Little Whispers

by Glen Krisch

  He wrapped her body, lifting her hips and then her shoulders when he needed to roll the plastic spool under her body.

  The cracking of glass, the tinkling of shards hitting the floor. The sound of a latch opening and a door thrown wide.

  “Go ahead. Take the old man,” Not-Uncle Jack said to the intruders. “It won’t matter.”

  One of her cousins groaned, as if waking, and Uncle Jack let loose a vicious kick into the boy’s torso that elicited a sharp cry, then nothing, not even a whimper.

  Clara’s vision stabilized and the spirits of the dead girls crossed into her line of view: Breann, then Melody, somewhat reluctantly, soon followed by others. So many other dead girls.

  Melody stopped at her side.

  Uncle Jack continued, as if unaware of her closeness, or not caring. The girl reached out with ethereal fingertips, brushed them against Clara’s brow.

  “Don’t worry, Clara. We’ll be waiting for you. At least you won’t be alone …” She drifted away, caught up in the tide of dead streaming by.

  I’m going to die. They know it. They want me to join them …

  Uncle Jack hoisted her off the island counter, resting her on his shoulder like a sack of laundry. At best, she could move her head from side to side, but even that motion flared pain along her neck where he had nearly strangled her to death.

  Clara tried to whisper his name, but her voice was hoarse and her throat burned, as if something inside her had burst.

  “Shh …” he said, “enough talking. Time to rest up.”

  Not-Uncle Jack turned toward the door, and his elbow knocked over the candlestick resting on the counter. Fire sputtered before catching and feeding on the kitchen curtains.

  “Whoopsie-daisy,” he said. “There I go, being a clumsy fool.”

  Clara tensed at the brightness.

  He chuckled, said, “Lights out,” and then slammed her skull against the doorframe as he stepped out onto the deck.

  Sparks flew across her vision and then darkness swept over her in waves.

  Clara’s body rocked on his shoulder as he climbed down the steps to the beach. She heard the shrill cries of the spirits left behind in the summer house. And somewhere, out on the lake, a lone loon issued its haunted call.

  CHAPTER 33

  Rain rattled the windshield so hard the wipers couldn’t keep up. The view ahead was a fever dream of melted forested landscape. Krista kept to the center of the road, praying she would see oncoming headlights long before she risked a collision. As she sped southward along the curving highway, back to the summer house, she once again chanced a quick look at her cell phone. Yes, the ringer was set to full volume. Yes, it was fully charged. Since leaving Edgar behind in the interrogation room, she’d been obsessed with his cryptic words.

  I’m done talking. If you want any real answers, go ask your Poppa.

  She couldn’t imagine Poppa knowing more than what she’d already learned from his unfinished manuscript. She needed her sounding board. She needed to sort this all out with Neal. She could always count on him to see the truth in difficult circumstances, and these circumstances were more fraught with difficulty than anything she’d ever faced.

  If you want real answers …

  After sending Neal three texts, she realized something was seriously wrong. The first, when she reached her car after leaving the prison: On my way home. Miss U. Need to talk. The second, while on the ferry from Wisconsin to Michigan: Is everything OK? The third, halfway home, with mounting dread: Neal? What’s going on? It was easy to miss a single text, but three? It was so unlike Neal to not respond.

  She was really starting to worry.

  She readied a fourth text when she received a bulk notification telling her the first trio of texts had all bounced. She shut off the radio and slowed the car to a crawl before pulling off to the shoulder. Shadows and tangled trees loomed all around her. Rain danced on the tarmac, drummed a dull roar on the roof of the car. The rearview mirror reflected an empty road trailing behind her with no oncoming headlights. She thumbed over to dial the phone.

  She speed-dialed Neal. After two rings, the phone picked up: We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service. She tried Jack’s and Leah’s phones and received the same message.

  Heart in her throat, she dialed Poppa’s landline. The receiver never picked up, even after fifteen or more rings, and would’ve likely continued its shrill tolling if she hadn’t hung up.

  Krista stared at the reception bars on the phone, dumbfounded. It wavered from four to three before dropping off to nothing. The brightly lit reception graphic became slate gray: No Service.

  What the hell?

  She considered flagging someone down, to borrow their phone to call 9-1-1, but in reality, nothing bad had happened at the summer house, at least as far as she knew. She assumed it was a mixture of the weather and the isolation of the hilly terrain conspiring against her cell phone service. It had to be. The summer house was just a few short minutes up the road. She resolved to only allow herself to panic if there was something to panic about, and the only way she would know would be to get back to her family.

  She tossed her phone on the center console, returned the car to the road, and gunned the engine. The wipers frantically tried to part the falling rain, but it was a thankless task; she couldn’t see well enough down the road to justify her speed. After taking a deep breath, she slowed to five miles per hour over the speed limit. Even at that pace, the Volvo struggled to hug the curves as she negotiated the final tense miles.

  Only after coming to a halt in front of the summer house did she realize the windows weren’t lit up from within with lamps. The house was on fire. Flames roiled the front curtains of the library, the front den as well.

  “Oh, my God … oh my God … oh my God.”

  The car lurched to a stop.

  Krista jumped out and sprinted through burgeoning puddles and up the front porch steps. She hesitated, and then touched the doorknob.

  Still cool.

  Warm smoky air greeted her as she charged inside.

  “Neal!”

  There came no reply, at least none she was aware of. Wood crackled and fire roared all around her. The wood-paneled walls were alight, spouting black smoke that whirled like living creatures enthralled with the act of destruction.

  “Leah! Jack!” she called out.

  Still no reply.

  Krista shielded her face with her hand and closed in on the kitchen. She saw no one.

  “Clara?”

  The hallway leading to the kids’ bedrooms was engulfed in flames and impassable. The other direction, leading to Poppa’s room, was smoky, but clear.

  “Poppa!”

  The front door burst open and Neal stormed inside.

  “Krista, my God, what happened? Where’s Clara?”

  “I don’t know! Where is everyone?”

  “I haven’t been here,” Neal said. “I had to take Leah to the hospital.”

  “Jesus, what happened?”

  “Later,” he gasped, wincing at the smoke. “She’s safe. Heidi’s with her. Let’s make sure no one is still inside.”

  Krista said, “I’ll check for Poppa.”

  “I’ll check the bedrooms.” As the fire crept closer, now licking along the ceiling, Neal looked back at the kitchen and down the opposite hallway.

  She held onto his hand, not wanting to let him go. “Just … just be careful. Okay?”

  “I will. You too.”

  He took off into the swirling smoke, muffled by the animalistic sound of burning.

  Krista covered her mouth and nose with her shirt. She squinted against the scorching air and hurried down the darkened hallway toward Poppa’s bedroom. The flames had not gotten so far, the air clearer. Poppa’s bedroom door stood ajar, wide enough to ill
uminate a sliver of hardwood floor bathed in silvery light. Not fire. No fire could be so white, so pure.

  She shoved open the door and stumbled back against the doorframe.

  Breann, and the spirits of a half dozen other dead girls, circled above Poppa’s bed, their ethereal bodies lit up from within by a painfully white light. They shrieked and swooped, lashing him with overly long boney fingers.

  “Poppa?” she said, barely a whisper.

  The immediacy of the fire drifted away. She couldn’t stop staring at these children, these ravening spirits, as they swept down, one after another, and took turns striking Poppa with their jagged, filthy nails.

  Poppa remained transfixed, his face a rictus of utter fear. He flinched in pain at their stinging lashes, but no visible wounds appeared on his skin.

  “Poppa!”

  Every wailing spirit paused in flight and turned their dead-eyed gazes at Krista.

  “Leave me alone,” Poppa said, his face collapsed in shame. “Krista. Let me die.”

  “Yeah, Krista,” said one of the glowing spirits, “let him die.”

  The other spirits joined as a chorus: “Let him die! Let him die! Let him die!”

  Krista felt her hands drawing into fists. “What did you do? What did you do to Breann? To all those other children?”

  “I … I did nothing.” Poppa sobbed, barely strong enough to look at her.

  Krista slammed her palms into the mattress at his side. “Bullshit. Edgar told me. He said you have the real answers. So, tell me!”

  “You have to get out of here. The fire … it’s coming.”

  Krista coughed against the smoke creeping into the room.

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

  “Please, Krista, just go,” Poppa said with defeat in his voice.

  Krista took him by the lapels of his pajamas and shook him violently. His head whipsawed. There was so little left of him, and he had so little regard for his own wellbeing, that he didn’t even raise a finger against her. She shoved him back into his pillows and glared at him, resolute she wouldn’t leave without learning the truth.

  “Like I said, I did nothing,” Poppa said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “So help me God, if you don’t start talking, we’re both going to die tonight.”

  He sobbed, but had no tears left to fall. “I found Edgar Lee Jenkins a long time ago, when he was still practically a child and living in foster care in Wisconsin. And for years his aberrant behavior was my prized subject. If I could make sense of predator/prey relationships in the animal world, I figured I could do the same with humans.”

  “You let all of those kids die?”

  “I thought the sacrifices would be worth it. If I could unlock what made a human predator act out, perhaps it could be stopped. I thought—”

  “You thought nothing!” Breann screamed, dipping close to Poppa, raking her raised claws against his face.

  Poppa screamed and held up his hands in defense.

  Krista’s legs weakened as she backed into Nan’s old dresser.

  “Somehow, he came here, to the Little Whisper,” Poppa said, cowering and whimpering. “I still don’t know how he found me. He might have seen me during one of my observations and followed me back here. I don’t know. But he found me, and that’s when … that’s when something even more vile took hold of him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Krista said.

  “Demons. Unclean spirits set upon the living.”

  “Demons?” she said, incredulous.

  “Don’t discount something you don’t understand. Look around you, Krista. The world is not what it seems.”

  The spirits of the dead children hovered closer, waiting on his every word.

  “Why didn’t you end it?” Krista asked. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she approached the bed. She looked away from her grandfather, to the dead girls staring at her in fascination. “You could’ve stopped it.”

  “I did turn him in. Eventually. But only when he got too close to my family. And by then it was too late. I let too much pain into this world through my inaction.”

  “No, not by your inaction, your complicity.” Krista raised a hand toward Breann. The spirit extended her own fingers, and Krista felt a cold tingle in her fingertips as they came close to touching. “You might as well have killed those kids yourself.”

  Poppa nodded, his eyes struggling to remain open.

  Breann smiled her crooked smile. The anger and grotesque reworking of her features faded away, and in its place, Krista was left with the sweet image of her once dear friend.

  “Thank you, Krista. For seeing me. For believing me.”

  “I never stopped missing you, Breann. I never stopped hoping you were safe.”

  “You must go, Krista. Your daughter needs you. Out by the lake. You must hurry.”

  Krista glanced at Poppa, saw how sincerely he wanted it all to just simply end.

  “Goodbye, Poppa.” Her throat constricted on the words.

  She couldn’t bear to see his final expression. She'd seen enough, learned enough. For as long as she could remember, Poppa had been a part of her life. Not a small part, either, but a foundational bulwark of her life. He had raised her, imbued in her a sense of morality, fidelity, the rigor that comes from strong beliefs held dear. But it had all been a lie. This whole time, he had been—if not a monster—the enabler of one of the most heinous beings imaginable.

  No, she didn’t want to see him now, at his end, and didn’t know if she wanted the memories to remain, which she’d long held so dear.

  The spirits set upon the old man like hyenas on an injured wildebeest.

  So many thoughts assaulted her as she rushed out the door, toward the roaring flames and blistering heat. Krista covered her mouth with her hands to both fend off the smoke and to stifle sobs that, if let loose, would break her spirit. She sprinted down the hallway, hoping she wasn’t too late to save Clara.

  She could sense the dimensions of the house, but with the gathering smoke, she became disoriented when she reached the wide entryway foyer. The smoke thickened, and she couldn’t hear any signs of life. For all she knew, Neal had already succumbed to the fire, and Clara, and her cousins, and—

  My God, I’ve lost them all. My whole family is dead …

  She swooned with dizziness, yet her head cleared the instant a cold hand gripped her shoulder. When she turned, Breann’s fierce smile greeted her.

  “We have to hurry. Clara needs you.”

  Breann took her hand in her own, her touch chilling the depths of Krista’s bones, and gave her a gentle tug. For the briefest moment, Krista felt twelve years old again, chasing after fireflies with her best friend. But just as soon as memory tried to intercede, the reality of the situation shoved it away.

  “Come on!”

  Krista followed her long-dead friend through walls of smoke and spreading flames.

  CHAPTER 34

  Cold rain stung Clara’s face as she regained consciousness. Long before she pieced together what was happening to her, she instinctively understood she was in mortal danger. She didn’t know what was more terrifying, the fact that her brain remained fogged, or that she could barely move a muscle. Rain rattled hollowly, and something slapped and cut rhythmically through nearby water. No, not nearby—it was around her, beneath her. It sounded like … oars.

  Oh, my God. The lake!

  Adrenaline cleared her mind.

  I’m in the rowboat!

  Her right cheek pressed against cold fiberglass. The choppy lake jostled the boat, sending rain puddled in the footwell splashing against her face. She tasted blood in the water and spat, realizing the blood was most likely her own. When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but rolling murk through spattering rain. With rhythmic consistency, heaving shoulders a
nd a curving spine worked the oars, a man grunting with the effort.

  Uncle Jack?

  She couldn’t fathom why he’d taken her, or why he …

  He hit me. Uncle Jack hit me!

  Her head throbbed where she’d been struck, and her crazy uncle was taking her out onto the open water in the middle of a rainstorm.

  “Isn’t the water beautiful?” he said, his voice cutting through the storm.

  Did I call out in pain?

  She didn’t know how he could possibly know she’d woken, not with the wind and rain.

  “The water … from both above and below,” he continued, “it washes away the filth.”

  She didn’t reply, would only break into sobs if she tried, so she remained silent. Huddled with her knees drawn up tight to her chin, she decided her best way out of this was to leap from the boat. She wasn’t the best swimmer, but Uncle Jack might not see her in the darkness. She might have a chance. Throwing herself into the lake’s storm-lashed waves seemed like a safer choice than waiting to see what he had in store for her.

  My God, how is this happening?

  Her Uncle Jack had always been a sweet man. Someone who would rather trap a spider and release it outside than step on it.

  Clara tried to move, shifting from her side to her back, but her limbs were completely immobilized. Her senses reached out, hyper-vigilant, as panic stirred through her.

  She suddenly remembered the sound of plastic sheeting unspooling from the roll. How he had used it to cocoon her.

  Uncle Jack looked over his shoulder, a sharp gleam in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll soon be over,” he said.

  This wasn’t Uncle Jack. His humanity was gone, and his compassion, and in their place was something vulgar, something mean.

  Her lips trembled from both fright and cold. “Wha … what’s going on?”

  “Oh, sleepy head,” he said and chuckled, “I thought it would be a good time for a night swim.”

  “I … I don’t understand.”

  Clara writhed, still unable to free herself, and only succeeded in bumping her head against the side of the footwell.