Little Whispers

by Glen Krisch

Van.

  The dark blue van had pulled up alongside her, stopping her just shy of the road. And the sliding door opened to the lakeside beach like a hungry mouth. And his gaze rooted her in place. There was something mesmerizing, and she stared back at him, trying to figure it out. And in those violent few seconds, he’d taken her. His strength a monster strength. Her feeble attempts to defend herself subdued with a backhand to the face, followed by the blow to her head.

  And now, he wants to learn from me. About me.

  “You’re so strong, Breann,” the man said. “And beautiful. So incredibly beautiful.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, his touch gentle across the patches of sunburn and freckles. He shushed her and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I bet no one ever tells you that, but you are. Seeing you now, in this very moment, your beauty makes my heart ache, and I want to know everything …”

  She thrashed about, but it was no use. She’d been bound in pliable plastic wrap. All she accomplished was to stoke a heat that had nowhere to go. It gathered across her skin, making her feel feverish and ready to pass out.

  Please, God, save me …

  She had never prayed in her life.

  Not honestly. Not with full hope and devotion. Not until now.

  I will give myself over to You. I will spend my life doing good things for others, and I won’t ever get jealous or angry again. Please, God, get me out of here. Please, God, oh, please, I don’t want to … I … I don’t know what causes that glint in his eyes.

  Breann learned about the glint in his eyes, but not until long after the man learned what made her tick.

  ~

  Breann sobbed incoherently as she cradled her knees to her chest. Her spirit could no longer move, not while trapped in the nightmare of her death, not so long as the new presence—the presence like her but void and vile—held her in its grip.

  She relived her time with the man, an endless stream of horrors stretching across three incomprehensible and agonizing days ending only with the mercy of her final heartbeat. The longer she obsessed over her final torturous days, the more darkness swept into her spirit. And the darkness gave her strength.

  ~

  Leah sat up, drenched in sweat, certain she’d heard a child’s cry.

  “Heidi?” she whispered.

  She listened, growing uncertain about what she thought she’d heard.

  “Clara?” she called out to a night trapped in the stillness just shy of dawn.

  She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, peeled the fabric from where it clung to her chest. A sudden chill rolled across her skin. After turning her pillow over to a fresh side, she settled back in, now cooled off enough to pull the quilt back over her shoulder.

  Her eyes started to flicker closed when a sudden thought crossed her mind.

  “Breann?” she asked the empty room. She waited for a reply long into dawn’s advance, never trusting the silence.

  CHAPTER 17

  The purest form of madness thrived during the ambiguous hours after nightfall. Jack had long known this truth and tonight was certainly no exception. Sure, not all things mad happened at night, but the absence of light left no room for equivocating or self-deception. The darkness revealed all.

  He leaned against the den’s leather couch, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. Children’s voices surrounded him, disembodied pleas he had no sane reason to hear, let alone acknowledge as real.

  Jackssson … Why did you let it happen? they said in a collective hiss.

  They heckled and berated him one moment, innocently cajoled him the next. Nothing would please him more than to lash out, to shout for them to leave him to the silence, to the aloneness he so deserved. No matter his inner turmoil, they continued unabated.

  You could have stopped it, Jackson, the little whispers repeated. We’re so lonely. Won’t you come see us?

  He patted his pockets, only to remember he’d left his flask on the sideboard next to his bed. Probably for the best, he thought.

  Booze and weed had done nothing to numb him from the unravelling around him. Inside him. It had started long before his return to the summer house, had plagued him since Nan’s death. To pinpoint the moment of his decline, the initial tugging at the assorted loosening threads of his sanity, he would have to admit it had begun right damn here, in this very room.

  Trying to ignore the voices, he pushed away from the couch, took hold of the poker and rattled it in aggravation against the ashy logs. A shower of sparks flitted high toward the flue before shedding their heat and light and settling back to the hearth. Almost desperately, he tried to enliven the spent logs, but they had nothing left to give. He sighed and dropped the poker in its stand.

  To his astonishment, even though it was the middle of the night, pure light illuminated the kitchen. The brightness nearly staggered him. Pain throbbed behind his eyes until they adjusted. He braced a hand against the couch until he regained his bearings. Not only did sunlight stream through the windows, he also heard voices in the kitchen, but not those of the tormented children, which had retreated to the periphery.

  He stepped toward the sweet, frail voice he’d nearly forgotten.

  “I remember packing sandwiches like the ones I’m making. I’d make enough for your grandfather and me, but he’d be so nervous watching you play he’d never eat his share. Every. Single. Time.”

  Laughter; the sound magical, soothing.

  Nan …

  Adrenaline seared his heart, left his limbs sluggish. His feet grew heavy, so impossibly heavy, but he pressed on, stumbling through the doorway and into the impossibly lit kitchen.

  Pain exploded across his temple when he saw her, a bone-deep ache that nearly blinded him. He rubbed at watering eyes, blinking until his vision cleared and the pain began to ebb. She stood with her back to him, oblivious, busy making something on the prepping counter. His legs became unsteady as an anguished groan escaped his lips.

  “No, no, this can’t be happening,” he whispered.

  She didn’t react.

  “This can’t be happening!” he shouted.

  Nan remained unmoved by his intrusion. She lifted a bottle of yellow mustard, shook its contents toward the spout and sprayed some on the sandwich she was making.

  “Why did you make the food for Poppa if you knew he wouldn’t eat it?” The voice sounded familiar, but tinny, as if heard through a failing stereo speaker.

  A younger version of himself sat on a stool at the island, waiting for his lunch.

  He didn’t realize how much he’d changed in such a short amount of time.

  “Because he didn’t want you to know he was nervous! ” Jack shouted, suddenly remembering Nan’s reply verbatim from this very conversation.

  “Because he didn’t want you to know he was nervous,” Nan said. She turned from the counter with a smile and a plate of food for her grandson. “If you knew he was nervous, then you might not focus on the game.”

  “Nan, that’s silly,” the Jack sitting at the island said. He bit into the sandwich and mustard gushed across his lips.

  Jack’s mouth began to water as it filled with something tangy. Mustard. He ran his tongue across his lips, tasting it. His mouth began to fill, even as he instinctively started to chew: ham, lettuce, tomato, delicious and cold against the roof of his mouth. He swallowed the guts of a nonexistent sandwich down a throat as dry as desert sand. He gagged, and closed his eyes, gasping for breath as a sliver of ham went down the wrong pipe. Mustard stung his nostrils. He coughed and spit, feeling helpless as his body resisted choking.

  A hard slap hit him between the shoulder blades. And again. His windpipe opened and he took a gulp of air. The chair beneath him felt real. Solid. Familiar. The food slid down his throat. Air inflated and calmed his lungs.

  “You always eat too fa
st. Ever since you were little.” Nan stood at his side, still with her hand on his back, no longer slapping but rubbing in gentle circles. Like she always had. Like she had when she was alive. The pain at his temple flared and ached.

  He wondered what was happening: a seizure, an embolism, something to disrupt his grounding in reality.

  Jack blinked through watery eyes, looked back over his shoulder—from the island, now—only somewhat surprised not to no see a slightly older version of himself standing near the doorway observing this interaction. He was here. Now. In the daylight. It was once again November 3rd, a year and a half ago. He would always remember the date. Always.

  He remembered feeling so happy in this moment during its first iteration. Nan, just as she had before, left his side to fetch him a glass of cold water. It was all playing out as it had. Why did it have to be this day of all days?

  Nan brought the water to the island, set it next to his plate, placed a reassuring hand on his forearm. “You okay now?”

  He stared at her, certainly longer than the first time he experienced this conversation, as if expecting to discover something amiss. Her eyes narrowed as she awaited his answer. He rested a hand on hers. Warm. Solid. Real.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Jack cleared his throat. “Just the wrong pipe is all.”

  “You’re thirty years old, Jackson. I shouldn’t have to tell you to slow down when you’re eating.”

  He felt a sudden immeasurable anger. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not when he could vary from the script of this memory at any moment. He could climb onto the island and backflip to the floor. He could sing the theme song to Sesame Street at the top of his lungs.

  Nan, she was here now.

  Since her passing, he’d often thought he’d trade nearly anything to see her alive once again. And, somehow, it was happening. Instead of pushing back against the memory, he embraced it. He delved into his memory, found the appropriate response.

  “I know. Funny, I find myself doing the same thing with Trevor.”

  Something niggled at the back of his brain, but he tried his best to ignore it.

  “You’re doing such a fine job with my great-grandson.”

  Nan sat on the stool next to him.

  He’d forgotten the sparkle in her eyes, the mixture of wisdom and love. He wanted this moment to last, but just as any memory was merely a series of details and chain reactions, this recollection continued, as if propelled by some greater outside force.

  “I never thought I’d live long enough,” she said, “to see another generation born, let alone grow into a fine young man.”

  He felt an even stronger reaction to Nan’s words than the first time around. Emotion tightened his throat. He’d come here to get away from Trevor, who was staying for the weekend with Leah, Curtis, and their kids. Jack had felt guilty for feeling overwhelmed by his own son, who only wanted to spend every waking minute with him, to strangle him with hugs and sit antsy-pants while Jack read aloud, yet again, James and the Giant Peach. He’d felt guilt then, more so now.

  To defuse his emotions, he grabbed the one remaining plate from the counter. He’d bring it to Poppa’s writing desk, where he was hard at work on his new book.

  He would. Not Nan. No, not again.

  “Oh, thank goodness you noticed.” Nan took it from his grasp, even though he tried gripping the plate harder, tried to clench it so hard he imagined the ceramic shattering into a million pieces. “When he’s in the middle of a book, he’d forget to eat if I didn’t put food right under his nose.”

  “But …” Jack wanted to divert her from the task, to sway her from her destiny. His body wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Be right back.” Nan left the kitchen, humming a light tune.

  “Okay,” he said, as if the choked whisper of a word had been forced out from his lungs by a giant fist.

  The niggling at the back of his brain—a warning.

  He tried to turn back in the direction Nan had gone, but his motions were not his own, or rather, at least not of this moment. As he strained to move counter to history, sweat traced his forehead, gathered at his temples. He tried to avoid sitting. His eyes widened as his hand lifted the sandwich to his mouth. He tried to avoid its advance, but he bit into it, chewed.

  Nan returned to the kitchen, her face stark white, her gaze distant.

  “Is something wrong, Nan?” he asked. The words came easily. It was no stretch to feel unease with how drastically her appearance had changed in that short time.

  “Just … I’m just fine, dear.” She walked zombie-like toward the sliding door leading to the deck. “I need to water my plants.”

  “I can do it.”

  Please let me do it! Please, just stop. Please don’t do it! The words stuck at the back of his throat. Jack tried with all his might to spit them out, but couldn’t.

  “No need. You finish up your lunch.”

  She went out the sliding door, closing it behind her. She lifted the metal watering can from the corner of the deck and walked out of view. The spigot squealed when she cranked the dial. Water gushed into the metal can.

  Jack smiled. Not that he wanted to. Not when he knew what was about to happen. He smiled because, in truth, in the time of its happening, he didn’t really want to help Nan. He’d wanted to finish his sandwich, maybe peruse the fridge for iced tea. He’d only offered to help because he’d known she’d turn him down. The smile broadened as he took another bite from the sandwich. Sweat streaked his face, dampening his shirt collar.

  Nan came back into view.

  Jack watched, transfixed, as she touched a delicate yellow blossom. She pinched a weed from the soil, tossed it over the railing. After watering each and every plant, she returned the watering can to the corner of the deck.

  Jack finished his lunch and placed his plate in the sink.

  Nan stood at the threshold of the top stair. She crossed herself—something he’d found odd the first time, and doubly so now—and stretched her arms out wide. She shifted forward on the balls of her feet, as if bracing against a great gale blowing off the lake. She leaned farther still, and somehow he knew her eyes were closed.

  Jack, still fighting the force holding him in place, felt the grip on his muscles loosen. He managed to take a step against the will of history, and a second step more easily, the third nearly normal. He reached the door and yanked it open, but he was too late.

  Nan pitched forward until gravity took hold of her and she fell out of view.

  Her body thudding down the twenty-odd steps came back to him in memory even as he relived them. By the time he reached the railing, she had come to rest in a twisted heap of broken bones.

  Jack screamed—then and now—descending the steps two and three at a time. When he reached her side, he lifted her bloodied head onto his lap.

  She was dead. Again, she was gone.

  Madness roared through his head with the force of an approaching storm, a rush of screaming wind. The violence played a shrill song upon the surrounding trees. It was inside him, threatening to tear his mind apart.

  Unable to witness her perpetual stare, Jack covered Nan’s open eyes with his palm. The heat of her face drained away. The roaring in his ears dampened to a whisper.

  He looked down at his lap, now empty.

  Darkness pushed away the remnants of memory.

  He sat on the sandy final step, alone, his head swaying. The sounds of laughing children filled the audible void; they jeered his weakness, his absence of light.

  CHAPTER 18

  Clara fought against rising from sleep, not wanting to ruin the nearly overwhelming sense of joy strumming through her. A smile creased her face. Low laughter filled her belly. Her eroding dream made her nerves tingle with excitement, yet she could no longer ignore the cool pillow against her cheek. As she struggled to maintain the elusive
tether, she not only drifted toward waking, she felt impelled from sleep, thrust from its warmth.

  Clara willed her eyes closed as she grasped in vain to the tenuous details funneling away from her. She had been running, all day and night and the day to follow, through brambles and tangled undergrowth, a wilding crossing burgeoning creeks, through quiet prairies filled to brimming with whispering grasses. And still she ran, with enthusiasm, joy, and … jubilation.

  She could no longer hold on to the final wisp of her dream; just realizing it made it so. She was left with its effervescent emotion. As she acknowledged the willowy cotton sheet covering her bare shoulders, as she sensed the enclosed air around her, she immediately fell into her impulse to sound out the word.

  “Joo’b∂-lā’sh∂n,” she whispered.

  The act of rejoicing. A celebration or other expression of joy.

  Yes, that sounded right.

  Her smile remained as her eyes opened to bright sunlight. She didn’t normally wake up so chipper, feeling so full of life. But she didn’t mind, not one bit, even though she didn’t know why she felt so … jubilant.

  Heidi muttered in her sleep in the bed next to her. Hoping not to wake her, Clara carefully swung her feet to the floor and stood.

  A white envelope with her name scribbled in pencil across the front leaned against the lamp on top of the dresser. Poppa’s shaky script. Her smile wavered as she pried open the sealed envelope with shaky hands.

  For some reason her smile widened, even before reading a single word of the densely packed letter. She skimmed his words, knowing she would read them again and again throughout her day, only slowing to a snail’s pace when she reached the midpoint:

  “… so I need to ask your discretion. This is a secret adventure I’m sending you on. No one needs to know but you and me. The power of a secret is in its keeping. The fewer people in the know only increases its power.

  “I’m assuming you’ve heard the name Charles Darwin. A long time ago, he sailed on a ship called the Beagle. His duties were to record his observations of the natural world. Darwin noticed something peculiar once they set anchor in the Galapagos. The birds, finches in particular, varied from one small island to the next. He hypothesized the slightly different environments shaped their evolution. With the passing of generations, they changed according to their surroundings. This is one of the most monumental scientific discoveries of the last few centuries. And you know what? Darwin didn’t publish his findings for twenty years. He cherished this secret.