by Greg Howard
Also by Greg Howard
Social Intercourse
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
Copyright © 2019 by Greg Howard.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Howard, Greg (Gregory Steven), author.
Title: The Whispers / Greg Howard.
Description: New York, NY: G. P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers, 2019.
Summary: “Eleven-year-old Riley’s mom has disappeared and Riley knows that if he leaves tributes for the Whispers, magical fairies that grant wishes, his mom will come back to him”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018022153 | ISBN 9780525517498 (hardback) | ISBN 9780525517504 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Family life—South Carolina—Fiction. | Missing persons—Fiction. | Wishes—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Gays—Fiction. | South Carolina—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.H6877 Whi 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018022153
Cover art © 2019 by Lindsey Andrews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Mama and Daddy,
and for Tucker—the greatest dog in the history of dogs
CONTENTS
Also by Greg Howard
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1: THE WORLD’S WORST POLICE DETECTIVE
2: TWENTY-EIGHT WORDS IN THREE DAYS
3: PENTECOSTAL CORN CHOIR
4: 5-4-3-2-1 FRUIT SALAD
5: MY CONDITION
6: JUNIOR BLACK SANTA
7: MY OWN PERSONAL REDNECK SUPERHERO
8: GIANT YELLOW DEATH BOX
9: CAN’T NEVER COULD AND IF NEVER WOULD
10: MAGIC TIME
11: A GOSSIP
12: COP WORD OF THE DAY
13: BLACK PANTHER VS. CAPTAIN AMERICA
14: LISTEN, WHITTLE, AND WAIT
15: THE HOBGOBLIN VS. THE KING OF THE REDNECK SUPERHEROES
16: THE MOST PERFECT MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF MOMENTS
17: THE SMARTEST DOG IN THE HISTORY OF DOGS
18: THE F-WORD
19: KENNY FROM KENTUCKY
20: THE LAND OF MORDECAI MATHEWS
21: THE HOBGOBLIN’S LAIR
22: CONVERSATIONS WITH A HOBGOBLIN
23: THE BEAVER DAM
24: CAROLYN RILEY JAMES
25: THE WORST BROTHER IN THE HISTORY OF BROTHERS?
26: PUTTIN’ ON AIRS
27: GOOD NIGHT, MY LOVE
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.
—DESMOND TUTU
There once was a boy who heard the Whispers.
He heard them late in the day as the lazy sun dipped below the treetops and the woods behind his house came alive with the magic of twilight. The voices came to him so gently he thought it might be the wind, or the first trickle of summer rain. But as time passed, the voices grew louder and the boy was sure they were calling his name. So he followed them.
The Whispers led the boy to a clearing deep in the woods where a rotted old tree stump sat in the center and fallen leaves covered the ground like crunchy brown carpet. The boy stood next to the stump, waited, and listened. He couldn’t see the Whispers, but he knew they were there. Their wispy voices surrounded him, tickling the rims of his ears and filling every darkened shadow of the forest.
After waiting patiently for quite some time, the Whispers’ garbled words finally began to make sense to the boy, and they told him things. The Whispers knew everything—all the secrets of the universe. They told the boy what color the moon was up close and how many miles of ocean covered the Earth. They even told him how long he would live—26,332 days. The boy was pleased, because that sounded like a good long time to him. But as they continued to whisper knowledge into his ear, they never showed themselves to the boy. He only caught glimpses from the corner of his eye of their faint bluish glow fading in and out around him. He so badly wanted to see them, to know what kind of creatures they were. How big were they? Or how tiny? Were they thin, or fat, or hairy? Were they made of skin and bones like him, or of tree bark, or leaves, or dirt? Or something else entirely?
The Whispers told the boy that if he brought them tributes, they would give him his heart’s desires. The boy wasn’t sure what a tribute was and he didn’t want very much anyway. He could hardly call them heart’s desires. Maybe a new pair of sneakers so the kids at school wouldn’t tease him about his raggedy old ones. Maybe a better job for his father so he wouldn’t worry so much about money. And he would love to see his mother smile again, something she rarely did anymore. But he guessed what he really wanted was to see the Whispers with his very own eyes.
One day, as the boy’s mother made a batch of her special blackberry jam, he asked her what a tribute was. She thought about it a moment and finally told him that a tribute was like a gift to show respect. The boy eyed his mother’s handiwork spread over the kitchen table. Everyone loved her jam. When she took it to the local farmers market, she always sold out. And her blackberry jam was his personal favorite. He was sure it would make an excellent tribute for the Whispers. When his mother left the room, the boy took one of the jars from the table and hid it under his bed.
The following afternoon, as the sun was setting, he went back to the clearing in the woods with the jam tucked under his arm. He left it sitting on the rotted old tree stump for the Whispers. Satisfied with his tribute, the boy spoke his heart’s desires aloud and then hurried home as not to scare the Whispers away.
When the boy’s father got home from work that evening, his mood was lighter than usual and the lines of worry had completely vanished from his face. He told the family that he’d received a promotion at work and tomorrow the boy’s mother should take him shopping to buy him new clothes and shoes for school. This news made his mother smile. The boy was amazed that he’d received three of his heart’s desires with only one jar of jam. Surely the Whispers would reveal themselves to him if he took them a tribute even better than a jar of his mother’s blackberry jam. And he knew just the thing.
The next day, when the boy returned from shopping with his mother, he snuck out of the house right before sunset and took his new sneakers to the clearing in the woods. He kept them in the box, neatly wrapped in tissue paper
so they wouldn’t get scuffed or dirty. They were the nicest shoes he’d ever owned, and surely this tribute would persuade the Whispers to show themselves.
When he approached the rotted old tree stump, he saw that the blackberry jam was gone. The boy wasn’t surprised. He was sure the Whispers enjoyed his mother’s jam just as much as everyone else did. He put the box with his sneakers on top of the rotted old tree stump, stood back, and waited. And waited. And waited. He waited so long, he wasn’t sure the Whispers were pleased enough with his tribute.
Finally something tickled the back of his neck with the lightest flutter of breath grazing his skin. It spoke his name and asked him what he wished. The boy froze. The Whispers had never come that close before. They must be pleased with his tribute after all. He was excited, but afraid if he moved it would scare them away, so he closed his eyes and remained perfectly still.
“I wish to see you,” the boy said in barely a whisper of his own. “I want to know what you look like. It’s my heart’s desire.”
At first there was no clear answer, only a garble of Whispers conversation that he couldn’t understand. Then the words slowly pieced themselves together like a puzzle in his ear.
“If we reveal ourselves, you can never leave us,” the Whispers said, their velvety voices caressing his ear through the warm summer breeze. “You must stay here in the woods with us forever, for you will know everything, and that is a burden too great to bear in your world.”
The boy swallowed hard. He closed his eyes even tighter and stood very still as sweat trailed down his neck, the Whispers’ words chilling him from head to toe.
“Are you sure this is what you wish?” the Whispers asked. “To see us? To stay with us and become a whisper in the wind?”
The boy began to worry. He thought about all the things he would miss if he stayed in the woods with the Whispers forever. He would never get to ride his bike again, or go swimming in the pond with his friends. And he would never see his mother and father again. It seemed like an awfully high price to pay just to see what the Whispers looked like. Besides, he’d already offered them his brand-new sneakers, and they were the nicest things he owned. Wasn’t that enough?
“No,” the Whispers said, reading his thoughts. “It is not enough. If you see us, you must become one of us. And then you will know everything there is to know. You will hear everything. See everything. But the only tribute we can accept for that is your soul.”
The boy stood there with his eyes closed tight, scared he might accidentally see one of the Whispers and then the choice would be made for him. He needed a moment to think. The boy wondered what else there was to know. Because of the Whispers he knew the color of the moon up close, how many miles of ocean covered the Earth, and how long he would live—26,332 days. He knew he had a home to which he could return. He knew his parents loved him and his father worked hard to take care of their family. And the kids at school would tease him a little less now that he had brand-new sneakers.
The boy knew it would be dark soon and if he waited too long he might never find his way out of the woods. Then what would the Whispers do with him? He felt around until he found the box with his sneakers on the tree stump. He grabbed it, turned, and ran as fast as he could. He held the box close to his chest and didn’t dare open his eyes. He tripped and fell. Got back up and ran into one tree after another. Branches whacked him across the face and chest, but he kept running blindly through the woods.
Only after he’d gone a good long ways and the tiny voices had faded behind him did the boy dare open his eyes. Even then he was careful not to look around. He stared straight ahead until he got to the tree line and ran the whole way home, never looking back, not even when he reached his house.
After that the boy never heard the Whispers again, but he didn’t mind. He already had his heart’s desires. He had his mother. And his father. And his friends. And his brand-new sneakers. Plus he knew what color the moon was up close, how many miles of ocean covered the Earth, and how long he would live—26,332 days. He didn’t know all the secrets of the universe and maybe he never would, but he knew plenty.
* * *
This was Mama’s favorite story. She told me the story every night until the day she disappeared. Then I started hearing the Whispers.
And I followed them.
1
THE WORLD’S WORST POLICE DETECTIVE
Fat Bald Detective thinks I had something to do with it. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but the way he repeats the same questions over and over—like if he keeps on asking them, I might crack under the pressure—well, it’s pretty clear that I’m suspect number one. I don’t know why he thinks I’m guilty, other than the fact that he’s not very smart. He’s not nearly as good at this as the cops on TV, and they’re only actors. He just sits there smiling at me, waiting for me to say something more. But I don’t know what he wants from me. I mean, sure I have secrets. Big ones. The kind of secrets you take to your grave. But I would never hurt anyone on purpose. Especially not Mama.
I push my hair out of my eyes and look up at the clock on the wall. It shouldn’t be too much longer. Maybe I can just wait him out. I look at the desk in the corner of the cramped office. It’s cluttered with books, stacks of file folders, and a darkened computer screen decorated with a rainbow of Post-it notes because Fat Bald Detective can’t remember anything. There isn’t one inch of clear space anywhere to be seen on his desk. It’s very unprofessional.
That was one of our words from the calendar—I think from last January. It’s still on my wall.
Unprofessional is when someone or something doesn’t look or act right in the workplace.
Good, Button. Now use it in a sentence, Mama would say if she were here.
Then I would say something like, Fat Bald Detective’s office is very unprofessional because there’s crap everywhere and it smells like Fritos.
That would have made Mama laugh. I could always make her laugh when we played the word-of-the-day game. Mama says it’s okay if you don’t always remember the exact dictionary definition of a word as long as you can describe the meaning in your own words and you can use it in a sentence. Now that I think of it, there should be a picture of Fat Bald Detective’s office beside the word unprofessional in the dictionary.
His office is nothing like the ones in the police stations on TV. There aren’t any bright fluorescent lights in here, or cool floor-to-ceiling walls of glass so he can see the whole department and wave someone in at a moment’s notice just to yell at them. There’s only one small window with a view of the parking lot, and Fat Bald Detective seems to prefer table lamps to fluorescent lighting. And although you can’t smell the offices of the police stations on TV, I always imagined they’d smell like leftover pizza and cigarette smoke—not Fritos. I guess it’s better than doing this in one of their interrogation rooms. At least in here there’s a couch for me to sit on before they lock me up and throw away the keys. Then it hits me. It’s the couch. The couch smells like Fritos.
“And what happened after that, Riley?” Fat Bald Detective says—again.
Fat Bald Detective has a name. It’s Frank. He said I could call him Frank the first time he brought me in for questioning. Mama doesn’t normally approve of us calling adults by their first name, but Frank told me to and he’s the law. I figure I should probably cooperate as much as possible so he doesn’t get any more suspicious than he already is.
Frank actually has three names. They’re all printed on his door and on the triangle nameplate on his desk. Grandma says that people who use three names are puttin’ on airs, but I don’t think Frank has any airs to put on. He’s short, and bald, and round, and looks like Mr. Potato Head without the tiny black hat, so I think Fat Bald Detective every time I look at him.
“I don’t remember,” I say.
He keeps asking me what happened that day and I keep telling him I don
’t remember. We’ve played this little game for almost four months now. I was ten when we started. I’m a whole different age now. I’ve had a birthday and a summer break since then. I even moved up a grade in school. Detective Chase Cooper on Criminal Investigative Division: Chicago can solve a case in an hour. Forty-four minutes if you fast-forward through the commercials. But Frank will never be as smart as Detective Chase Cooper. Or as handsome. Frank’s really not a bad guy, though. He means well. But I don’t think he’s ever going to crack this case, at least not before I turn twelve. He’s running out of time. So is Mama.
Frank and his officers should be out there trying to find the perp—following up on leads, canvassing the neighborhood. That’s the way they do it on TV, and they always catch the guy. They don’t sit in poorly lit rooms that smell like Fritos questioning the eleven-year-old son of the missing person over and over. But maybe this is just the way cops do things out here in the country. Maybe they don’t watch much TV.
“Tell me again what you do remember,” Frank says in that smiley-calm voice of his that I hate. Like I’m ten or something and if he talks real soft and slow, I’ll spill my guts.
I sigh as loudly as I can, just so my irritation is clear. “Like I already said, Mama was taking a nap on the sofa in the living room.”
It was strange because we only use the living room for special occasions, like on Christmas morning to open presents, or when the preacher from North Creek Church of God used to visit. Somehow the couch in the living room is called a sofa and the one in the den is just a couch. The living room furniture is not very comfortable, but Mama says it’s not supposed to be. Like that makes any sense—furniture that’s meant to be uncomfortable. I’ve told Frank all that before, so I don’t repeat it. I’ve learned only to repeat the important stuff. Otherwise Frank finds new questions to ask. I don’t like new questions.
