The Whispers

by Greg Howard

  Romantic is when you’re with someone you like a lot and you’re having a moment so special that all the butterflies racing around in your stomach make you want to vomit.

  Like, It wouldn’t be very romantic if I vomited on Dylan right now.

  “So, you really think the Whispers know where your mama is?” Dylan asks, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I can’t tell if it’s raised because he also hopes the Whispers know where she is or because he thinks I’m crazy for believing it.

  I count the freckles on his nose for like the hundredth time. Still seven. Nodding, I turn my attention back to the fire so there’s a normal reason for the heat in my cheeks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You probably think that’s dumb.”

  “Nah. I understand a thing or two about missing your mama.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen a woman around the Mathews farm. Just Dylan and his mean-as-a-snake-looking daddy. But I don’t remember ever hearing tell of his mother dying or anything. I want to ask, but it feels too personal. He throws a pinecone on the fire. Like a period. End of story. Next subject. So I drop it.

  When I turn a little to face him, my knee falls onto his. He doesn’t pull away or seem freaked out or anything, so I leave it there. My heart thumps hard in my chest. I pray it stays quiet and doesn’t try to send Dylan some kind of Morse code warning message about my other condition.

  “Do you think Mordecai hurt that boy that went missing?” I ask, hoping Dylan won’t notice that our knees are touching and beat the crap out of me.

  Dylan looks over at me and does that thing again where he lifts the bill of his cap, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and then lowers the cap.

  “Heck if I know,” he says. “But whatever happened to Peetie Munn, people around here sure blame Mordie.” He stares straight ahead, the firelight flickering across his blank face. “I wouldn’t put it past him, though.”

  “Is that why you held your gun on him?” I ask. “Did you think he was going to hurt us?”

  He shrugs and looks away. “I’ve heard a lot of stories about him over the years. None of them good. My daddy says when they were little, Mordie had a thing for torturing and killing small animals for sport. Hid their carcasses under the house.”

  I gag a little imagining the smell. I also wonder if Danny will grow up to be a hobgoblin and live alone in the woods because he likes killing innocent squirrels for sport. Seems likely.

  “He used to drink a lot, too,” Dylan adds. “They say the whiskey brought out Mordie’s dark side. Heard he nearly killed a guy in a bar fight one time.”

  I want to ask Dylan if he thinks Mordecai Mathews could have taken my mother, but I guess I should be careful about revealing my suspicions to a member of Mordecai’s family. Mama always says blood is thicker than water.

  “What does your daddy think of Mordie now?” It’s all I can think to say, but it makes Dylan’s face go dark.

  “My daddy ain’t no count neither,” he says. “All the Mathews men got something rotten inside them.”

  Dylan stares into the fire, his eyes glassy. I don’t even think he realizes it, but he touches the bruise on his face. A single tear scurries out the corner of his eye and runs down his cheek. That’s when I know. His daddy did that to his face. That’s why he has all those clothes in his backpack. He’s running away from home. I also know that even though my daddy doesn’t love me anymore, he would never do that to me, or to Danny.

  Dylan wipes the tear away with the back of his balled fist and clears his throat. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or not, though. He just picks up another pinecone and throws it on the fire. Another period. End of story.

  I look away to give him a moment of privacy and realize that Gary and Carl have gone silent. They’re both asleep on top of their sleeping bags. Gary snorts a little as he rolls over, turning away from us. It’s just Dylan and me surrounded by the soothing chords of nature’s symphony. It feels like we’re the only two people in the world and we’re getting our own private concert. I don’t dare move my knee away from Dylan’s. He doesn’t move his away either. It’s like there’s an electric current running back and forth between us through the small spot where our knees touch. It’s exciting and dangerous all at the same time. It’s also the most perfect moment in the history of moments.

  I rest my head against the log pew and close my eyes, listening to the evening song around us. The cicadas have a solo right now. When they’re done, the frogs bring in the bass line. Then come the birds and the crickets joining in on the chorus. I don’t know if it’s how comfortable I am, or the touch of Dylan’s knee, or the natural music of the woods, but the song Mama wrote for me nearly breaks through the fog in my brain. But it slips away again before I can hear it in my head. I don’t even realize I’ve fallen asleep until I’m awakened by a warm, wet trickle running down my leg.

  I panic. Scramble to my feet and can only stop the flow for about five or six steps into the cover of darkness. With my back to the campsite, I unzip, pull it out, and release the pressure just in the nick of time. The stream of pee is strong and noisy as it hits the fallen leaves. The sound reminds me of the rain beating down on the tin roof of Daddy’s work shed, which unfortunately reminds me of Kenny from Kentucky. Another wave of guilt washes over me.

  Riley James, how do you plead?

  Guilty, your honor.

  I shake the memory loose and tuck it back where it belongs—behind the big wall in my brain where I put things I don’t want to think about too much.

  When the pee flow finally stops, I look down and check my pants. Luckily there’s only a small dark spot, not much more than you get when you don’t shake enough at the toilet before putting your thing away. The pee didn’t get close to the Ziploc bag in my pocket. Mama’s ring is safe once again. I don’t dare look over my shoulder for fear that Dylan is watching me. But when I’m finally finished and everything is back where it belongs, I slowly turn around. The first thing I notice is that Dylan is asleep just like Gary and Carl. The secret of my condition is still safe and I finally exhale for the first time since I woke up. The second thing I notice sends another jolt of panic through my body.

  Tucker is gone.

  I hurry over to my backpack, fish out the flashlight, and click it on. It flickers a moment and then casts a dim but steady beam of light into the darkness surrounding our camp. I point the light straight ahead—then to my left and my right. Nothing but trees. I’m about to wake Dylan when Tucker’s whine calls to me from somewhere out in the darkness. It’s that high-pitched whine he makes when he’s worried about something and can’t explain to me what it is. He’s been doing it a lot since Mama disappeared. It doesn’t sound like he’s too far away.

  I glance over my shoulder. Gary and Carl haven’t moved. Dylan’s head rests against the log pew and a soft purr barely parts his swollen lips. I decide not to wake them. After all, Tucker probably just went to do his business like I did. But it’s dark and the last thing I want to do is get lost out here looking for him. I ease over to the fire as quietly as I can and pick up Gary’s bag of empty peanut shells.

  Tucker’s distant whine calls out to me again and I follow it, clutching the flashlight in one hand and the remains of Mr. Killen’s World Famous Boiled Peanuts in the other. I stick close to the creek, trying to keep my steps light and quiet, which sounds way easier than it really is. Leaves crunch and branches snap angrily underfoot, like they’re irritated that I woke them from a peaceful sleep. The beam of my flashlight dims. I shake it and the light brightens a bit.

  I stop walking and allow the noisy ground cover to quiet down around my feet so I can get my bearings. Tucker’s call echoes ahead, bouncing from one tree to another. It sounds like it’s coming from the left. But to follow it would mean crossing the creek into straight-up hobgoblin territory. Land of Mordecai Mathews and who knows what else.
Maybe the land of the Whispers. I glance over my shoulder. The light of the campfire is a small bright spot of safety behind me, though its glow is shrinking and the outlines of my sleeping friends and my own personal redneck superhero have blurred.

  I take a few steps more, casting the beam of the flashlight over the creek until I spot the narrowest and shallowest point I can find. Part of a log even bridges most of the way across. This could have been where Tucker crossed over. I put the weight of one foot on it, testing its sturdiness, satisfied that I could balance on it half the way and jump the rest if it gives out under me.

  Peering into the utter darkness on the other side of the creek, I call in a forced whisper, hoping not to wake any sleeping hobgoblins, “Tucker.”

  He whines again in response. But I don’t hear his footsteps, which is strange because he always comes when I call. Something’s wrong. I take a deep breath of crisp night air, the familiar scent of honeysuckle and jasmine calming me. With my dog urging me forward and the safety of the campsite, Dylan, and Dylan’s shotgun behind me, I step onto the log and cross over to the other side.

  17

  THE SMARTEST DOG IN THE HISTORY OF DOGS

  I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, but I’m nearly out of boiled peanut shells. I’ve been dropping a couple every few feet, feeling pretty smart for thinking to use them as markers so I don’t get lost out here in the land of Mordecai Mathews. I guess I could’ve used Funyuns, but then my path probably would’ve been eaten up by squirrels or deer. I know Funyuns are just as delicious to animal persons as they are to human persons because Tucker loves them, even though they give him major gas.

  I try not to think about how dark it is just beyond the beam of my flashlight and I don’t dare look to my right or my left. There could be a hobgoblin walking right beside me and I wouldn’t even know. Don’t want to know. Tucker’s call has been steady, like he knows I’m coming and he’s guiding me toward him with some kind of canine GPS. Tucker would have made a great police dog. Or maybe he could play one on TV. They could make a whole show about him. But I know Tucker would never leave me for the glitz and glamour of Hollywood.

  A branch snaps up ahead and I freeze.

  “Tucker?”

  He whines again. Somewhere over to my right. I change course and go in that direction, trying not to think about the fact that the sound I just heard was straight ahead and not to my right. Just a deer, I think, trying to convince myself.

  My last few boiled peanut shells later, I hear his heavy panting ahead. When I spot his outline, bathed in an open stream of moonlight, I’m so relieved I could cry. I drop the empty bag and run the rest of the way to him. Tucker sits there in the center of a wide circle of moonlight, like an alien spaceship is about to beam him aboard. I look up, just to make sure. No spaceship. I want to hug him, but now that I know he’s okay and not about to be abducted by aliens, all I can think about is how angry I am at him.

  I plant my hands on my hips like I do when I scold him, which isn’t very often. “Why’d you run off?”

  My tone is as harsh as I can make it. He doesn’t answer me. He never does. But that’s never stopped me from asking him questions before.

  “You trying to get us both lost out here? Or eaten alive? Or abducted by aliens?” He closes his mouth and cocks his head at me, like he doesn’t understand why I’m so mad at him. That’s when I notice that nature’s symphony has gone completely silent. It must be intermission. I glance around, making sure that we’re alone, the getting-eaten-alive part of my own words haunting me now. And that’s when I see it. That’s when I understand. That’s when I almost pee myself again with excitement because Tucker is hands-down the smartest dog in the history of dogs.

  I turn slowly and look around just to make sure this isn’t a dream. I’m standing in the middle of a clearing about as big as my bedroom, nothing on the ground but a carpet of crunchy dead leaves. I gaze up. There’s an opening in the treetops like a gaping hole in the ceiling of the woods. The moon shines down on us, making the whole area glow like an oasis in the middle of the forest.

  An oasis is a place in the desert with water and palm trees where you can lay out, drink coconut milk, and forget for a few minutes that you’re still stranded out in the middle of the desert.

  Tucker walks his front paws forward and slides the rest of the way down onto his belly in slow motion. And there it is. Sitting right behind him in the dead center of the clearing—a rotted-out tree stump about as high as my waist. Just like in the story of the Whispers. I try to move toward it but my legs are like jelly. I drop the flashlight. A small gust of wind swirls around my body, like it’s trying to help me move forward. I finally take an unsteady step around Tucker and walk over to the stump. It’s about as big around as a dinner plate and hollowed out a few inches deep, kind of like a huge wooden cereal bowl. I run my fingers around the rim, the dry dead bark snagging my skin.

  A familiar scent tickles my nose and I look up to find honeysuckle bushes surrounding the clearing. The scent is strong and I can almost taste the sweet nectar of their blooms on my tongue. Something buzzes my right ear and I duck. A flicker like tiny blue Christmas lights flashes in the corner of my eye, but when I snap my head around in that direction, it’s gone. Tucker watches me, his eyes wide and his head still cocked. That’s his my human is a nut job look. I get that a lot from him.

  “You found it, Tuck,” I say, unable to stop a wide grin from stretching out my face. “Good boy.” I reach down and scratch the top of his head. He responds with a solid tail whack to the ground.

  I stare down into the stump like I’m waiting for some kind of secret door to open up in there. I imagine my body shrinking in size. Falling down the hole and landing in some kind of Whispers Wonderland where I find Mama sitting around eating cake and ice cream with a crazy-looking dude in a big top hat. If only.

  Riley.

  Just like last time, their voices are both right in my ear and also, somehow, everywhere—sailing through the treetops on a rippling magic carpet of wind, leaves, and the smell of honeysuckle. The blue Christmas lights fade in and out around me, but they’re so quick I can’t be sure if I’m just seeing spots, like when you close your eyes real tight. I try not to look directly at them so I won’t have to stay here with them forever like in the story, but I know they’re here. And I won’t waste this chance.

  I slip my hand down into my pocket slowly, like any sudden movement might scare them away or wake me up from this dream that I don’t want to wake up from. I ease the Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and cup it in my hand. Holding it over the stump, I look up into the trees. I don’t know if that’s where they’re watching me from, but it feels like the right place to look.

  “I brought this for you,” I say, my voice raised enough to be clearly heard but not come off as disrespectful. “It’s my grandpa’s. He’s going to be real mad that I took it, but I don’t care. I want you to have it. It’s a tribute.”

  No answer. Just my whispered name again.

  “Do you know where my mama is?” I ask with a slight crack in my voice. “I need to find her. I think she might be in trouble.”

  Another gust of warm honeysuckle wind covers me like a sweet-smelling blanket fresh out of the dryer. I know they can hear me. They understand. The wind dies down. Tucker rises up into a sitting position and watches me. The look in his eyes tells me that he would give anything if he could speak my language right now so he could help me. But I understand his stare just fine. He thinks I’m doing this wrong.

  I place Grandpa’s Swiss Army knife inside the tree stump and take a step back. I pause and consider my words carefully. “It’s my heart’s desire to find Mama.”

  A few moments pass. The wind dies down. The tiny voices grow silent, and no flickering blue Christmas lights tease the corners of my eyes. I have one of those moments where I think I imagined it all—the Whispers, the
hobgoblin, Redneck Superhero Dylan Mathews showing up and saving us. Maybe it’s all been a dream. Maybe any minute now I’ll wake up in my pee-soaked bed.

  No. It has to be real. Because if it isn’t, that means—

  Another branch snaps in the darkness, just beyond the clearing, and I jerk my head around. I stare in that direction, waiting for Mama to step forward. I can’t believe it was that easy. I can’t believe I doubted them. The Whispers are real. They’ve given me my heart’s desire. Now I watch the dark doors of the forest, wondering which one she’s about to step through.

  Tucker pushes up off the ground, the hair on his spine rising—never a good sign. He backs up and growls—his threatening growl, not his playful one. I reach down, pick up the flashlight, and point it into the darkness straight ahead. The shadowy figure that steps forward, about to cross the border of the moonlit ground, is not Mama. It’s too big to be Mama. Too tall. Too wide. Too hairy. Too . . . hobgobliny.

  A high-pitched scream sails out of my mouth before I can stop it. It pierces the night sky, stopping the hobgoblin in his tracks. Actually the thing takes a step back. Like I scared it. Tucker growls and crouches like he’s going to attack. But I’m afraid even Tucker wouldn’t have a chance against a hobgoblin.

  Yanking on his collar, I pull him in the opposite direction. I stumble back but quickly regain my footing. With the flashlight gripped firmly in my other hand, I back out of the clearing. I turn and scour the ground for empty boiled peanut shells. The shaky beam of light finally lands on the empty bag, and then two shells, then three. I follow their path, Tucker and I both running. Trying not to trip and fall. I don’t look back because I don’t want to know if the hobgoblin is chasing us. Surely he’d have caught us by now. My heart pounds away in my chest, like it’s trying to call 911 in Morse code. I hope it gets through to Frank. I’d take the world’s worst police detective over anybody right about now.