The Whispers

by Greg Howard

  I tiptoe down the hall to their bedroom. The floor creaks a little, but not enough to alert them to an intruder. In their bedroom, I go over to the cedar box on top of Grandpa’s chest of drawers, open it, and pull out the Swiss Army knife. He’ll never know it’s gone because it only comes out when I visit. I slip it into the right front pocket of my jeans. Retracing my steps, I peek into the den once more on my way out. A commercial plays on the TV now—in color. It’s one of those ads about some kind of pill men take that all of a sudden makes them want to kiss their wife or girlfriend. A beautiful woman and a handsome older man run through a meadow of wildflowers and then stop to make out. It looks like they’re trying to eat each other’s face off. I kissed somebody once. I hope it didn’t look like that. Probably not, because I didn’t take the kissing pill. I glance over at Grandma and Grandpa. They haven’t moved and Grandpa’s completely out now. I’m better at breaking and entering than I thought. No wonder people suspect me of major crimes.

  I’m out the back door with the knife in under five minutes. With a full backpack weighing down my shoulders and a rolled-up sleeping bag tucked under my arm, I set out for the woods. It’s too much stuff to take on my bike, so I walk. Tucker trots at a steady pace ahead of me, but stops, sits, and stares back at me every couple of minutes, letting me catch up. He seems anxious to move me along for some reason.

  “Slow down, Tuck,” I say.

  Like the obedient dog he is, he stays by my side the rest of the way, but complains with a high-pitched whine in the back of his throat. I reach down to touch his head, worried about him being so out of sorts lately. One night last week I found him sitting outside in the rain, just staring out at the cornfield. Tucker doesn’t like the rain, at all. It was creepy. Now I wonder if he heard the Whispers before I did, because hearing things people can’t is one of Tucker’s superpowers. Or maybe he senses something bad is coming and he’s helpless to stop it or protect me from it. Dog persons are smart like that, way more than human persons. And Tucker’s usually right about everything. But this time, I hope he’s wrong.

  When I’m about halfway down the dirt path by the Mathewses’ cornfield, the roar of a tractor sounds in the distance. I imagine Dylan sitting on top of it wearing only his jeans, his work boots, and his Peterbilt ball cap. Suddenly my other condition starts acting up, sparking a tingling sensation down south of my belt buckle. The preacher at North Creek Church of God said those kinds of thoughts would bring me nothing but trouble in one of his fiery sermons about sins of the flesh. I don’t know if he was talking directly to me, but it sure did feel like it.

  At least I don’t have to sit through those kinds of sermons anymore, my face red hot and my butt numb from the hard wooden pews. Maybe the devil is slowly taking over my soul. I’ve prayed for God to fix my other condition for a long time, but He hasn’t. I don’t know why He won’t heal me. Maybe when He hears me praying, he turns on his internal Charlie Brown teacher translator, too. I try to shake the image of shirtless Dylan out of my sinful brain by remembering his busted lip, his bruised cheek, and the darkness in his eyes at Mr. Killen’s store. That does the trick.

  The rumble of the tractor grows louder as it heads in my direction, but the low-hanging afternoon sun blocks my view with a blinding glare. Just when I think I’m about to get a glimpse of my own personal redneck superhero, I see that it’s not Dylan driving the tractor, but his father. Mr. Mathews is a hard, crusty man. Leathery skin creases his face, and his palms are so rough and callused, people say it’s like shaking hands with a brick. He’s the kind of man who probably thinks my father is less of one because we live on Grandpa’s land for free. But that’s just because Grandpa wanted his family close, not because Daddy is some kind of freeloader or something.

  As the tractor nears, Mr. Mathews looks my way, but he doesn’t wave. As best I can tell, he actually kind of scowls at me and makes a hard left, guiding the tractor back toward his farm. Daddy may not like me very much anymore, but I’d choose him for a father any day of the week over Mr. Mathews.

  * * *

  I spot them waiting at the tree line and I’m more than a little ticked that Gary brought Carl along. I’d rather not have to worry about looking out for a whiny little kid when I’m about to embark on the greatest adventure of my life and become the hero of our family and all of Buckingham, South Carolina, by finding Mama after everyone else failed—like Frank. I guess Gary expected my disappointment because he shrugs as I approach them.

  “My mom made me bring him,” Gary says, nodding over to Carl.

  Tucker sniffs Gary’s belly like he can smell the gobs of food stored in there and then goes over to Carl. He lets the kid hug and kiss him on the side of his head. Tucker licks Carl’s face and then lies down at his feet for a rest. Traitor.

  “You better keep up,” I say to Carl with as much authority as I can fake. “This is an important mission we’re on this weekend. You might see and hear things that you don’t understand and I don’t want you freaking out and ruining it for us.” Well, ruining it for me.

  “I won’t,” Carl says with an obvious whine in his tone. That’s strike one.

  I look over at Gary. “Let’s go in over there.” I point north.

  “Why there?”

  I glance at Carl, not sure how much Gary told him about our mission.

  “Because I think they’re that way.”

  “They who?” Carl asks.

  I guess Gary didn’t tell him much after all. Gary ignores his little brother’s question and heads off north. Carl follows him, and Tucker and I bring up the rear. Gary’s pretty loaded up, carrying both his and Carl’s sleeping bags, and a big backpack overflowing with groceries hanging on one shoulder. There’s probably enough food in there for a week. Gary eats a lot when we go camping. I think he goes into survival mode or something, afraid that if he doesn’t eat the whole family-size bag of Funyuns in one sitting, he’ll wither up and die out in the woods.

  Carl has a smaller Batman backpack and carries a boxed tent that we only ever use if it rains. We like to sleep out in the open by the fire. But I can’t fall asleep. I didn’t bring my 409, or my Lysol, not that they would do any good anyway. They don’t make rubber sheets or vinyl covers for sleeping bags. I just have to stay awake for two nights straight. That shouldn’t be a big deal.

  Gary leads us north through the woods for I don’t know how long—probably an hour or so. The light peeking through the treetops dims a little more every few minutes, so I stay alert, watching everything that moves. I don’t really know this part of the woods very well and it feels a little creepy—like a-hundred-sets-of-eyes-following-us-every-step-of-the-way creepy. Maybe it’s my imagination, or just squirrels who haven’t crossed Danny’s path yet, or deer standing frozen, blending in with the foliage as we pass. Or maybe it’s something else. Some other kind of creatures watching us—like the Whispers, like the giant shadow monster I saw last night. Or hobgoblins. I’ll feel better once we stop and build our fire. I remember from fairy tales I’ve heard that trolls are afraid of fire, and I guess trolls and hobgoblins are the same kind of thing. Probably like creature cousins or something.

  “I’m tired,” Carl whines. “When are we going to stop?”

  That’s strike two and we’re just getting started.

  “Shut it, Carl,” Gary barks over his shoulder as he plows ahead, clearing brush and weaving us through an obstacle course of pine trees.

  Gary knows I want to set up camp deeper in the woods than we usually go, but he probably didn’t explain that to Carl. But we have to stop soon, before the sun sets and all the light is gone. Tucker is slowing down. He needs rest and water. I brought his food, if he’ll eat it.

  Gary finally finds a clear path, which makes our going a little easier.

  “Superman or Iron Man?” Gary shouts out.

  It’s a game we play—pitting superheroes against one another
and choosing who’d win in a fight.

  “Iron Man,” Carl shouts back.

  “Superman,” I say. “Without the suit, Iron Man is just a regular guy. Superman has alien superpowers. He would destroy Iron Man.”

  “Wonder Woman or Black Widow?” Gary asks.

  “Wonder Woman,” I call out. Nobody challenges me.

  “Black Panther or Captain America?” Gary says, kicking a branch out of his way.

  “Captain America,” I say without missing a beat. “Captain America is the man.”

  Gary looks over his shoulder at me with a furrowed brow and my cheeks flush hot. I didn’t think Gary would remember the Captain America T-shirt Dylan wore the other day at school, but maybe he does.

  “Since when do you choose anyone over Black Panther, dawg?” he says. “You’re even carrying a Black Panther backpack.”

  I just shrug in response, clearing my mind of any thoughts of Dylan so it doesn’t show on my face. Tucker sprints forward, making a beeline for a creek ahead. He laps up the water and doesn’t stop until we reach him.

  Gary looks around the clearing and up at the dimming sky. “This good?”

  I inspect the area and nod to him. Carl drops to his knees dramatically like he just crossed the Sahara desert. He pulls out a bottle of water from his backpack and downs it in one long, messy swig. It runs all down his neck and onto his T-shirt.

  Tucker sniffs around our campsite. He seems happy enough with the choice, especially the endless supply of fresh creek water he continues to sample at different points along the bank—trying to find the tastiest spot, I guess. Gary and I shed our gear and spread out to gather wood for a fire while Carl sits on a rock panting and just watching us. That kid is useless.

  I don’t venture too far away from the campsite. This part of the woods has an eerie feel to it. A thick collection of soaring pines block what’s left of the fading sunlight. It’s quiet, but not in a peaceful way. More like in a we’re-not-alone-out-here kind of way. And the path we stumbled onto earlier continues deeper into the woods. I wonder where it goes. I wonder if Mama could have walked that very path. Or maybe she was dragged down it. A stab of panic pierces my side and the urge to call out for her overtakes me.

  I cup my hands around my mouth. “Mama!”

  The echo of my cracking voice sails through the woods, bouncing from tree to tree. But there’s no response. I really didn’t think there would be. I guess I just hoped it would be that simple. That she would hear me and holler back. When I turn to face Gary and Carl, they’re both staring at me. Even Tucker sits on his haunches at Gary’s side, his head cocked curiously at me with his seriously, dude? look on his face.

  “What?” I say with a sharp edge in my voice that I didn’t mean to put there.

  Gary shakes his head a little and starts clearing a spot for the fire. I don’t think he meant for me to see the head-shake thing. It was quick, like he forgot his manners for a second. I guess he thinks I’m crazy too. Crazy to think I hear magical wood creatures that can lead me to Mama. Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s what Gary thinks, because I saw the look in his eyes before he turned away. It was something like sympathy.

  Sympathy is when someone thinks you’re a total loser, so they feel sorry for you.

  As in, I don’t need Gary’s sympathy because I’m going to find the Whispers, and they’re going to help me find Mama.

  I mean, why not hope?

  14

  LISTEN, WHITTLE, AND WAIT

  In no time flat, Gary gets a pretty good fire going. He tends it with the concentration of a TV surgeon, adding sticks in carefully chosen spots on his teepee of burning wood. Carl sits on a tree stump, rummaging through Gary’s bag looking for something. I sit on a log as long as one of the pews at North Creek Church of God, whittling down the end of a stick into a sharp point with Grandpa’s Swiss Army knife. I don’t know what I plan to stab with it, but it seems like the smart thing to do. If nothing else, I can use it to roast hot dogs over the fire. Tucker lies at my feet napping. I reach down and scratch his head. He’s so worn out he doesn’t even open his eyes.

  The sun is setting, so it must be around seven thirty. Soon Gary’s fire will be our only source of light. Shadows form and surround our campsite like oddly shaped doors of darkness that can’t lead anywhere good. It shouldn’t be long now. If I could hear the Whispers all the way at our house, surely I’ll be able to hear them loud and clear out here. I listen, whittle, and wait. Listen, whittle, and wait.

  At least a half hour passes and the only thing I hear is nature’s symphony. They sound even better this deep in the woods. But other than that, there’s no wind. No voices. No Whispers. I get up and pace around our campsite, peering into the darkness. Tucker gives up following me around after about three laps. He probably got dizzy because I’m just walking in circles, rubbing my hands together like the friction will somehow draw the Whispers out. Worry settles in my gut like a whole bag of Flamin’ Hot Funyuns. Where are they? What did I do wrong? Should I have come alone?

  Listen, whittle, and wait, I tell myself. Listen, whittle, and wait.

  Gary and Carl sit on our log pew by the fire, gazing into the flames, with no idea of all the crazy thoughts running through my head. This camping trip is no different from any other to them and they both have winsome smiles on their faces, like they don’t have a care in the world.

  Winsome is when you think something is pleasant and fun.

  As in, Gary could stare at Rebecca Johnson’s winsome boobs all day long.

  Gary holds a stick over the fire with a limp wiener dangling from the end. Carl does the same with a fireball of a marshmallow. I guess we’re eating supper now. I’m not the least bit hungry, but I join them on the log pew anyway, sitting with my hands crammed down into my pockets, one cupping the Swiss Army knife, the other holding on to Mama’s ring.

  “Maybe we scared them away with all our racket,” Gary finally says.

  It’s nice of him to say. He knows how disappointed I am. “Maybe.”

  “Scared who away?” Carl says, blowing the flame of his marshmallow out.

  Gary looks over at me. I shrug and roll my eyes, giving him permission.

  “Dawg’s looking for something,” Gary says. “And it looks like we ain’t finding it tonight. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

  “What’re you looking for?” Carl asks me. He has ashy white goo smeared across his mouth.

  I look at him a moment before I answer. Obviously they’re not coming tonight, so what’s the harm? “They’re called the Whispers.”

  Carl wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are they?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” I say, feeling irritated at him for asking. “Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

  I hate that I just said that out loud, but I do wonder, and it stops Carl from asking more questions about the Whispers. I pull the Swiss Army knife back out of my pocket to work on my spear.

  Listen, whittle, and wait.

  Carl looks at me, licking his fingers. “Can I use your knife to sharpen my stick?”

  I eye Carl’s gooey fingers.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But go wash your hands first.”

  Carl pops up off the log pew, causing Gary to lose his balance, but he manages a good save before he bites it on the ground. Tucker stirs and lifts his head, watching Carl walk over to the creek. It’s gotten so dark over there, I can barely see his outline bending down in the glow cast by the fire. Tucker watches him closely. He gets anxious when he can’t keep an eye on all three of us at once.

  Listen, whittle, and wait.

  Carl splashes his hands in the water and wipes them on his T-shirt. Tucker eases up on all fours beside me and his ears point straight up to Jesus. He stares into the dark void on the other side of the creek.

  I reach over and scr
atch the top of his head. “What is it, Tuck?”

  The hair all along his spine rises and a low growl rumbles in his throat.

  “Probably just a deer,” Gary says, not bothered enough to look away from his flaming wiener.

  The snap of a branch somewhere out there in the darkness draws our attention. Even Gary looks over. I grab my makeshift spear in one hand and grip the Swiss Army knife with the other. Gary stands slowly. He walks a few steps toward the creek bank and peers across it into the shadowy woods. Tucker’s growl is steady and building, like a freight train getting closer and closer.

  “I don’t see anything,” Gary says, turning and walking back. “Like I said, probably just a deer.”

  But when Gary sits down on the log pew, unblocking my line of sight, I just about fall over backward. Tucker leaps forward and darts for the bank of the creek, barking and snarling like a wild animal. Carl screams, trips, and scampers away from the creek on all fours. When I shoot up off the log pew, Gary loses his balance and actually does fall over backward. I stare straight ahead and wipe smoke out of my eyes that isn’t even there, just to make sure I see what I think I’m seeing.

  Standing on the other side of the creek, framed by a cape of dark shadows, is a hulking creature standing twice as tall as any of us. The flickering reflection of our fire only gives hints of the creature’s face, most of which seems to be covered in hair. Lots and lots of hair. And those eyes—peering at us like two gator eyeballs floating on the surface of the swamp.

  Gary scrambles to his feet, a string of curses flying out of his mouth. Carl’s scream echoes through the shadowy maze of pine trees. Me? I can’t move. I can’t scream. I just stand there staring at the creature. The only thing separating us from its hairy clutches is the creek, and I’m sure the thing could cross the creek if it weren’t for Tucker’s menacing back and forth patrolling on our side. He barks, snaps, growls, and jumps up and down like he wants to rip the monster to shreds.