The Whispers

by Greg Howard

  Carl stumbles back and knocks into my legs. “What is that?” he yells.

  I stare into those beady gator eyes bearing down on me, and the word catches in my throat. I barely get it out in a whisper.

  “Hobgoblin.”

  15

  THE HOBGOBLIN VS. THE KING OF THE REDNECK SUPERHEROES

  My crazed guard dog and the creek separating us from the creature keep me from turning tail right that second and running home, screaming like a banshee. That and the possibility that this thing could be holding Mama captive somewhere out here in the woods keep me anchored to the ground. I hold out my Swiss Army knife and make a great show of extending the larger blade. Gary picks up a thick branch and holds it over his head like a baseball bat. Carl cowers behind us. Useless.

  We stand our ground—me, Gary, and Tucker. The hobgoblin doesn’t move either. It’s a standoff, just like on the cop shows on TV. If only Detective Chase Cooper were here. New sounds echo behind me—the rustle of crunching leaves underfoot followed by the jarring pump action of a loaded shotgun. My heart races. Maybe there’s more than one hobgoblin. And they have guns. We’re surrounded. We all spin around, Carl with a gasp and me and Gary holding our weapons over our heads, ready to strike the hobgoblin’s accomplice.

  Dylan Mathews stands a few feet away, the flames of our fire flickering across his recently damaged face like war paint. A backpack and a rolled-up sleeping bag sit at his feet, and the butt of his shotgun rests against his shoulder. He points the barrel directly at the hobgoblin. I can barely breathe at the sight of him. My own personal redneck superhero steps forward, parting us like Moses parting the Red Sea. He doesn’t even glance our way, so laser-focused is he on his hobgobliny target. He walks right up to the edge of the creek beside Tucker, who instantly decides he’s an ally and not another threat. Dylan has that way about him, and Tucker has always been a great judge of character.

  “Mordie,” Dylan says in a raised but steady tone, silencing Tucker’s bark. “Get on out of here, now. Just turn around and walk away.”

  The hobgoblin stands motionless, training its beady gator eyes on Dylan. Tucker growls a warning for the thing to obey Dylan’s command. Still, it doesn’t move.

  “I mean it, Mordie,” Dylan calls out, taking another step forward. “Go on home now.”

  The hobgoblin stares at him. A few tense seconds tick by before the thing slowly backs away, never taking its eyes off Dylan. Finally, the creature disappears completely into the shadows of the woods. Dylan lowers his shotgun and stares out into the darkness where the thing just vanished into thin air.

  “Holy crap!” Gary exclaims, a little too loud. “That was insane!”

  Tucker returns to my side, panting to high heaven. I stare at the back of Dylan’s straw-colored head until he turns around and looks at us. The bruise on his cheek is a little less noticeable in the shifting firelight, and though the caked blood is gone, his lip is still swollen.

  “What the heck was that thing?” Gary says, pacing around the fire with the energy of a thin person.

  “Hobgoblin,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Dylan squints at me. “Hobgoblin?” He shakes his head and chuckles under his breath, causing my face to heat from the inside out. He goes over to his backpack. Squatting down with his knees spread apart, he picks up his Peterbilt cap from the ground and slips it on. He pulls out a bottle of water and gulps the whole thing down.

  “Y’all shouldn’t be way out here,” Dylan says, looking up at me, panting a little. He sounds like an adult, scolding us.

  I glance down at his open backpack. Ours are filled with snacks and soda, but Dylan’s looks like it’s stuffed to the gills with clothes, like he’s going on a trip or something. When he catches me staring at it, he closes the flap quickly.

  “What are you doing way out here?” I say boldly, although I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see someone in my entire life.

  “Hunting,” he says. “But y’all are so loud you scared off all the friggin’ deer.”

  I nod to his backpack full of clothes and his sleeping bag. “How long were you planning on hunting?” The sharp look he shoots me shuts me up. It’s the same look Daddy gives me sometimes.

  As he stands, I look him up and down. In jeans, a white T-shirt under a light camo field jacket, and hiking boots, I guess he could pass for a hunter. But it’s kind of late and dark to be out hunting deer. Something seems fishy. But honestly why he’s here isn’t the most important thing at the moment.

  “You called that thing Mordie,” I say.

  He nods, like it’s no big deal for hobgoblins to have human person names or that he knows one personally.

  “Mordecai Mathews,” he says. “He’s my dad’s cousin.”

  My heart responds to the name with a hard thump against my chest.

  “That was Mordecai Freaking Mathews?” Gary says, stepping forward. “I thought he was dead.”

  I did too. Grandma used to call Mordecai Mathews a ne’er-do-well and a no-good-for-nothing drunk. Most people thought he was strange but harmless—up until Peetie Munn went missing a couple of years ago. I never knew Peetie. He was a little younger than me and homeschooled. I remember people whispering about how Mordecai Mathews did something bad to the kid. But after the world’s worst police department let him go, Mordecai just up and vanished. Left town or dead. Nobody knew exactly. Except Dylan, I guess.

  “He’s lived out here in the woods for a while now,” Dylan says, scratching the back of his neck the way Daddy does sometimes. “I’ve run into him a couple of times when I’m hunting, but he usually keeps his distance.”

  I think about Mama and poor little Peetie Munn and wonder if the world’s worst police detective has linked the two cases yet. I doubt it. Frank probably doesn’t even know what a cold case is. If he watched more TV, he’d know that they make whole shows about them.

  “Is he dangerous?” I ask.

  Dylan shrugs and sits on our log pew by the fire. “He’s big enough that he could be if he wanted. My daddy’s told me some pretty crazy stories about Mordie. Says he ain’t right in the head.”

  I claim the spot on Dylan’s right before Gary or Carl can. Carl kneels on the ground beside Tucker, who has completely bottomed out from all the excitement, panting so hard his rib cage expands and deflates like a giant furry accordion.

  Dylan shakes his head like we’re just a bunch of dumb little kids who don’t do what they’re told. “I guess I can hang out here until morning, but then y’all need to head back to the tree line.”

  “I can’t go back,” I say, my voice way whinier than I’d intended.

  When Dylan turns to me, I realize how close I sat down next to him. His face is so near to mine that his nicotine-scented breath tickles my nose. As nasty as cigarette breath usually is, coming out of Dylan’s mouth it has a totally different effect on me. Like magic fairy dust that makes me dizzy and tingly all over.

  I look him straight in the eyes and keep my voice steady. “I have to find the Whispers. They know where my mama is.”

  Dylan holds my gaze a moment, the reflection of the fire dancing in his sad, rust-colored eyes. He glances over at Gary, who just shrugs in response. Dylan looks down and sighs like a weary old man. He lifts his cap off his head, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and then recrowns himself—King of the Redneck Superheroes. It’s a very grown-up-looking thing to do, like Dylan is a full-on adult man trapped inside the body of a fourteen-year-old boy. That is, a fourteen-year-old boy who kicked puberty’s butt way earlier than most kids his age.

  We all watch him. Even Tucker lies there staring up at him, as if waiting for his orders. Dylan has that way about him—he’s in charge now and we’re helpless to make a decision without him. He sighs again, loud and sounding annoyed that we screwed up his plans, whatever those were. Skipping town, from the looks of i
t.

  “Just get some sleep,” he finally says, looking at us. “I’ll stay up and keep watch in case Mordie comes back.”

  I exhale, feeling instantly safer and less like I want to run all the way home hollering at the top of my lungs like a Pentecostal preacher at a tent revival. But the idea of falling asleep and peeing myself with just Gary and Carl around was bad enough. No way can that happen now that Dylan is staying.

  “I’m not very sleepy,” I lie. “I can stay up and help you keep watch.”

  “Cool,” Dylan says, but I can’t tell if he really cares or if he’s just humoring me.

  Humoring someone doesn’t have anything to do with telling jokes. It’s more like saying whatever you think someone wants to hear just so they’ll shut the heck up.

  Like, I don’t care if Dylan is just humoring me or not, because I think sitting by the fire with him all night is a winsome idea.

  Gary stokes the fire with a stick the length of his arm. “I don’t think we’re going to get much sleep tonight. We all might as well just stay up.”

  Traitor.

  “I want to go home,” Carl whines. I knew that was coming. Strike three.

  “Shut it, Carl,” I say. I give him a hard look, silently scolding him to man up. It’s a look I know well because I’ve gotten it from Daddy a lot over the past few months.

  Dylan slides his tightly Levi’d butt down off the log pew onto the ground beside Tucker, who sidles up next to him. He rests his arm on Tucker’s back and runs his fingers through the thick fur. They look like they belong together. I don’t know which one I’m more jealous of—Dylan for stealing the attention of my dog, or Tucker for having actual physical contact with Dylan Mathews, King of the Redneck Superheroes. His hands are probably rough from working the farm all day, but I don’t guess I’d mind too much if he wanted to scratch my neck too—not that he would ever want to. I know I’m nowhere near as beautiful as Dylan, but I’ve been told I’m very sweet. Like a lot.

  * * *

  Danny walks up holding a video game in his hand. “Mama, can I get this?”

  I glance over at the game. There’re some real muscular army guys on the cover, so I hope she says yes. Mama looks at the price tag and her forehead crinkles.

  “That one’s too expensive, sweetie,” she says to Danny. “Go try to find something cheaper. A lot cheaper.”

  Danny rolls his eyes and huffs. “Dang, Mama.” He stalks away.

  Mama calls after him, “Watch that mouth, young man, and don’t be so melodramatic. It’s just a game.”

  I grab the family-size pack of Walmart brand toilet paper we usually get and drop it into our cart.

  “Thanks, Button,” Mama says, studying her shopping list.

  “Mama?” I say.

  She marks toilet paper off her list. “Hmmm?”

  “What does melodramatic mean?”

  She looks at me and smiles, then touches her chin with the cap of the ink pen for a second before answering. “Melodramatic is like when you show your tail over something that really doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.”

  I giggle thinking about Mama calling Danny melodramatic. And that she said tail.

  She pushes our cart forward and winks at me. “Use it in a sentence, Button.”

  I squint my left eye and twist my mouth, which sometimes helps me think of good sentences when we’re playing the word-of-the-day game.

  “Grandma had a very melodramatic reaction when Mr. Killen stopped carrying Birds Eye Deluxe Halved Strawberries (in syrup).”

  Mama laughs out loud, like she doesn’t care if all of Walmart hears her. “She sure did. Good one, Button.”

  “Carolyn?” a female voice calls out. “Carolyn James?”

  Mama and I both look up to find a dark-headed woman smiling at us and holding a plastic shopping basket. She’s rail thin and just okay looking—not beauty-queen pretty like Mama, but that’s not the woman’s fault, so who am I to judge?

  “Sandy?” Mama says, sounding surprised. They walk to each other and hug.

  “I didn’t know you were in town,” Mama says, holding the woman at arm’s length. “What’s it been, two years?”

  “I know,” the woman says. “Too long. And Mother is not about to let me hear the end of it, believe you me. Just here for a quick visit.”

  Before Miss Sandy notices me, Danny pops up out of nowhere and shoves a different game in Mama’s face—no muscular army men on the cover this time. I checked.

  “Can we afford this one, Mama?” he says, being rude as usual.

  Mama pushes the game down out of her face and smiles at Miss Sandy.

  “Oh my God!” Miss Sandy says. “Is this Danny?”

  Mama nods and Danny smiles that big toothpaste-commercial smile of his at her. He only pulls it out when he knows grown-ups are about to tell him how good-looking he is. I creep up behind Mama, hoping to get a similar reaction.

  “He was always THE most beautiful child,” Miss Sandy says to Mama. “Remember how everyone thought he was a girl when he was little?” They both laugh, Miss Sandy way more than Mama. Danny rolls his eyes. He’s heard this a thousand times before and he never likes it.

  “And now he is THE most handsome young man,” Miss Sandy says. “You and Daniel must be so proud.”

  I lean against Mama’s backside, a little worried now about being compared to Danny and all of his beauty-ness and handsome-ness. But Mama’s not having it, because I feel her whole body stiffen. She never likes one of us to be left out in favor of the other. She steps aside and pushes me forward, right in front of Miss Sandy.

  “Thank you,” Mama says. “And you remember Riley, don’t you?”

  Miss Sandy gives me that oh-bless-your-heart head cock and tight smile, like she’s constipated or something.

  “Of course I do,” she says, slapping her palms on her thighs like she’s totally lying. Or like she thinks I’m a stray puppy. “Little Riley. Always THE sweetest little boy.”

  That’s it. That’s all I ever get. Sweet. She’s back to fawning over Danny and running her fingers through his thick, wavy brown hair. It’s okay. I’m used to it. Danny may have movie-star good looks, but he’s a squirrel serial killer and I’m not.

  “Well, it’s so good to see you, hon, but I have to get a move on,” Miss Sandy says. “Mother’s waiting in the car and you know how impatient she gets.”

  “Tell her I asked about her,” Mama says, even though she didn’t ask about Miss Sandy’s impatient mother. They hug again. Before Miss Sandy walks away, she gives Danny a kiss on the cheek, leaving a smudge of red lipstick, and then musses my hair. I hate it when people muss my hair. It’s like a lame consolation prize.

  A consolation prize is a crappy parting gift they give losers on game shows that’s nowhere near as good as the grand prize—sort of like a participation ribbon.

  As in, When I was born, Mama and Daddy must have thought I was a consolation prize baby because you can’t win the grand prize twice in a row.

  Mama pulls me close to her side and squeezes my shoulder. “Danny, go put that back. It’s still too expensive.”

  Danny huffs and puffs as he walks away but doesn’t talk back. I watch him until he turns the corner.

  “Will I always be the ugly, sweet one?” I don’t know why I said it out loud. I was just thinking it and the words just kind of jumped out of my mouth. Some words have a mind of their own.

  Mama looks down at me. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I say back, looking up at her.

  She winks at me. “Why do I call you Button?”

  I roll my eyes, but can’t stop my lips from curling up. “’Cause you think I’m cute as a button.”

  She nods. “That’s right. And whoever heard of such a thing as an ugly button?”

  I giggle.

  “I mean, wha
t would happen if there were no buttons in the world?” she says, her eyes all big and crazy-looking.

  “We have to have buttons, Mama,” I say, still giggling. “Or else our shirts and pants would fall off.”

  She starts pushing our cart down the aisle again and nods once. “That’s right, sweetie. The world would be one hot mess without buttons.”

  16

  THE MOST PERFECT MOMENT IN THE HISTORY OF MOMENTS

  Gary has finally calmed Carl down by playing the superhero game as they lie on top of their sleeping bags next to the fire. They’re wolfing down some of Mr. Killen’s World Famous Boiled Peanuts and tossing their empty shells into a brown paper bag like they’re shooting hoops.

  I look over at Dylan. He stares into the fire as he spoils Tucker with the longest neck scratch in the history of neck scratches. Tucker’s eyelids droop with pleasure like he’s high on the devil’s weed or something. Feeling the need to reclaim Tucker’s attention, I slide down off the log pew and join Dylan on the ground. Tucker immediately pops up, circles the fire, and lands right next to me, like I knew he would. He gives me an apology lick on the side of the face and then settles on my left. I forgive him and rest my arm on his back, digging my fingers down into the soft, thick fur of his neck.

  “Wow,” Dylan says, grinning through a yawn. “I guess he knows who’s the boss.”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I’m the one who feeds him every day.”

  Dylan chuckles a little. “Yeah, I can’t compete with that.”

  We sit there in silence—leaning against the log pew, staring into the flames, our shoulders only inches apart. The fire crackles, pops, and hisses like it’s telling us a story. Nature’s symphony blends into the background of the shadowy woods around us like a movie soundtrack, rising and falling in volume in all the right places. If Gary and Carl weren’t on the other side of the fire arguing about a possible Deadpool and Spider-Man matchup, I might even call it romantic.