Whispers

by Lynn Moon

  For those reason alone, I felt it important to know something about this tunnel. The other one, we just ran through—I never actually looked at the walls or the ceiling. This time, I had to know more.

  “Hunter, may I see the light for a second?”

  After he passed it to me, I pointed the light at the ceiling. A smooth, curved surface ran from one wall to the other. If this tunnel was made from bricks, then a covering was added.

  “What do you think this place is made out of?” I asked.

  “Either concrete or bricks. Since the house was built about fifteen years ago, I’d argue it was concrete. Much cheaper than brick. There may be cinder blocks behind here, but unless we break it apart, we won’t know. The drawings in your dad’s study might tell us more.”

  I slapped my head. “We forgot to grab the house plans.”

  “I know,” Hunter said. “I figured we’d get them later.”

  “What about the floor?” I asked, shining the light down.

  “The same; concrete.” Kneeling down, he wiped away some dirt. I placed the flashlight in his hand. “Now this is odd. The floor used to be a dark red.”

  “Isn’t that strange.” I knelt down next to him. “Look guys, the floor was red at one time. I wonder why?”

  “Red usually means danger,” Charlie said, backing up toward the stairs. “Maybe we should go back now.”

  “Red could mean anything,” Quinton added.

  “I do not like this,” Charlie replied, her voice cracking.

  “If you’re uncomfortable, it’s okay to go back,” I said, standing up. “I’m sorry, but I have to walk this tunnel.”

  “Fine,” she said. “If we’re all going to die, then let’s get it over with.”

  Hunter and Quinton laughed, but Charlie was right. We probably should not be down here.

  “Okay,” Hunter said, flashing his light first one way, then the other. “Which way first?”

  “Does it matter?” I said. “Pick a direction.”

  “Fine. We’ll go this way,” Hunter replied.

  The sound of the sand and dirt beneath our feet pulled in a biting chill that made my skin crawl. The deeper into the tunnel we walked, the more something kept tugging me back. Every so often, we stopped and listened. The silence was worse than the absolute darkness.

  After what seemed like forever, Quinton whispered, “What was that?”

  “What was what?” I asked.

  “I heard something,” he said.

  “Did anyone else hear anything?” Hunter whispered.

  We stood in the darkness trying to hear. But the only sound I heard was the constant ringing in my ears.

  “Wait,” Charlie said, reaching for the light. “I just heard it, too. Like a heavy breathing or something.” She pointed the light back the way we came. All looked clear. As she swung the light past us and down the unexplored section, we all screamed. About twenty feet in front of us was a man that, to me, looked just like my father, and he was heading straight for us.

  “Run!” I yelled.

  With the beam of light now flailing against the walls, the constant blinking made it difficult to see. Several times, I ran right into the back of Hunter.

  “Run!” I screamed again. “Hurry or it’ll catch us.”

  “I see the stairs,” Charlie screamed back.

  Taking the turn at full speed, I almost fell twice. Each time, Hunter grabbed my arm to pull me up. I was never so thankful to have such a strong friend as I was just then. Stumbling into my closet, we darted into my bedroom. Quinton pushed the closet door shut and leaned against it.

  “Do we have anything to block this with?” he asked.

  “Hurry, before he gets here!” I ordered.

  Quinton pushed against the closet door.

  “I’ll get a hammer and nails,” I said, running from my room.

  It took me a few minutes to find the nails in the garage. By the time I got back, all was quiet. The creature or thing must have given up.

  “I don’t think anyone was really there,” Hunter said, taking the hammer and nails from me. Hunter slowly opened the closet door and looked inside. Not knowing if it was safe, he held the hammer above his head, ready to strike. After checking the closet and then the bathroom, we relaxed. He tapped several nails into the secret door to lock it in place. Then he placed several along the opening near the top. “If someone was in there, that should keep them from coming back in here.”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” Charlie said.

  I shook my head and frowned. “You didn’t see anyone? But he was right there! It looked like my dad.”

  “Did you two see anything?” Charlie asked, staring at Quinton and Hunter.

  Quinton shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Then why did you run?” I asked.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” Quinton replied. “What else could I do?”

  “I need to tell my mom,” I said. “Get the sheriff up here.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Charlie replied. “You’re already seeing a shrink every week. If you tell them you saw your dad’s ghost, and we tell them we didn’t see anything—”

  “Wouldn’t look too good,” Quinton finished.

  Hunter chuckled, and then said, “No it wouldn’t. We probably should keep this little incident just between us four.” When I stared at him, he added, “For now, okay?”

  Sighing, I stared at the nail-tight secret door. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I know we’re right,” Charlie replied.

  “We have some work to do.” Hunter touched my arm. “And we need to start at the cemetery.”

  CHAPTER 12

  CHARLIE WOKE ME EARLY Sunday morning. The boys would be over by eight. We planned to ride our bikes into town and search the family graves for clues. Auntie Delphie had dropped me and my bike off at Charlie’s just after dinner the previous night. With enough clothes for a week or two, I was all set. We’d just finished a quick breakfast of Pop-Tarts and milk when Hunter’s smiling face appeared at the kitchen screen door. Quinton was standing behind him.

  “Ready?” Charlie asked, reaching for her backpack.

  “Yep.” I grabbed mine. We prepared for our journey with water, snacks, some money, a writing pad, and several pens.

  The morning air was a little warmer than yesterday. Perhaps this was a clue as to how the summer would be—hot. Unfortunately, the ride was anything but short. The Provo River separated us from Heber City; therefore, our route was somewhat limited. We stopped at Midway City Park to rest. It wasn’t a very big place. With hardly any trees, it still gave us somewhere to sit and rest. Only a few families were out today, so one of the tables was free.

  “This is nice,” Hunter said, pulling a juice from his bag. “Much better than a big city. I’m loving all the mountains and hills. Real country-ish and all.”

  “You lived in Louisiana, right?” I asked.

  “Shreveport,” he replied. “It’s a pretty big place. My mom never let me ride around there like I do here.”

  “There’s not a lot here,” Quinton added. “Just mountains and trees. Salt Lake City isn’t far. Now that’s a big city.”

  “Do you miss Shreveport?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied. “We didn’t have any relatives there. My mom was a lawyer for a big firm. I guess we’d still be there if she hadn’t taken your dad’s place.”

  “I’m glad she did,” I said, tossing my trash into a nearby bin.

  “Okay,” Charlie said, standing up. “Let’s go.”

  The two-lane road, Route 113, was never busy on Sunday mornings. Once we hit Heber City, we stuck to the back roads. Every Thursday at two o’clock, my Aunt Delphie took me to my shrink appointment, so I pretty much knew my way around. Most of the streets didn’t have names, just numbers, like North 750 East or East 450 North. Unless a person knew exactly where they were going, getting lost was easy.

  Since we knew the way, Quinton and I took the lead. For as
long as I could remember, Quinton and I had ridden our bikes everywhere. We’d combed every street inside our valley of five little towns before we were nine years old. Heber City was the largest, with Midway, Charleston, Daniel, and Center Creek being its closest neighbors. Auntie Delphie lived in Center Creek, and Auntie Roe lived just north of Heber City. She attended classes at the Wasatch Campus of Utah Valley University just down the street. I had no idea what she studied there, but I knew that she liked it. By noon, we had reached our destination.

  The cemetery had been around since the late 1800’s or early 1900’s. It wasn’t that big. Just big enough for our small community. The office, open on Sundays until two, seemed lonely and small. A little past noon, we walked into the building. I felt odd and slightly sick. This was where my father was buried. I think the woman at the counter recognized me. When I glanced at her, she turned away. Standing in the lobby and not doing anything probably didn’t look right. Not wanting to attract attention, I approached the counter.

  “I’m researching my family,” I said. “I’m Musetta Laus Weavers. My grandparents are Dirk and Tatiana Weavers. My dad is buried here. Nicky . . . I mean, Nicolaus Dirk Weavers.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” the woman said, lowering her eyes, “and I’m sorry for your family’s loss. Judge Weavers was a wonderful man.”

  I glanced over at my friends. They either smiled or looked away.

  “According to my grandmother, she had another son. She said he’s buried here, too. It was a long time ago. Can you check your records?”

  “Certainly,” she replied, typing on her computer. “I honestly do not remember another Weavers in our care. But let me see what I can find. Uh huh, just as I thought, we only have your dad listed. No other Weavers. Do you know when this other child passed?”

  “No,” I said, glancing over at my friends again. Hunter looked worried. Quinton looked around as if he were uncomfortable.

  “There are other cemeteries in Heber Valley,” she added with a smile. “Perhaps the child was buried in one of those.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Hunter agreed, approaching the counter. “Do you have the address of the other cemeteries?”

  “Yes, here,” the woman said. She handed Hunter a pink sheet of paper. “There is one in Charleston and Midway, and you might want to check Daniel and Center Creek, too. Their numbers are listed on that sheet.”

  We thanked the woman and left feeling a little disappointed. Holding onto my bike, I glanced out at the miles of headstones. My father didn’t have one yet. Mom ordered one, but it would still be a few weeks before it was delivered. Knowing exactly where he was sleeping, I turned and nodded to him. If he were in fact innocent, I would apologize and, of course, feel guilty. If he were guilty of violating me, then I’d never recognize him as my father again.

  “You okay?” Quinton asked.

  “Yes, just hungry.”

  Our stomachs growling, we rode our bikes to a corner sandwich shop. Chowing down on subs and sodas, we silently stared at each other. Each probably thinking something different. Not wanting to intrude on anyone’s privacy, I kept my thoughts to myself. Although visiting a graveyard wasn’t exactly the best outing in the world, it was still an outing with my friends. I was having fun and enjoying every minute of it.

  “I’ll call these numbers,” Hunter said, pulling out his cell. “I wonder why your grandmother lied to you about where her other son was buried.” After a few seconds, he was talking to someone in Charleston. “Yes ma’am, Weavers . . . nothing? Are you sure . . . yes, thank you.” He clicked his phone off and punched in the next number. “Nothing in Charleston.” Holding up a finger to silence us, he talked into his phone. “Yes, ma’am, we’re looking for a burial for a child with the last name of Weavers. No, ma’am, I do not have a first name or a date of death. Yes, I’ll hold.” He looked at me. “She’s looking.”

  I didn’t understand what was happening. How can my grandparents have a son that died and not be buried somewhere close? Would my Grandma lie to me like that?

  “Yes, ma’am, okay, thank you.” Hunter stared at me now. “Nothing in Midway either.”

  Hunter also called Center Creek and Daniel but still nothing.

  “Now what do we do?” Charlie asked.

  “I know,” Hunter said, picking up his phone. “Hey, Mom. Fine, we’re eating lunch. Yes, having a great time. Can you do something for us?”

  Hunter explained that we were looking for a child’s burial plot and death date. With his mother being a judge and all, it wouldn’t be hard for her to get the information. After Hunter handed me his phone, I gave her all the background I knew, such as my parents’ names, my grandparents’ names and my father’s death date. Aside from that, I didn’t know much more. She said she’d do what she could, but no guarantees. We agreed.

  ***

  With the bruises around my neck gone, school seemed to be back to normal. No more probing questions from curious classmates. My mother picked me up for my shrink’s appointment directly from school. As soon as we got there, I was ready to go home.

  “So, Musetta, how did your last physical make you feel?” Dr. Shapirro tapped her pen against her tablet.

  I thought that a nervous habit meant something. I didn’t have any nervous ticks. Maybe she was the one that needed counseling and not me. I shrugged.

  “I’m sure it was uncomfortable?” she pressed.

  I nodded.

  “The tests for pregnancy were negative,” she said.

  Again, I nodded.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  Jumping to my feet, I glared at her. “You’re a very sick woman.” Wiping away a tear, I added, “And I don’t like you. What happened to me was terrible, and I’d rather not relive it every Thursday afternoon in this dingy office. If we can’t think of something else to talk about, then I don’t want to come back.”

  “I totally agree,” she replied. Strange, but nothing I said ever seemed to bother her. If that’s true, then why am I here in the first place? “So, what would you like to talk about?”

  “Ghosts,” I answered, sitting back down. “I’m sure you’ve heard about paranormal activities. Or we could talk about tunnels.”

  “Tunnels?” Dr. Shapirro tilted her head to one side. “Why tunnels?”

  “I’m interested in tunnels.” Her alarm rang out then with the sound of little bells. “What a shame, time for me to go,” I said, running from her office.

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Not even stopping for my mother, I darted for the car. Feeling dirty, I wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a scrub brush. We didn’t talk until we reached Charlie’s house. After I kissed her cheek, Mom grabbed my arm.

  “Musetta, I’m worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m your mother.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “No, you’re not. You hit your father in his casket and yelled all kinds of things at him. I discover through my sister that you were . . . are being abused. You never said a word to me about it. I know you think it was your father. And if it was . . .” she glanced out the car window. “If it were, I would have killed him myself. We now believe it wasn’t him. Right?”

  Staring into her dark green eyes, I didn’t know if I should cry, scream, or just run away. I loved her, that much I knew. But can I trust her enough to tell her everything? That I didn’t know.

  “Mom, can we talk later about this? I’m not ready to tell you everything. Not just yet.”

  “I understand,” she said as a tear fell down her cheek.

  “Really, Mom, I’m fine. I have my friends and they’re helping me.”

  “Okay.” She rubbed my arm. “I love you with all my heart, Musetta. You know that, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, at least I know you’re safe here at Charlie’s. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Auntie Delphie and I are fixing up your room. We think you’ll be happy with it. And that secret
door in your closet? It’s gone. Just a wall now. A nice thick wall with no door.”

  “What?” If she had that door removed, we’d never know where the tunnel went. “You closed up the secret door?”

  “Yes. And they checked the house for more secret doors.”

  “Did they find any?”

  “No,” she replied. No? Then they didn’t look very hard. We’d found one in the second-floor hallway and another one in my dad’s closet, all by ourselves. “The builders are reviewing the house plans to double check.”

  “I’d like to see the house plans.”

  “Of course.” She smiled, and it looked real this time. “It’s our house now.”

  After our goodbyes, I ran straight into Charlie’s living room. Seeing Charlie’s mom in the kitchen calmed me a little, filling me with a deep affection for her. I felt safe here.

  “Musetta!” Charlie screamed from her bedroom. “Have I got something for you. Come see.”

  Confused, I stared at her from the hallway. “What?”

  “Look,” she said, pointing to her bed, now covered in color photos of my father. A sick feeling swelled outward from my stomach. What is she trying to do to me?

  “Here,” she said, handing me a picture. “I got this photo off Hunter’s phone. It was the only one that wasn’t blurry.”

  Staring at my father surrounded by a darkened hue sent chills through me. Wanting to rip the thing in two, I looked at her. “And?”

  “Okay, just go with me for a minute. Here’s your father’s official photo.” She now handed me a color portrait of my dad. He was wearing his robes.

  “Yes, the courts took this one,” I replied. “And, so?”

  “Look at them . . . compare them, Musetta!”

  I didn’t want to look at them, but I did. And the two photos looked identical. At least, they did to me. I shrugged.

  “Oh, Musetta.” As she pleaded with me, her voice got louder. “Look at them, again!”