The Oblivion Hole
By Ryan Alan Boyle
Robby stormed out of the house again—ten years old, red-faced and teary-eared, vowing never to return—recklessly flying into the forest, where he discovered the hole by almost falling in.
He stopped short, vision blurred by tears. Off balance, teetering, tiptoes hovering out over a brink of nothing. He fell back into the underbrush, wiped his eyes, crawled up to the hole. Soundless, round, perfectly black. Maybe a badger burrow, a snake hole—but no. A perfect circle, larger than his waist. No sides visible, no claw marks, no shovel marks, just an absence that led down. The longer he stared at it, the emptiness, the bottomlessness, the more unnatural and sinister it seemed. A passageway to Wonderland, to the center of the Earth, to Hell.
He shouted. No echo. He stared. He spit. Dumped dirt and grass. Dropped a stone, without sound. Sat silent, waiting, listening as hard as he could. But couldn’t tell if it hit bottom, or if there was a bottom.
He was so still, listening so close, that a rodent, snuffling through the understory, ran up and crawled on him. Robby felt its little claws through the fabric of his shirt, wriggling filthy. He leapt up screaming, shook the creature, sent it falling to his feet. Revolted, Robby kicked it straight into the hole, squealing. It disappeared into instant silence.
The animal was gone, dead, it must have died, Robby had killed it. He felt overcome with horror, backed away from the hole slowly, turned and ran hard for home. Crying again, weeping, a monster, a killer. Wiping snot from his nose as he tore through the front door, Robby expected to find the old man there again waiting for him, expected to fight him again, to face his rage again—but his dad was passed out snoring on the couch, bubble of drool inflating in the corner of his fat mouth.
Robby went to the liquor cabinet, threw all the bottles into a garbage bag and dragged it, clinking, to the woods. The hole seemed darker, seemed to gape larger as he dropped bottles, one by one, into the silent mouth. Killer. Back home, he went into Dad’s office, trophies and signed photos, sports memorabilia and certificates. Killer. Looked at the case with the old man’s prized gold watch, twenty-five years on the job and not allowed a day longer, forcibly retired. Robby touched the case but did not open it. Killer.
Next morning. Dad held his head, saw the broken glass on the carpet, the stain on the wall from a bottle smashed in fury, the empty liquor cabinet. Touched his temples, rubbed his eyes, groaned.
Robby’s mom shook her head, watching hesitantly from the kitchen. “You had too much to drink again,” she said. “Way too much.” Dad nodded.
“Sorry,” he said. He stumbled to the kitchen, kissed her forehead, and vomited right into the kitchen sink. He wiped his mouth. “I love you, babe,” he said, and vomited again.
Robby left the house. At school he felt angry. Lunchtime, everyone else in the cafeteria, Robby slipped back into the classroom, slid the math teacher’s laptop into his backpack, hid it in an empty locker.
Teacher threatened the class with expulsion, cursed in frustration at the loss. A security officer checked all backpacks, shrugged. End of day, Robby went to the empty locker, slipped the laptop into his bag. Took it home. Dropped it in the hole with all his books, and offered a eulogy—“I hate math.”
Next day, Robby was cornered by Horrible Freddy. “I saw you take it,” Freddy said. He’d harassed Robby since fourth grade, stealing his money, copying his homework, punching his windpipe. Now he’d trapped Robby in an empty hallway between classes, rows of bad lighting and lockers. His crooked teeth, odious breath, right in Robby’s face. “You’re fucked now, queer,” Horrible Freddy sneered.
Robby struggled against him, shirt twisting in Freddy’s horrible fist.
Freddy shoved him back against a locker, brought his nose right to the tip of Robby’s. “Touch my dick,” he whispered.
Robby’s face twisted up. He tried to push back but couldn’t move against the locker.
“Do it!” Freddy grabbed his throat, squeezing tight. “Fucking now.”
Robby couldn’t breathe. Felt his face flush, struggled for air. He looked away, closed his eyes, reached down. Horrible Freddy chuckled softly.
“You pussy bitch,” he hissed in Robby’s ear. “You’d do anything I want.” Horrible Freddy released his throat. Robby fell, coughing, gasping. Freddy laughed, started to walk away.
“I’ll show you where,” Robby wheezed. “The laptop. You can have it.” Horrible Freddy flashed teeth, but Robby wasn’t sure it was a smile. Grin of a skull.
Robby led him to the woods. Warm sun over trees. Dappled light, carpet of pine needles and moss. Flowers and frogs. New shoots, green growth. A charm of hummingbirds.
Horrible Freddy laughing, telling jokes, slapping Robby on the back like they were friendly, or even friends. Shapes of leaves, architecture of limbs. Robby starting to laugh back, to smile back, leading Freddy right up to the edge. Whistle of birdsong, whisper of bug drone. Horrible Freddy looked down the hole, and Robby gave him a friendly slap on the back that sent him tumbling down. Flash of fear. Eyes suddenly wide. Incomprehensible question on his lips. Swallowed up, jet black.
The hole nearly doubled in size overnight. Soundless.
Fliers went up around town. Police spoke to people at school, interviewed kids. Horrible Freddy’s face on posters, billboards. His name mentioned in the morning announcements, in the conversation of every student and parent. His horrible mother on television—missing, have you seen this boy, reward.
Every time he heard Freddy’s name, Robby broke out in a sweat, sank into himself. Killer. He spent the week feeling awful, horrendous, a criminal, a murderer, a demon. Killer. He went to the hole and dropped in food, water. Tried to call Freddy’s name, heard only a horrible sucking silence. Killer.
Lights flashing between the trees at night. Search parties combing the woods with flashlights and walkie talkies. But no one, it seems, found the hole.
People gradually stopped mentioning Horrible Freddy. Fliers and posters slowly faded, torn down, covered over. Parents who had gone up to his mother offering condolences now avoided her in public, whispered after her in the supermarket—a shame, a tragedy, too much to bear. Robby’s father continued to drink, to pound doors, things spiraling faster.
Years passed. Rob entered high school. He convinced himself it had been right, honorable, self-defense, and then stopped thinking about it at all. As if Horrible Freddy had never been horrible, had never been Freddy, had never been.
Junior year. Rob came home to find broken glass on the carpet again. Another of those nights—Mom and Dad, screaming match, thrown dishes, broken bottles. Sour smell of spilled beer and wine again. Pictures askew on the wall again. Cherry-tip loose cigarette scorching a hole in the upholstery. Dad red-faced again, pounding on the locked door to their bedroom, shouting the words “fuck” and “open up” and “bitch.” Mother’s sobs through the door. Too much to drink again. “Sorry” again.
Rob felt his fists clench. Pressure in his chest. Blind, searing, uncontrolled.
Bottles lined up on the sticky kitchen table. Rob grabbed one, smashed it through the window.
Flipped the table, sending the rest of the bottles exploding across walls and floor.
Rob went into the old man’s office, dark wood. Photos on the wall of better days, his dad thin and dark-haired and proud, holding a wrinkly newborn Robby, family trips to amusement parks, zoos, beaches. He smashed what he could, toppled the desk, threw the chair against the wall, broke picture frames. He grabbed the gold watch from its shattered case. Inscription cold against his fingers: THANKS FOR 25 GREAT YEARS.
Rob found his dad sloppily kicking the door, slurred screaming himself hoarse. Hinges groaning, about to give.
“Asshole,” Rob said, but his dad didn’t hear. Said it louder. Again. The old man grunted and turned, face twisted with incomprehension. Rob, sick of this shit, gave him the finger. “Fuck you,” he said calmly.
“Little bastard,” his dad slurred back.
Rob turned and walked calmly out of the house. Dad staggering after, repeating the words “ungrateful” and “sonna bitch,” neck bulging, thin wisps of hair dancing from his head. Rob stopped at the edge of the woods so the old man could get closer, so he could see. He looked his dad right in the face, held up the watch—Dad’s eyes wild with hatred—smashed it on the ground, stomped it with his foot.
“Come get me,” Rob said, and ran into the woods.
His dad screamed murder, tumbled after him, bumbling over roots and branches, into the dark forest. Rob could hear the man, his grunts and gasping breaths, shouted curses and stomping feet crashing through the understory like a lurching ogre, a stumbling colossus.
“Pussy bitch,” Rob shouted over his shoulder.
He stopped suddenly, turned.
“Come closer,” he shouted at his dad. “Over here.”
This lack of fear made his dad angrier, mouth curling into a grimace.
“Mom would be happy if you were dead,” Rob said.
The old man careened towards him, wobbling. Rob watched as his dad lost his footing, spilled himself on the ground, blundered head-first down the hole. A sudden hush. Silence of the void.
Moonglow and nightbirds.
Rob smiled.
The hole was large now, six feet across. A slanted tree about to fall in, roots reaching out into nothing. Instead of feeling horrible this time, Rob felt good. He pissed in the hole, screamed obscenities into its quiet absence.
His father gone, Rob’s mother fell into a deep depression. She called the cops. Went around to all her husband’s friends. She took to drinking most days. Swallowing sleeping pills at night but not sleeping, stalking the house in a haze till morning. Hair turning white, losing weight, weeping—and this, Rob thought, was almost worse than still having the old man around. She spent years searching for him, obsessive. And this surprised Rob—the depth of her devotion, the strength of her longing, the endurance of her love for that lout, that slob, that alcoholic beast.
He went to the hole and threw stones. “I’m not sorry,” he whispered into it.
Rob left for college and his mother deteriorated. He hated to call, to listen to her pain. So he stopped calling, stopped visiting—except when he needed money.
Robert graduated, worked jobs he hated, performed poorly, took three-hour lunches, mouthed off to superiors, didn’t give many fucks. He always knew, in the back of his mind, that he had a solution, something waiting for any boss who dared fire him. By his fifth termination, he did it.
The hole stretched enormous, large enough to drive a truck in, gaping. Trees that once surrounded it were gone, fallen in years ago. The answer, he thought, to all problems.
Robert had girlfriends, married one, pretty as a TV cohost. His mother, dark-eyed hazed-out wisp of a woman, offered a slurred wedding toast. Rose gold with moonstones. Honeymoon in Aruba, the sun, the sky, the sea. Didn’t think about the hole at all. He bought a condo with the wife, decorated. Started talking about children, started saving. Pregnancy test: positive. Celebration.
Money disappeared from the joint bank account. His new wife started coming home late. Robert left work early one day, saw her car in the parking lot of a hotel. Sun in the rain. He parked on the other side, saw her emerge from the building with a man holding an umbrella, saw them kiss next to her car. Robert followed her as she drove back to their house. At dinner, he smiled at her. Flushed cheeks, sparkling eye. Kissed her goodnight, rubbed her still-small belly, told her he loved her. Woke up in the middle of the night, tied her up, took her phone and found the texts from the mystery man, sent the guy a message to meet in the woods the next day “for sex, anal sex,” to which the man replied “finally,” and threw them both screaming into the hole.
He lived in a mania, wild martyr of spite: when friends said something he didn’t like, he threw them in the hole; when they slighted him, he threw them in the hole; when they looked wrong at women he fancied, he threw them in the hole. Everyone he knew, eventually, saw the hole, inside. People that angered him, slow walkers, bad drivers, strangers, children. Dogs that barked too loud, birds that sang too early, jars he couldn’t open, computers that ran slow, uncomfortable furniture, dry sandwiches, bad wine, ugly advertisements, ill-fitting clothes. Anyone, everything, a season of annihilation.
The forest gone, swallowed. The hole now inches from his mother’s sad house—where she sat, all these years later, a twig of an old woman, still an insomniac, still frantically checking missing persons sites, still calling private investigators—the foundation cracking, walls tilting, black nothingness creeping closer. A barely discernible murmur near the edge now, less than a gasp, a whisper, or a breath. Robert thought constantly about that first rodent.
Two uniformed policemen at his condo, asking after his wife. Robert nodded without hesitation, said “I’ll take you to her,” and led them to the old house. His mother watched from the window, smiled, waved, but Robert didn’t notice. She opened the window to say hello and watched, aghast, as her son pushed both policemen into the hole.
“What did you do?” she called thinly from the house. Her face wide and white.
Robert spun sharply, shaking his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “Nothing!”
Her body trembled as Robert came towards the window. She ran through her home, grabbed a kitchen knife, flung the back door open. Her son standing on the porch, look of horror on his face, black gaping gorge behind him.
“It was you,” she said.
She came at him and Robert froze. He didn’t want to, couldn’t. Knife gripped in her shaking hand, she stared him hard in the eyes—no, no, he couldn’t—and she stepped past him right into the hole. “I’m coming, love,” she called and then gone. A soft buzz still audible.
The porch crumbled down after her. Robert had to leap to avoid falling. He ran in the house, slammed the door, locked it, drew the curtains, huddled inside for days and watched as the walls took on crazy new angles, the roof sloping, the floor slanting as the house tottered on the edge of the pit. Pictures of his father in every nook, on every wall, pictures of childish Robby, the two of them together, smiling, laughing.
Days passed, a week. The kitchen collapsed, tumbling down the hole. One side of the house exposed, Robert could see now. A patch of dirt on which the broken home teetered dangerously, clinging to the remaining surface of the planet, completely surrounded by the hungry gaping chasm. The sun barely gave heat. Humming black emptiness seemed to suck even the air, the light itself. All directions, a terminal world.
Robert stood on the brink wondering which he deserved more: if he should just do it, just step out and fly until he found the bottom, Wonderland, center of the Earth, Hell, whatever; or if he should simply stay in the house till the food ran out, and starve.
Tiptoes hovering out over nothing, breath heavy, psyching himself up to do it, finally, to just do it, at last to jump—Robert heard faint laughter from far off, growing louder.
He cocked his head, stared into darkness, listening. He heard music, chatter. From below, from the bottom. Sounds of fun, a party way down in the hole.
Everyone having a wonderful time, everyone he’d thrown in, everyone.
Without him.
The thought of seeing all those people again. Robert tumbled backwards into the house. Another room gave way and went sliding into the abyss—cheers from the bottom of the hole, whistling, applause, happiness.
Alone, Robert looked at the black horizon. Grinning photos trembling with the groaning house.
The sounds of the party resumed.
Ryan Alan Boyle (he/him) is an editor, writer, and music journalist. His fiction has appeared in Big Muddy, Atticus Review, and Fiction Southeast, among others. He has also written and edited liner note essays for acclaimed archival albums released by the Numero Group. He earned a master’s degree in American history from the University of Florida and currently lives Brooklyn, New York, with 2.6 million other humans.