Then everything went dark for a second in my head, and when I came to again, I felt such a gut-punch of pain in my belly that I dropped the phone.
Addison jerked his head up to look at me. “What is it?”
That’s when I saw a long, black tongue pressing against the outside of the booth’s glass. It was quickly joined by a second, then a third.
The hollow. The unfrozen hollowgast. It had followed us.
The dog couldn’t see it, but he could read the look on my face easily enough. “It’s one of them, isn’t it?”
I mouthed, Yes, and Addison shrank into a corner.
“Jacob?” My dad’s tinny voice from the phone. “Jacob, are you there?”
The tongues began to wrap around the booth, encircling us. I didn’t know what to do, only that I had to do something, so I shifted my feet under me, planted my hands on the walls, and struggled to my feet.
Then I was face to face with it. Tongues fanned from its gaping, bladed mouth. Its eyes were black and weeping more black and they stared into mine, inches away through the glass. The hollow let out a low, guttural snarl that turned my insides to jelly, and I half wished the beast would just kill me and be done with it so all this pain and terror could end.
The dog barked in Emma’s face. “Wake up! We need you, girl! Make your fire!”
But Emma could neither speak nor stand, and we were alone in the underground station but for two women in raincoats who were backing away, holding their noses against the hollow’s fetid stench.
And then the booth, the whole booth with all of us in it, swayed one way and then the other, and I heard whatever bolts anchored it to the floor groan and snap. Slowly, the hollow lifted us off the ground — six inches, then a foot, then two — only to slam us back down again, shattering the booth windows, raining glass on us.
Then there was nothing at all between the hollow and me. Not an inch, not a pane of glass. Its tongues wriggled into the booth, snaking around my arm, my waist, then around my neck, squeezing tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe.
That’s when I knew I was dead. And because I was dead, and there was nothing I could do, I stopped fighting. I relaxed every muscle, closed my eyes, and gave in to the hurt bursting inside my belly like fireworks.
Then a strange thing happened: the hurt stopped hurting. The pain shifted and became something else. I entered into it, and it enveloped me, and beneath its roiling surface I discovered something quiet and gentle.
A whisper.
I opened my eyes again. The hollow seemed frozen now, staring at me. I stared back, unafraid. My vision was spotting black from lack of oxygen, but I felt no pain.
The hollow’s grip on my neck relaxed. I took my first breath in minutes, calm and deep. And then the whisper I’d found inside me traveled up from my belly and out of my throat and past my lips, making a noise that didn’t sound like language, but whose meaning I knew innately.
Back.
Off.
The hollow retracted its tongues. Drew them all back into its bulging mouth and shut its jaws. Bowed its head slightly — a gesture, almost, of submission.
And then it sat down.
Emma and Addison looked up at me from the floor, surprised by the sudden calm. “What just happened?” said the dog.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said.
“Is it gone?”
“No, but it won’t hurt us now.”
He didn’t ask how I knew this; just nodded, assured by the tone of my voice.
I opened the booth door and helped Emma to her feet. “Can you walk?” I asked her. She put an arm around my waist, leaned her weight against mine, and together we took a step. “I’m not leaving you,” I said. “Whether you like it or not.”
Into my ear she whispered, “I love you, Jacob.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered back.
I stooped to pick up the phone. “Dad?”
“What was that noise? Who are you with?”
“I’m here. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. Just stay where you are.”
“Dad, I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Wait. Don’t hang up,” he said. “You’re confused, Jake.”
“No. I’m like Grandpa. I have what Grandpa had.”
A pause on the other end. Then: “Please come home.”
I took a breath. There was too much to say and no time to say it. This would have to do:
“I hope I’ll be able to come home, someday. But there are things I need to do first. I just want you to know I love you and Mom, and I’m not doing any of this to hurt you.”
“We love you, too, Jake, and if it’s drugs, or whatever it is, we don’t care. We’ll get you right again. Like I said, you’re confused.”
“No, Dad. I’m peculiar.”
Then I hung up the phone, and speaking a language I didn’t know I knew, I ordered the hollow to stand.
Obedient as a shadow, it did.
About the Photography
Like those in the first book, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, all the pictures in Hollow City are authentic, vintage, found photographs, and with the exception of a handful that have undergone digital postprocessing, they are unaltered. They were painstakingly collected over several years: discovered at flea markets, vintage paper shows, and, more often than not, in the archives of photo collectors much more accomplished than I, who were kind enough to part with some of their most peculiar treasures to help create this book.
The following photos were graciously lent for use by their owners:
TITLE
FROM THE COLLECTION OF
Jacob in silhouette
Roselyn Leibowitz
Emma Bloom
Muriel Moutet
Enoch O’Connor
David Bass
Claire Densmore
Davis Bass
Fiona Frauenfeld
John Van Noate
Miss Avocet
Erin Waters
Girl boarding train
John Van Noate
Crying baby
John Van Noate
Peculiar brothers
John Van Noate
Sam
John Van Noate
Millard in the mirror
John Van Noate
The lookout
John Van Noate
About the Author
Photo: Tahereh Mafi
Ransom Riggs grew up in Florida but now makes his home in the land of peculiar children — Los Angeles. He was raised on a steady diet of ghost stories and British comedy, which probably explains the novels he writes. There’s a nonzero chance he’s in your house right now, watching you from underneath the bed. (Go ahead and check. We’ll wait.) If not, you can always find him on Twitter @ransomriggs.
Acknowledgments
In the acknowledgments of Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, I thanked my editor, Jason Rekulak, for his “seemingly endless” patience. Now, after a second book that took twice as long to write, I’m afraid I need to thank him for his truly legendary, nay, saintly, patience; verily, he hath the patience of Job! I hope it was worth the wait, and I’ll be forever grateful to him for helping me find my way.