefully and then led me through a series of narrow rooms that finally opened out onto a large hall. Sunlight fell in through a number of tall narrow windows, but still it seemed to me that the room had too many shadows for my liking. For all its size, the hall felt... isolated, cut off, not part of the world. A very private and very secure place. A long wooden table took up the middle of the room, and around it sat a great many nuns in full regalia. All of them looking at me with cold eyes and tightly pursed mouths. None of them got up to greet me.

  Sister Joan explained who I was and why I was there and not one of the sisters even nodded to me. Sister Joan pulled out a chair for me at the head of the table and I sat down. The presence of so many staring eyes would probably have been intimidating to anyone else. I just smiled politely back at them while Sister Joan sat down beside me.

  She then proceeded to interrogate me on the subject of the Hollow Women, hitting me with question after question, drawing out everything I knew. She didn’t challenge or correct anything I said. I got the impression she was checking what I had discovered against what she already knew. The other nuns remained silent throughout, never taking their eyes off me.

  More and more, the great open hall made me feel uneasy. It was all very clean, nothing out of place, but it was just so... characterless. The nuns had been here for twenty years and more, but they’d made no impression on their surroundings. No religious paintings or texts on the walls, not even a single crucifix. This had to be a really austere order.

  In the name of self-defense, I interrupted Sister Joan’s questions to ask a few of my own, including the lack of religious items on show. Sister Joan smiled tightly.

  “Our order does not believe in idolatry or the need for religious paraphernalia. Our belief is pure without distractions. Let the world go its own way and we shall go ours.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” I said. “Now it’s your turn. What can you tell me about the Hollow Women? And why are you so interested? I thought the Hollow Women couldn’t abide religious people and vice versa.”

  “It’s all about faith,” said Sister Joan. “So lacking in modern times. The legend of the Hollow Women is old... They have existed alongside civilisation under many names. Before this town was a town, there were Hollow Women preying on the men. Before there were people, there were Hollow Women. They learned to look like people, the better to prey on them. Perhaps these days they have learned to look like something else. It’s hard to be sure of anything where the Hollow Women are concerned. They are very secretive. They’ve had to be to survive so long. The church has tried to stamp them out many times.”

  “Which church?” I said.

  “All of them, Mister Grant! Perhaps because only those of true faith can see through the illusions that hide the Hollow Women from the eyes of the world. It is a war, Mister Grant. Make no mistake. There can be no forgiveness for things that prey on men.”

  “You’ve clearly amassed a great deal of information during your researches,” I said carefully. “Would it be possible for me to take a look at what you’ve discovered?”

  Sister Joan was already shaking her head, even before I finished speaking. “No, Mister Grant, it will not be possible.”

  “May I ask why not? My story wouldn’t have to quote you or mention the Sisters in any way if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “Information is ammunition, Mister Grant. And as I said, there is a war on. We guard what we know most jealously for when it might be needed.”

  “You seem convinced these Hollow Women of legend still exist,” I said. “Do you see them as supernatural creatures? Like vampires or ghosts?”

  “Those are dead things, Mister Grant. The Hollow Women are as real, as natural, as you. Every species has its predator.”

  “But you do believe they still exist, here in the town?”

  “Oh yes, Mister Grant, we know they do. Hiding in plain sight. Only emerging to prey on the weak and then disappearing again. Any woman could be a Hollow Woman. That’s the point. And be warned, Mister Grant. If you go looking for them, you can be sure they will come looking for you.”

  I looked up and down the table to see if the other nuns were taking this as seriously, and everywhere I looked, cold eyes and cold faces stared implacably back at me. There’s nothing scarier than a faith backed up with utter certainty. They believed. Sister Joan stood up and indicated it was time for me to leave. And I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  The door closed firmly behind me. I heard the lock turn and bolts slamming into place as Sister Joan sealed Barrow Farm off from the intruding world again. I breathed in deeply and shook my head to clear it. Sometimes intense beliefs can be... catching. I had to remind myself I only got into this story to prove the mythical Hollow Women had a real world source in the Hollows women. The Holy Sisters of Saint Baphomet had been locked up together for too long. Stewing in their own conspiracy theories and the need for someone who needed punishing. I suppose, if you believe in devils and possessions and miracles, it’s not too big a leap of faith to believe in women who can only be seen from the front.

  I shuddered suddenly despite myself. When faith turns inwards, it becomes unhealthy. I did not believe in anything supernatural. I’d spent enough years writing and researching the weird shit to know it was all just bullshit and wish fulfilment. Whatever the Holy Sisters knew, or thought they knew, I didn’t need to know it. They were just a dead end. I needed to put them behind me and press on with my research into historical records. The church archives had been a good start, but where next? The vicar had mentioned a local historical society...

  I turned my back on Barrow Farm and strode determinedly away, not looking back once.

  I reached for my phone to call Emma and bring her up to date only to realise she hadn’t given me her number. So the editor couldn’t blame me if her precious new reporter wasn’t a big contributor to what was, after all, my story.

  I walked back into the middle of town and headed straight for my favourite watering hole, the Dandy Lion, for a quick drink and a think. It’s always been my experience that the two go well together as long as you don’t overdo either of them. The Dandy is a cosy and comfortable drinking establishment with traditional fixtures and fittings and absolutely no piped music. I can usually find someone worth talking and drinking with. But I really wasn’t expecting that when I walked through the doors, the first person I found waiting for me was Emma Tee.

  She was sat by a table right by the door with a drink in front of her that she’d barely touched. She smiled winningly at me. I looked briefly past her to where a group of old friends were sitting round a table farther in, but I had promised the editor I would work with Emma. And Sam Walsh was perfectly capable of spiking my story out of hand if I didn’t. So I got myself a pint of good cheer from the bar and sat down opposite Emma. She gave me her best happy smile, backed up by bright shining eyes... and it was hard to stay mad at her.

  “How did you get on with the Holy Sisters?” said Emma, smiling perhaps just a little mischievously.

  “Don’t ask,” I said. “I’m sorry about just going off and leaving you to cope with the mad old cat lady.”

  “Oh no, I should apologise to you!” Emma said immediately. “For not following the story. You were completely right. The story must come first. I just didn’t want to meet the nuns. Nuns are creepy. Even more than old churches. So you didn’t get anything useful from them?”

  “Not a thing,” I said. “Except that they seem convinced the Hollow Women of legend are still a real and present danger.”

  “Let them think what they like,” Emma said firmly. “Our story will prove the Hollow Women are just an urban legend, mistranslated and misunderstood down the years. That’s what reporting is supposed to be about, isn’t it? Shining a light into dark places and uncovering the truth.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That is what it’s supposed to be about.”

  We sat and talked, and drank our drinks, and talked some more. She was very easy to talk to. And somewhat to my surprise, I found we were getting on really well. She had an endless interest in all things journalistic and was fascinated by my tales of researching weird stuff for strange magazines. And it helped a lot that she thought my jokes were funny. All my cynicism and world-weariness seemed to just evaporate in the face of her youthful enthusiasm. I’d forgotten how it felt to get properly excited about a story. But then it had been a long time since I had a story worth getting excited about.

  Emma was quite open about why she wanted to become a journalist. She’d left her home, and her family, to make her own way in the world. I got the impression this had been very much against her family’s wishes. That they were very strict, very traditional, and apparently believed they had a right and a duty to map out her life for her. And Emma wasn’t having any of it. She wanted to be a journalist so she could tell the truth about things, things that mattered. Because her family had tried so hard to hide the truth about the world from her because it conflicted with what they believed. Emma wanted to know everything there was to know about the world. So she could tell everyone else. My heart went out to her. Looking at Emma was a lot like looking at my younger self.

  “My parents never wanted me to be a writer,” I said. “No money in it, that was what they said. Get a proper job with prospects. So I sort of drifted sideways into journalism. I did quite well for a while.”

  “What happened?” said Emma. “I know something happened. Ms Walsh said... some things when she told me I’d be working with you. What went wrong, Jason?”

  “I did,” I said. “I had my chance, and I blew it because I couldn’t stand the hard discipline of real journalism. I decided it was more important to tell a good story than sticking to the facts. So if facts got in the way, I just changed or suppressed them to make the story more sensational. I wrote some really great stories—they just weren’t entirely true. On a modern daily tabloid, that wouldn’t have been a problem. That would have been business as usual. But here, in the local paper of record...”

  “Ms. Walsh fired you.”

  “Hell yes. More in sorrow than anger, I like to think. But it was definitely ‘Go and never darken my doors again.’ It’s taken me years to get this opportunity. And years to understand that she was right. People need to be able to believe what they’re told is the truth.”

  “Even when a little white lie can be so much more comforting?”

  “Perhaps especially then. You can’t base decisions that matter on someone telling you what you want to hear. No other local paper would touch me after word got out as to why I was fired, and without a good local history, the dailies didn’t want to know. And that’s how I ended up hacking it out and phoning it in for any rag that would have me.” I smiled, briefly. “It does feel good to be working on a real story at last.”

  “I did get some more information out of Alicia Tiley after you left,” said Emma. “After a little encouragement and open pleading...”

  “You didn’t actually drink that tea, did you?”

  She winced. “Please. Don’t remind me. And one of her cats pissed on my shoes. Anyway, Alicia remembered a part of the legend of the Hollow Women that was new to me. Apparently they only emerge, only reveal themselves as their true selves, at night. And only when the fog rises to blur reality... and hide them from prying eyes. That’s when they go forth to prey on unattached young men. And strike down their enemies, anyone who might be getting too close to the truth about them.”

  “You mean they kill people?”

  “Oh yes,” said Emma. “They kill people.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “That is a new twist. Makes sense, I suppose. The women from the Hollows were probably professional women, plying their trade away from the light of day. And because what they were doing was illegal, they or their protectors would kill anyone who threatened their livelihood, or their territory. The Holy Sisters said the Hollow Women would come after me if I went after them.”

  “They actually said that to you?”

  “Yes. Very sternly.”

  Emma looked at me for a long moment. “Do you really think you might be in danger, Jason?”

  “From a supernatural myth?” I said, grinning despite myself. “Hardly. You mustn’t take any of this too seriously, Emma. It’s just an old moral fable that’s outlived its significance. Don’t let the material spook you.”

  She forced a smile. “As long as you don’t go hanging around the Hollow Estates at dawn.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I never get up that early. Another drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Emma.

  Time passed in a pleasant fashion. When Emma and I finally left the Dandy Lion, leaning on each other in a companionable sort of way and giggling a bit, it was well into the evening. A fog was slowly forming on the air, a pearly grey haze, swallowing up the distance and spreading milky halos around the street lights. It seemed to thicken slowly even as I looked at it. There was no one else about, not even any traffic passing. It was like staring off the edge of the world. Everything seemed vague and uncertain. As though if I went walking off into the fog, the places I expected wouldn’t be there anymore.

  It was all very quiet, the fog soaking up sound. I put an arm around Emma, protectively, and looked about me. Suddenly feeling a hell of a lot more sober. The foggy evening seemed the perfect setting for some old legend to come walking back into the world. I glared into the curling mists. I was damned if I’d let my own story get to me. I looked at Emma, and she was staring into the fog with wide, worried eyes. She turned suddenly to look at me, and she seemed genuinely scared.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re a long way from dawn.”

  She didn’t smile. Not even a little bit. “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “Come on,” I said. “I think you’ve had a few too many. I’ll walk you home. You’ve nothing to worry about as long as I’m with you. And tomorrow, when the fog’s all gone, you’ll see how silly you were. It’s just a story!”

  “It’s a long way to where I live,” said Emma. She looked at me. “Where’s your place, James? Is it near?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Just a few streets away.”

  “Can I stay with you tonight?” said Emma, her wide eyes fixed on mine. “That’s what I want, James. I want to stay with you, tonight. Can I?”

  And I said yes.

  I took her back to my place. Nothing special, just a reasonably comfortable flat above a newsagent’s. It wasn’t until I unlocked my door and ushered her in that I realised how much of a mess I’d let the place get into. I was a man who lived alone and let things lie where they fell. I made a token effort to clear some of it up, while Emma looked around her, not commenting.

  She was nervous. I could tell. I stopped what I was doing and went to her.

  “You haven’t done this before, have you?” I said.

  “No,” she said.

  “It’s been a while for me. Emma... you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  “I want to do this, Jason.”

  “There’s a spare bed. I just need to sort out some sheets for it...”

  “I want you, Jason.”

  I put my arms around her. And she put her arms around me. Our faces were so close now; I could feel her breath on my mouth.

  “You’re so much younger than me,” I said. “And so beautiful. You deserve better than me...”

  “Hush, Jason. You deserve me. I’m here for you.”

  She hugged me tightly, pressing the side of her face against my shoulder. The smell from her hair filled my head. She held me as tightly as she could, as though afraid someone might drag her away.

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s all right. Really. Everything’s going to be all right, Emma.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.” She looked up at me, and smiled. “Take me to bed, Jason. Take me to bed and love me so we can forget everything except us. That’s what I want.”

  And that’s what I did.

  Sometime later, I lay on my back in bed, the sweat drying on my bare skin, stretched out and relaxed, feeling more at peace with myself than I had in a long time. Emma was sat up beside me, her back against the headboard, staring out across the room. I couldn’t read the expression on her face. She suddenly swung her legs over the side of the bed, and padded silently across the bedroom, entirely naked, to stand before the window. She opened the curtains just a little, and looked out.

  Nice arse, I thought.

  “What is it?” I said.