The Whispers

by Greg Howard

  Mama and I didn’t go to the Walmart on Saturdays anymore either. I guess she didn’t want people to see us there blowing through all of our welfare money. I’m not sure if we were really on welfare or not, but as worried as Mama and Daddy were about everything, it wouldn’t surprise me. Things got so bad, we were on the prayer list of the North Creek Church of God every Sunday for months.

  I think our family’s financial troubles really wore Mama down during those months, because I’d catch her crying in her bedroom by herself sometimes. When I’d ask what was wrong, she’d always dry it up real fast and smile. She couldn’t even sing me the song at night anymore without tearing up and her voice cracking, so she stopped singing it altogether. I know a big part of the reason she was crying all the time was because of what she caught me doing with Kenny from Kentucky.

  And now she’s missing and it’s all my fault. Everything has gone to hell in a handbasket since that day last summer in Daddy’s work shed when Mama found out about my other condition.

  God is punishing me. Just like Sister Grimes the Gossip said He would.

  20

  THE LAND OF MORDECAI MATHEWS

  I have to get to the clearing and see if the Whispers accepted my tribute, so I keep going with only Tucker as backup. Apparently deer and/or squirrels find the empty shells of Mr. Killen’s World Famous Boiled Peanuts just as delicious as Funyuns, because most of my path markers have disappeared. But being semi-lost out here in the land of Mordecai Mathews hasn’t done much to take my mind off the return of Kenny from Kentucky. I guess I could just hide in my bedroom until he leaves. What I should do when Kenny gets here is march his butt right down to the police station and turn him in. Frank should be investigating him, not me. Mama was just fine until he showed up last summer.

  That was also around the same time I overheard the gossip, Sister Grimes, tell someone at the church potluck that she thought I was funny. And I know she didn’t mean ha-ha funny. She meant funny because I want to kiss boys instead of girls funny.

  Frank should be investigating Sister Grimes, too. She said something horrible about Mama that Sunday at the potluck. I can’t remember exactly what it was, but I remember it sounded like a threat. I make a mental note to point the finger at both Kenny from Kentucky and Sister Grimes the Gossip the next time Frank hauls me down to the station for questioning.

  Tucker sprints ahead of me. I pick up my pace too, and only a few steps later I’m back in the alien abduction clearing. I walk over to the tree stump. Just as I’d hoped, the Swiss Army knife is gone. A jolt of excitement charges through my body. The Whispers took it. But what happens now? When do they tell me where Mama is? I look around the clearing, half expecting her to waltz right in holding a pan of fresh-made brownies as adoring bluebirds tie yellow ribbons in her hair or something.

  I scramble around the clearing looking every which-a-way and listening for the Whispers. Tucker follows me for a few minutes, but then gets tired and lies down by the tree stump with one of his you’re losing it again, dude moans. I’m not losing it. I just can’t figure out what I did wrong. I left the tribute, asked the Whispers to help me find Mama, they took it, but nothing happened.

  The hobgoblin must have scared them away. Mordecai Mathews showed up right after I put Grandpa’s Swiss Army knife inside the tree stump. He ruined my chance to find Mama. Or maybe . . .

  “The Whispers were trying to tell me it was Mordecai,” I say, sort of to Tucker and sort of to the tree stump. “He showed up right after I told them my heart’s desire. He must have taken Mama.” I look at Tucker. “We have to find him.”

  Tucker thumps his tail once, hard on the ground. That’s always his way of telling me that he’s game. He lumbers up on all fours and comes over to me, panting. Then he does something that only confirms, once again, that Tucker is hands-down the smartest dog in the history of dogs. He sniffs the left pocket of my jeans—the pocket where Mama’s wedding ring rests safely in a Ziploc bag. I reach into my pocket, yank it out, and stare at it. Tucker’s right. That must be why they came in my room and left it out for me to see. They want it, but they wouldn’t just take it. I have to offer it as a tribute. I really don’t want to give up the ring, but the Whispers can help me find the hobgoblin, and the hobgoblin has Mama. Find him, find her. And Mama’s ring is the only tribute I have left. Other than my soul, that is. I think Mama would want me to try the ring first because she says my soul already belongs to Jesus.

  I rip open the bag and pull out the ring even though it’s not the right time of day to do this. It’s not magic time. But it will be hours before the sun sets and Mama might not have hours. Or Mordecai Mathews could be long gone by then if he knows the Whispers ratted him out. I carefully place the ring down in the center of the rotted tree stump and take a step back, letting the empty Ziploc bag fall to the ground. Closing my eyes real tight, I whisper my wish.

  “Please take me to the hobgoblin. It’s my heart’s desire. Show me where to find Mordecai Mathews.”

  I’m afraid to open my eyes. I’m afraid that when I open them, nothing will happen. That Mordecai Mathews won’t appear, but the ring will be gone. But what if he’s standing right behind me about to eat me and I don’t even know it? I feel pretty sure Tucker would warn me if I’m about to get eaten by a hobgoblin and he’s quiet as a mouse. I take the gamble and open my eyes.

  No hobgoblin in sight and the ring is still right there in the tree stump. But Tucker stands at the edge of the clearing where Mordecai Mathews appeared last night. He stares out into the woods with both ears hiked up to Jesus. He hears something. Maybe he hears Mama screaming for help way out there beyond what human persons can hear.

  “Tucker,” I say, but he doesn’t look back at me. He just stares out into the woods like he’s under a spell or something.

  I walk over and pat him on the head, giving him permission to lead me. “Go, Tuck.”

  Without a glance back at me, Tucker trots off, just fast enough that I have to jog but not so fast that I can’t keep up. When I trip on a branch and lose my balance, Tucker stops and peers around at me with his keep up, you idiot face. I do my best and soon I have no idea where we are or how long I’ve been following him. I wouldn’t be surprised either way if you told me it had been ten minutes or ten hours. But Tucker has a renewed energy I haven’t seen in him in a long time. He’s focused. Sniffing the ground as he presses forward. On a mission. And he doesn’t stop until he leads me right to the door of a run-down shack tucked away in a forgotten corner of the woods.

  The shack is covered in honeysuckle bushes. They run up the sidewalls and hang down off the roof like they’re trying to swallow the thing whole. The little house is smaller than Daddy’s shed. It leans, too. I don’t see how a strong wind hasn’t blown it completely away. Maybe the honeysuckle bushes hold it in place.

  A fire pit made of loosely stacked stones has been constructed in front of the shack, and a rusted metal folding chair sits near it. I don’t want to imagine what’s been cooked in that fire pit and I try not to think about the fact that it’s big enough to hold a whole deer, or a small boy like Peetie Munn, or me. In my gut, I know who lives here. There’s only one possibility because Tucker’s nose never lies. But I try not to think about that right now because it seems like no one’s home, so it’s the perfect chance to look for Mama.

  Tucker circles the shack, sniffing the ground and whimpering. I can’t stop staring at the door. It stands open a few inches, like an invitation to take a quick peek inside. Just to make sure Mama isn’t in there. I want to believe she is, and at the same time I don’t.

  While Tucker explores the area behind the shack, I step up to the door and stick my head through the crack.

  “Mama?” I say with a small quiver of hope.

  There’s no answer, but it’s dark inside and I can’t see much. I take a couple of steps and push the door open a few more inches. It creaks just
like the door to the Windy City Slasher’s run-down house where Detective Chase Cooper found DA Amanda Ramirez’s body on the season finale of CID: Chicago.

  One more step and I’ll cross the threshold. The idea of doing that seems awfully stupid. If Danny and I were watching me in a scary movie right now, we’d both be screaming at me not to go inside. But the Whispers led me here to find Mama. It cost me her wedding ring. I have to check it out. I push open the door a little more and go all the way in.

  I stand in the middle of the small room looking around, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. By the time they do, the floor creaks behind me. I spin around, ready to bolt. But a giant hairy hobgoblin blocks my path to freedom.

  21

  THE HOBGOBLIN’S LAIR

  Mordecai Mathews ducks as he steps inside and slowly pushes the door closed behind him. Like he’s giving me one last glimpse of the world I’ll never see again. I can’t breathe. My heart is working overtime just to keep me from passing out. I hope my heart is smart enough to know that if I pass out right now, we’re both screwed.

  He’s even bigger up close—taller, wider, and hairier. A bushy beard that looks like it could house a small family of squirrels hides most of his face, everything but those beady gator eyes boring a hole through me. I don’t know what kind of clothes I thought hobgoblins wore, but he’s actually dressed kind of normal—jeans, work boots like my dad wears, and a faded denim shirt unbuttoned over a plain white T-shirt. He looks like a grizzly bear dressed up as a human person for Halloween.

  Mordecai doesn’t look all that surprised to find an eleven-year-old boy standing in the middle of his one-room shack. Maybe the Whispers warned him that I was coming. Maybe they’re in cahoots with him. Or maybe I remind him of Peetie Munn. After looking me over for a few seconds that feel like hours, he drops a canvas satchel on the small wooden table in the center of the room. I don’t know what’s in the bag and I don’t really want to know because it smells terrible.

  I finally exhale, slowly and quietly, but I stay perfectly still. I feel like I should say something, but everything I think of seems really lame.

  Well hello there, Mr. Murder . . . I mean Mathews.

  Do you speak hobgoblin or English?

  I just dropped by to pick up my mama—aka your hostage—and then we’ll be on our way.

  Are you going to eat me now or fatten me up first?

  Yeah, all pretty lame.

  There’s scratching and sniffing on the other side of the door and then Tucker starts barking, likely wondering why he’s been shut out. He’s not used to being excluded. Mordecai reaches over and slams his fist on the door—hard. I mean, the walls shake. It quiets Tucker instantly and makes me jump a little. Tucker whimpers and sniffs at the bottom of the door. If he knew how much danger I was in right now, I know he’d bust through that door and tear the hobgoblin to shreds. But Mordecai doesn’t seem too worried about Tucker. He circles the table and pulls out the one and only metal folding chair right in front of me. It’s just like the ones in the cafeteria of Buckingham Middle School, but this one is dented and rusted. He points to it. I sit, too scared to disobey his silent command.

  He walks over to the corner of the room and picks up a gallon jug of water. Watching me like a hawk, he unscrews the cap and gulps at least half of the water down. Some of it runs out the sides of his mouth, getting lost somewhere in his beard. Maybe it’s for the squirrel family that lives in there. He screws the cap back on and momentarily turns his back to me. Now that I have a few final moments to myself before I’m eaten alive by a big hairy hobgoblin, I steal a quick glance around the room I will die in. If by some miracle of God I’m able to escape, the police will ask me to describe the hobgoblin’s lair. But a miracle of God seems unlikely, seeing as how we haven’t been to the North Creek Church of God in so long and God doesn’t listen to my prayers anymore.

  In one corner of the room sits a black wood-burning stove with patchwork tin piping venting it up through the ceiling. There’s a bed pushed against the wall that looks way too small for Mordecai. It doesn’t have a real headboard or anything. The mattress sits a few inches off the floor on a simple metal frame. The bed is made, which seems funny to me, like Mordecai was expecting company. I can’t imagine that hobgoblins make their beds every day just for fun. On the other wall are shelves with a bunch of books, some mismatched dishes, and tidy stacks of magazines and newspapers. I didn’t know that hobgoblins could read either. I wonder if they have their own special newspapers like The Hobgoblin Gazette or something.

  Mordecai sets the water jug on the table in front of me and points to it. I guess he wants me to drink some and I have to admit, I’m really thirsty. My throat feels like sandpaper. I don’t think he’s trying to poison—or season—me because he just drank from the same jug and why would he poison—or season—himself? I pull the jug to me, unscrew the cap, and stare at the rim.

  I wonder if it would be rude to wipe it off with my shirt. Otherwise I’m about to get a mouthful of hobgoblin saliva germs. His DNA could mix with mine and I might slowly be transformed into a hobgoblin over time—start growing hair in weird places, develop a hunger for human flesh, and stink to high heaven. But I don’t see any way around it, so I pick up the jug by the handle, close my eyes, and drink. The water is room temperature but it still tastes good. I gulp down as much as I can, but Mordecai takes it from me mid-gulp after less than a minute. Maybe it was seasoning after all and he doesn’t want to overmarinate me. He probably doesn’t like his food too spicy.

  “You’re one of Dylan’s friends,” he says more than asks. “What are you doing here? Where’re the rest of ’em?”

  It takes me a couple of seconds to register that he actually spoke words out loud. I just assumed hobgoblins were mute, though I don’t know why. But his voice is deep, round, and kind of normal sounding.

  I clear my throat so my own voice won’t crack like it’s been known to do a lot lately. “I came alone.”

  Okay. That probably wasn’t the smartest thing to admit to a murderous hobgoblin. Let’s try this again. Detective Chase Cooper always says to humanize yourself to your captor.

  Humanize means to act like a normal, nonedible human person and not like a juicy slab of roast beef when you’re sitting in front of a big hungry hobgoblin.

  As in, It’s really too bad that the word humanize kind of rhymes with tenderize.

  “My name is Riley,” I say, slowly like he might have trouble understanding. “I’m looking for my mama.”

  He sits down on the edge of the bed a couple of feet away from me—still within grabbing reach. I look over at the closed door. It’s farther away than I’d like and Tucker has grown silent on the other side.

  “Why’d you think your mama’d be here?” he says.

  I have to choose my words carefully. I shouldn’t just come right out and accuse him or he might decide to have me for an early dinner. I can’t look him in his gator eyes, so I stare down at my hands resting in a nervous ball in my lap.

  “The Whispers led me here,” I say, sounding shaky, like I’m ten and not eleven.

  “The Whispers,” he grunts, but I don’t look up. I just nod.

  He pauses and then adds, “My mama used to tell me that story when I was little.”

  I’m shocked into silence for a couple of reasons. One, that the hobgoblin was ever little, and two, that he had a mama who told him bedtime stories like The Whispers. It’s hard to imagine him having parents. Heck, it’s hard to think of Mordecai Mathews as a human person at all after what he did to Peetie Munn and my mama. Maybe he was a human person once, but now he’s a monster. A hobgoblin.

  “What’s ya mama’s name?” he asks.

  “Carolyn,” I say. “Carolyn James.”

  The hobgoblin sighs and then grows quiet. His face darkens as best as I can tell under all that hair.

  �
��You know her?”

  He shifts his eyes away from mine, looking real suspicious. I wish Detective Chase Cooper were here to interrogate him. Frank would be useless. Probably take one look at Mordecai and pee himself.

  “Riley,” he says. And I know he means Mama’s last name before she married Daddy and not my first name. “Went to school with her when I’s a kid.”

  While I didn’t know this piece of information, it’s not all that surprising. Buckingham is tiny. And Detective Chase Cooper says the perp usually knows the victim.

  “She was always real nice to me when the other kids weren’t so much,” Mordecai says, staring at the stove. He’s probably wondering if he has a pot big enough to fit me in. He scratches his beard. It does look like it would itch something awful under there. I just know I need to keep him talking. If he’s talking, I’m breathing.

  “You knew my mama in school?”

  He nods without looking at me, probably because he just said that. I better not waste my next question because it could be my last. Once he knows I suspect him of foul play, he’ll have to get rid of me. I just hope he doesn’t pickle my body parts in mason jars for winter. The smell of pickle juice makes me gag.

  “Did . . .” I start, stop, and try again. “Did you take her? Carolyn. My mama. Is she here?”

  I have a hard time getting the next one out, but finally do.

  “Did you hurt her?”

  He jerks his head in my direction and the sudden action nearly scares the pee out of me. But he doesn’t scream in my face, or beat me over the head with his hobgoblin club. I assume they all have one. He just looks at me with those gatory eyes of his. But something in them’s different now with Mama’s name and memory floating around the room. His eyes mist over.