Hollis offered a begrudging nod. “Decent choices. I approve.”
“But you know, I think Psycho might be my favorite of all. I figure if someone can make you empathize with a killer, they must’ve done something right.”
“Empathy,” Hollis echoed. “Can’t say that identifying with a killer is ever what I’m looking for in a film. Or in anything.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Justice.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “When has justice ever been the source of horror? Isn’t it usually the opposite?”
Hollis scowled. “I don’t mean law-and-order-type justice. I mean more of a spiritual kind of thing. Karma or whatever. Like The Ring. Or I Spit on Your Grave.”
“You’re talking about revenge,” I said. “That’s different. Those aren’t stories about fairness.”
“Then what are they about?”
“Punishment, I guess. Retribution.”
He shrugged. “Sounds like justice to me.”
I didn’t answer. We’d reached the dirt trail that would take us into the trees and out of the town proper. The fog haze grew thicker, the shadows darker, gloom closing in on all sides. I switched on my flashlight.
Hollis grabbed for my arm. “Hey, turn that off!”
“What?”
“I said turn it off!”
“But I can’t see!”
“I mean it!”
“Fine!” He kept grabbing at me until I shoved him back; Hollis was significantly larger than I was, but he was too drunk to be very coordinated. I held on to the flashlight but finally switched it off like he asked. “What the hell?”
“I don’t want anyone to see us.”
“Like who?”
Hollis peered over his shoulder again. “Like anyone.”
“What?”
He walked faster, leaving me to catch up with him. Soon I was sweating from the effort, the trail growing steeper as we trudged upward through the night.
“You ever hear about Danielle Bradford?” Hollis asked after a moment.
I glanced at him. “She someone you know?”
“Not exactly. She was a student here back in 1915. That was the fourth year Dover Springs was in operation.”
“What about her?”
“Well, Danielle was a local, like us. She came to study music—played flute and cello, although from what I’ve learned, she wasn’t particularly talented at either. Anyway, when she was in her sophomore year, on a foggy September night, just like this one, Danielle finished practicing and left the conservatory. She was trying to make it back to her dorm before the ten o’clock curfew, according to witness reports. Only . . .”
“Only what?”
“Only she never got there. They found her body the next morning, in the bushes right outside her own room. Her throat had been slashed with a razor.”
“Jesus. Who did it?”
“They never found out. Two years later . . . it happened again. Only this time the victim was a guy. Samuel Forsythe. Also a sophomore. He didn’t show up to class after visiting with his family for a weekend in March. I guess his friends assumed he hadn’t returned to campus. Well, two days later he was found hanging from a tree in the woods behind the chapel, which used to be on the north side of campus, by the way, down by the stream. They moved it in 1956 due to flooding.”
“So he’d been murdered too?”
“That one was harder to tell. But a third student, Graham Keller, was killed the year after that, also on a night with particularly dense fog—this time in September again. He’d gotten separated from his girlfriend while hiking and was found in a clearing the next morning. He’d been stabbed in the neck repeatedly with an ice pick—so clearly murder. This sparked rumors of a serial killer in Dover. Our very own Jack the Ripper, but someone with a taste for college students, not prostitutes. And because of the fog and the mysterious nature of the deaths, it wasn’t long before the killer was given a name.”
“The Dover Phantom,” I said.
“Exactly. But you want to know what happened next?”
“What’s that?”
“The murders stopped.”
“Stopped?”
He nodded. “For over twenty years. The next killing wasn’t until March 20, 1939. Mary Downing. She was found strangled near the tennis courts. And there were two more murders. In 1941 and ’42. They stopped again until ’65, and it’s been like that ever since: three murders approximately every quarter century. We’re up to thirteen dead students now, including one a few years back, which means we’re due two more for this cycle. And sure, people know about some of these deaths, obviously. Maybe they’ve even heard of the Dover Phantom. But no one’s put all the pieces together the way that I have. No one sees it for what it really is. A pattern.”
“A pattern?”
“Yes! It means something. This is all happening for a reason. And not only do we get three killings every generation, but they all take place in late March or late September. Do you know why that is?”
“There’s a lot of fog?” I ventured.
“It’s the equinox.”
“What?”
“I’m serious. The vernal equinox is March 20 and the autumnal is tonight. September 22. Those are the two times of the year when day and night are equal, and all the killings have taken place on or within a day or two of these dates. That can’t be a coincidence.”
I was beyond baffled. “So you think these deaths are connected—both to each other and to a specific celestial event? But why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I mean, it’s a whole century of murder, but because it’s been happening over such a long period of time, no one cares. Except me.”
“So why do you care?”
His voice hardened. “Are you saying you don’t?”
“No, but you want me to believe in a killer who strikes every twenty-five years or so, exactly three times, only on these dates, and that he’s been around for over a hundred years?”
“That’s right.”
“How could that be?”
“I’ve thought about that.” Hollis licked his lips. “A lot. Because the killings being random would be the most obvious explanation. Dover has crime. Hell, we’ve had our fair share of murders around here; it’s no wonder not everything is front-page news. Did you know that during the seventies, there were at least three active serial killers in this general part of California?”
I nodded because I did know. Dover, for all its gated excess and idyllic seaside beauty, was known for its drifting population and increasing drug trade. Loose morals and New Age fetishism. Beneath our summer tans and salt-spray ease, darker urges lingered. Violence. Racism. Cultish ideologies. Utter greed and dirt-cheap pleasures. “But that doesn’t answer the question about how he could be around for such a long period of time.”
“Well, what if the killer’s not a he?”
I cocked my head. “You mean, what if the killer’s a woman?”
“No, I mean, what if the reason the killings have been happening for so long is because the killer’s not a who, but a what?”