A Whispered Darkness

by Vanessa Barger

  “I thought you might want to pick your own colors out for your rooms,” Mom said, sliding her purse on her shoulder as we unloaded from the car.

  “Fantastic.” The news brightened my outlook considerably. The house might be harboring spirits who didn’t want us around, but at least I’d get to decorate my room how I wanted.

  “Have either of you chosen your room yet? We’ve got a few to pick from.”

  Grant nodded. “I want the other tower room on the second floor.”

  She turned expectantly to me. I shrugged. “Haven’t really decided yet.”

  Mom’s gaze sharpened. “Why not?”

  “Haven’t gotten that far.” The excuse was lame. “This was the fastest move ever, Mom.”

  She sighed. “True. But you’ll have to make up your mind when we get back to the house. I want to get you both settled in rooms as soon as we can. The rest of the house can be messy, but you need your own spaces.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Mom moved ahead and Grant fell back. “You didn’t even put up a fight for it.”

  “I don’t want to be on the second floor.”

  He stared. “You want to be on the third? Or in the attic?”

  I snorted. “Hardly. I was hoping for a room on the first floor.”

  Grant stared hard at me for a moment. “I could ask why, but I don’t want to know. It’ll probably freak me out.” I didn’t answer and he shrugged. “You could turn the back study into a room.”

  The image of a dark shadow crossing the doorway made me shudder. “No way. Besides, it’s full of junk. We have enough of our own to move.”

  “Then you’re stuck upstairs.”

  ***

  Grant, not that I’d ever admit it, was right. Which is why I found myself hauling a bucket of “Island Breeze” turquoise paint up the stairs a few hours later. Despite my apprehension, the prospect of a new room made me sort of happy. Mom had given us each a budget and let us go wild. I’d decided on making mine a tropical oasis.

  Now I had to decide where I wanted to make that happen. Grant chose the room opposite Mom’s planned library, at the back of the house, facing the woods. I crept through the upstairs, tension knotting between my shoulder blades. Even though I felt nothing at the moment, being up here still made me uneasy.

  The room next to Grant’s was open, and the bathroom we would share was next door. I stepped inside, and put down the bucket of paint. The room was bare of anything, but the floors looked like they were in good shape. A huge window ran from the left corner halfway across the room. It even had a window seat built in. Most important, when I turned cautiously in the center of the room, nothing bombarded me. There was no malice I could detect. Not even in the closet, which I forced myself to walk into. This was definitely my room.

  “Well? Is this the winner?” Mom glanced inside the room, already in her painting clothes. She walked in and crossed to the window seat. “I thought you’d like this one.”

  I smiled. “It’s got a window seat, and lots of room for my endless bookcases. What’s not to love?”

  Her grin widened and she clapped her hands. “I knew you’d love it. It’s hard to see past the dirt, but once you do, the possibilities are mind-boggling.”

  When she jumped up and hugged me, I returned the favor. I liked the room. Saying I loved the house might be a bit of a stretch, but I wouldn’t rain on her parade. “Let me go change my clothes and we can get painting.”

  She pushed away and wiped her eyes. “I’m so glad you seem to be warming up to the house. I know it bothers you, somehow.”

  The question in her words hung in the air between us. I ignored it. “Just lots of change this summer. It’ll be okay.”

  She cupped my face in her hands. “You’re a good kid.”

  “You’re only saying that because you want me to help paint Grant’s room,” I teased.

  She laughed and kissed my forehead, releasing me. “Did it work?”

  With a dramatic sigh, I nodded. “I suppose so. Let me go get changed and then I’ll come help.”

  Chapter Six

  Painting Grant’s room didn’t take long. We wiped down the cobwebs from the corners, spread out a couple of old sheets, and everyone grabbed a roller or brush. Mom cut in all the corners, and we filled in the remaining walls. We were done in under an hour.

  Then we started on my room. While I swept the floor, Mom and Grant painted the trim, then the walls. When I finished, I grabbed a roller and started on the empty wall next to the closet.

  “This color makes me feel like we should be blasting steel drums,” Grant said, wiping a hand across his forehead. A streak of blue paint smudged his cheek in the process.

  I stepped back to survey the whole room. It was brighter already. “That was the idea.”

  “I think it will look lovely when you get finished.” Mom swiped on one last line of paint along the baseboard and rose. Her eyes sparkled. “The curtains and things you picked up today will be great.”

  Stretching, I dropped my roller in the tray and moved to the window seat. “I’ll have to get a cushion for this.” I traced a fingertip over the wood, which I hadn’t painted yet. There were a few cracks that needed to be filled first. It was dark, and while a bit dingy at the moment, it would be perfect once we got a couple coats of white paint on it. My eyes strayed to the window, where the sun brushed the treetops. The view was relaxing. More than I thought it would be.

  As my gaze drifted over the tree line, I thought I caught the flash of a red coat between the trunks. I squinted, staring closer, but nothing was there.

  “Can we start moving our boxes of things up here?” Grant asked.

  Mom and I turned away from the window. She shook her head. “We really need to clean these floors one more time, then get your furniture and stuff in. If you get up early, we can probably do it tomorrow.”

  Grant groaned. “Come on, Mom. There’s plenty of time left.”

  “We have three more rooms to paint.” Mom smiled. “Since you’re both already dressed for the occasion, I can’t let the opportunity go to waste.”

  ***

  Three hours later, most of the second floor was painted, and Grant and I were draped across the top steps while Mom rummaged around in the kitchen, promising spaghetti and meatballs in under an hour.

  Grant scratched a chunk of paint off his arm.

  “The point of wearing old clothes is to get the paint on them rather than you.”

  “You should talk.”

  I looked down at the spatters of paint on my arms. “I’m better off than you.”

  He snorted. “I’m a boy. It’s expected, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

  I didn’t comment on the sarcastic turn the last words held. Grant was doing a better job of hiding his feelings over the move and the divorce than I expected. We lapsed into silence, the scent of tomato sauce tickling my nose. Downstairs, Mom called our names.

  As Grant rose, the distinct creak of footsteps echoed above us. His eyes widened and he glanced down at me. “Please tell me you heard that.”

  I rose, dusted off the seat of my pants, and nodded. The staircase stretched up next to us, leading to the third floor. We stood, watching the shadows at the top for a brief moment. Nothing moved, despite three more distinct treads.

  “How about some dinner?” I asked.

  Grant raised an eyebrow and jerked a thumb upwards. “With what’s going on? Really?”

  “Can we do anything about it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then let’s get some food. We’re hungry, which we can do something about.”

  I started down the stairs, ignoring the feeling of being watched. Grant didn’t follow. Turning back, he stood at the top of the stairs his eyes trained upward.

  “I’m going to look.”

  “Grant…”

  “No. You’re going to come with me. We’re going to chec
k and make sure what we heard is real.”

  He started up the other stairs, and I rushed after him. If I said I didn’t want to look, I’d be lying. But the curiosity was buried under all the fear—both of what was in the house and of myself.

  “This isn’t a great idea.”

  Grant turned around, his face in shadow as we headed to the third floor. “But you’re here, aren’t you? You haven’t had an episode in ages. You’ve got it under control.”

  That’s what I thought last time. Pushing the thought away, we paused at the top of the stairs. Mom’s voice was muffled now as she called our names again.

  “Be right there!” I yelled down.

  “Now what?” Grant whispered.

  Crossing my arms I arched a brow at him. “You started this.”

  We stood at the mouth of a long hallway, and all I saw in the blackness were doors lining both sides. All were shut.

  Footsteps creaked to my right and I jumped. Beside me, Grant made a small noise and then tried to cover it with a cough. When I looked at him, he shrugged. “Dust.”

  “Yeah.” I roll my eyes.

  Gulping a mouthful of air, I stepped forward and wrapped my hand around the doorknob. Excitement throbbed in the air. Not mine. Not Grant’s. The house was enthusiastic we’d come up here.

  I wiped my other hand down my hip. The metal under my fingers was cool to the touch. Cooler than it should have been up here in summertime.

  I twisted the knob, but it didn’t turn. Locked. I rattled the knob, confused. Something wasn’t right about the handle. It felt…off somehow.

  “What the heck?”

  Grant moved closer. “Open it already!”

  “I can’t,” I told him, moving back. “It’s locked.”

  He reached for it with a grumble. “Who would lock it from the inside? That’s just stupid.”

  I put a hand on his arm. Finally, I registered what bothered me. “It isn’t locked from the inside.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “The locks are on our side, Grant.”

  He froze, his hand hovering over the knob. When he spoke, his voice shook. “Why would they be on the outside?”

  Before I answered, something slammed into the door from the other side. We both jumped, turned, and ran for the stairs. The sound of the wood as it groaned under the loud thuds, and the insistent rattle of the knob, as if someone trapped on the inside was pounding for release followed us.

  Mom stuck her head out of the kitchen door as we hurtled down the stairs, out of breath and panicked. Her mouth pulled into a frown. “What did you guys knock over?”

  “Knock over? We didn’t—”

  I nudged his elbow and shot him a glare.

  “We didn’t knock over anything important.”

  Mom stared at the two of us, and I struggled to put on an innocent face. With a shrug, she turned around and we followed her back into the warmth of the kitchen. Grant looked at me, a question in his gaze.

  “We’ll talk later.” I whispered to him. “She’ll go nuts if we tell her what happened. Or she’ll tell us we’re crazy.”

  “How? We didn’t make it up.” He hissed the words.

  “Old house. It could have been a lot of other things.” I glanced over at Mom. “I’ve heard all the explanations, remember?”

  We both sat down at the table while Mom poured the spaghetti and sauce into a bowl. Grant stared at me, a frown pulling a deep line between his brows.

  I patted him on the back. “Don’t worry so much. It’ll be fine.”

  Grant shook his head. “No, it won’t. Not for a long time. No matter what she does or doesn’t believe. She wants us to be happy. That this house is going to change everything. I think she’s right, just not for the same reasons.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Whatever. Right now, I’m hungry.”

  If we were lucky, it would stop at footsteps, maybe an occasional cold spot. In a home this old, they would be easy to explain away. Hopefully it wouldn’t get any scarier. The thought of those locks upstairs, like prison cells, rose in my mind and I forced it away. We had enough drama of our own.

  I smiled at Mom as she put the food on the table and dished up dinner. Twirling my fork in the pasta, I sent up a silent prayer it stayed quiet.

  Mom finally broke the silence. “So, what do you need for school?”

  Grant shoved a meatball in his mouth, his cheek puffed like a deranged chipmunk. When he tried to make a sound, Mom pointed her fork at him. “Don’t even think about talking with your mouth full.”

  “Well, it would be good to find our book bags. I think we put the school stuff from last year in one box, but I have no idea where it is.”

  She looked relieved. “I knew you’d have them packed together.”

  “Anything to torture Grant, you know.”

  He swallowed a mouthful of soda and burped. “Yeah, thanks so much, Sis.”

  “You’re gross.”

  He pointed at himself. “Boy. Duh.”

  “Not a good enough reason to lose your manners,” Mom said. Under the weight of her glare, he mumbled an apology. “We’ve got about four days to get things sort of cleaned up and put away before Sunday. So you’re going to be roped into service, I’m afraid. No going out unless it’s to get things for the house.”

  For once, Grant didn’t argue. We both nodded our heads.

  “Great. I’m not so worried about getting to the third floor right now. There’s a ton of junk up there, and I have to ask the real estate agent when I talk to him tomorrow and see if the owner wants it back.”

  “How do you know? I thought all those doors were locked.” I stared at Grant as the words fell from his mouth. He shot me a look and a small shrug.

  Mom’s face dropped into a fierce frown. “Been snooping around, have you?” My eyes moved to her, the strange gruffness in her voice sending a chill down my arms. As soon as it came, her facial expression softened and she smiled. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. They aren’t all locked. Just a few. And there’s plenty up there, believe me.”

  Grant mumbled something and resumed stuffing his face. Ignoring the strange moment, I flipped a hand at the back of the house. “You know there’s more stuff in the back rooms down here, right?” I asked.

  Mom hand stopped mid-way to her mouth. “Which rooms?”

  “The two back parlor rooms, or whatever they are. I looked in the one at the end of the hall the other day. It’s full of boxes of paperwork and crap. I think there’s even some old furniture in there.”

  She tilted her head and gave me a strange look. “Claire, those rooms are locked. I’m supposed to pick up the key from the agent tomorrow.”

  Silence fell like a heavy blanket. I blinked and forced a smile. “Oh.”

  “I believe you, honey. But—” she bit her lip and reached across the countertop to squeeze my free hand. “Are you sure you saw it with your eyes? Or was it one of those psychic things?”

  I hadn’t imagined it. But there was no way I could tell Mom that. So I pretended to think about it and then shrugged. “Must have been a psychic thing. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Everyone has gifts. Yours are a bit more unconventional.”

  “Sure.” She squeezed my hand again and released me, turning to Grant and asking him about his plans for his rooms. Her cheerfulness was overdone, but I wouldn’t argue.

  I loved Mom for trying to make it sound like she wasn’t freaked out. Despite her support, I could see it in her eyes. She might say she understood, but it was hard for her. At least she made the effort. It was more than Dad had done.

  More than most people had done.

  ***

  Claire. Help us.

  I blinked in the darkness, confused. Mom snored softly on the couch next to me, and Grant was a dark lump nearby. I shifted, then realized that my arm resting on the outside of the sleeping bag was so cold it hurt. Like I’d just carried a bag of ice for miles.

&
nbsp; I chalked the whisper up to my dreams and laid back against the pillow. Whimpering echoed around me. The sound was faint, but undeniable. Sobbing followed, getting only slightly louder. My heart pounded, but sympathy coursed through me. It sounded like a woman whose world had been torn apart. Raising my head from the sleeping bag I searched for the source.

  In front of the now-blank television, Grant moaned softly and rolled over. The sound ceased, instantly. I waited for what seemed like hours. As I laid down, I grabbed the ear buds from where they’d fallen next to the pillow and put them in. As the music began again, I heard noise again. I popped then out. Grant was crying in his sleep.

  I pulled myself out of the sleeping bag partway, reaching over to shake his shoulder. At my touch, he jumped, his arms flailing wildly.

  “Grant,” I whispered. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

  I could make out his outline as he sat up and rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Are you okay?”

  There was a pause, and I wasn’t sure he would answer me. “I don’t know.”

  “You were crying in your sleep. I figured whatever it was, you probably wouldn’t mind if I woke you up.”

  I tried to be light hearted, but I was concerned.

  “Yeah. Yeah, definitely okay.” He sighed. “Just a nightmare.”

  “Sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

  I waited until he lay back down, and then crawled back into my makeshift bed. But now I was wide awake. All the same, I lay there quietly, willing sleep to come. Just when I thought I’d managed it, I heard a soft scraping noise. My eyes snapped open, and I watched Grant’s outline as he scooted his sleeping bag closer to Mom and I.

  Without commenting, I closed my eyes, slid my hand under my pillows, and restarted my iPod.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days later, the house almost looked like a real home. Walls sported fresh paint, the floors were polished and the corners cleared of cobwebs. After putting the last curtain up, I stood back to survey my room.