Ransom Riggs - Hollow City

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.

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

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.

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.

Thanks to the team at Quirk Books—Brett, David, Nicole, Moneka, Katherine, Doogie, Eric, John, Mary Ellen, and Blair—for being at once the sanest and most creative people in publishing. Thanks, too, to everyone at Random House Publisher Services, and to my publishers abroad for somehow managing to gracefully translate my oddball, made-up words into other languages (and for occasionally hosting a tall, pale, and slightly confused American author in your country; sorry for the mess I made of your guest room).

Thanks to my agent, Jodi Reamer, for reading many drafts of this book, for always giving notes that made the book better, and for (almost) always using her first-degree black belt for good, not evil.

A hearty thank-you to my photo collector friends, who helped enormously in the creation of this book. Robert E. Jackson, Peter J. Cohen, Steve Bannos, Michael Fairley, Stacy Waldman, John Van Noate, David Bass, Yefim Tovbis, and Fabien Breuvart—I couldn’t have done it without you.

Thanks to the teachers who challenged and encouraged me over the years: Donald Rogan, Perry Lentz, P. F. Kluge, Jonathan Tazewell, Kim McMullen, Linda Janoff, Philip Eisner, Wendy MacLeod, Doe Mayer, Jed Dannenbaum, Nina Foch, Lewis Hyde, and John Kinsella, among many others.

Thanks most of all to Tahereh, who has brightened my life in uncountable ways. I love you, azizam .