I Hope You're Listening

by Tom Ryan

  The day disappears, and although we keep futilely bringing our phones out of our pockets, there’s no signal. To make matters worse, Sarah’s phone is almost dead, and mine has only about 20 percent battery left. Eventually, we agree to put them on airplane mode and put them away entirely, in case we have another opportunity to use them.

  Footsteps come into the house on and off throughout the day. Although we occasionally hear voices upstairs in long conversation, they’re quieter, and we can’t make out what they’re saying or even who is talking. Most disturbingly, Ginette doesn’t reappear, even when dinnertime comes and goes. A cold chill makes its way through my body when I consider what that might mean.

  Eventually, the house settles into quiet, and I imagine Bill and Ginette heading up to bed as if everything is completely normal. Sarah and I curl up next to each other in the corner, and I put my arm around her. Eventually, she falls asleep, but I stay the way I am, wide awake, although my body desperately wants me to rest. The feeling of deep fatigue combined with a steady rush of adrenaline is strange and unsettling.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting like this when I hear light footsteps above us in the kitchen, and then someone descending the stairs. I quickly shake Sarah, who groans and then jerks awake when I lightly cover her mouth with my hand.

  “Shhhh,” I whisper, and the two of us get to our feet and crouch by the door. “I didn’t hear the upstairs door close again,” I say. “This might be our only chance. I’ll jump at whoever it is, and you run for the cellar.”

  She looks like she wants to argue, but I shake my head. There’s no time to make another plan.

  I hear the bolt slide open, then the latch turn, and a moment later the door slowly opens. I’m ready to jump forward and tackle Ginette or Ron, whoever has come down here, but I stop in midjump.

  It isn’t Ginette or Ron or even Barnabas or one of his crew, for that matter. It’s a teenage girl.

  She’s not dressed like any teenager I’ve ever hung out with. In fact, she looks like she stepped out of a time machine. Her face is young and clear and healthy looking, but she’s wearing a kerchief that would better suit an old lady. It pulls back her plain dirty blond hair, which is neatly cut to land just above her shoulders. Her dress is simple, with a high, buttoned collar.

  All these years, I’ve wanted more than anything to know what happened to Sibby, wondering what I could have done differently. Wishing I could have saved her.

  In the end though, it’s Sibby who shows up to save me.

  40.

  “Sibby,” I say. It comes out only a bit louder than a whisper, her name catching in my throat now that I have someone to say it to. I’m vaguely aware of Sarah turning to look at me, her mouth dropping open at the name, but I’m more aware of this girl’s reaction. She looks confused, unsure who I’m addressing or what I mean.

  She steps quickly into the room, quietly nudging the door partway closed. I realize now that she’s holding boots, our boots, and she puts them on the floor before standing straight again.

  “My name is Rachel,” she whispers. But it isn’t Rachel; this is Sibby. If I’ve ever known anything in my life, I know this. It might have been a guess, just a guess, if I hadn’t met Greta. But I have met Greta, and there is literally no denying that the girl standing in front of us is Greta’s sister. They could be twins. Her confusion looks sincere, but this isn’t exactly the time to figure out what she thinks she knows.

  “We need to move quickly,” she says. “I heard my parents talking with the men from the farm, and they are going to do something bad to you. I know it.”

  “What should we do?” I ask.

  She points at the boots. “You need to go. As quickly as you can.”

  “Can we get to my car?” asks Sarah. “Your father put it in the barn.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know where the keys are,” she says. “And the barn is locked, always. Your best choice is to get into the woods, and then follow the tree line along the road to the highway. It’s about two miles. You can make it.”

  Sarah opens her mouth to protest, but I reach out and grab her arm. “We have to do this,” I say. “It might be our only chance.”

  “Do you really believe that your parents would hurt us?” Sarah asks.

  “They’ll do anything to protect me,” she says. “They’ll do anything to keep the outside world from finding me. Now hurry.”

  We struggle into our boots, then follow her out of the room. I turn to the stairs, but the girl I know to be Sibby holds up a hand and points toward the cellar’s storm door.

  “If we all go upstairs, they’ll hear us,” she says. “I know this house. I can move through it without making any sound, but you can’t. There’s a wooden bolt across the outside. I’ll sneak outside and open it from there. Wait here.”

  Without another word, she’s gone, disappearing into the shadows of the basement and sliding up the wooden steps, stepping carefully from spot to spot. As she claimed, she doesn’t make a sound, not even a creak, as she moves.

  I reach out, and Sarah and I fall into each other’s arms. I can feel a deep tension in her that I know is reflected in me. This is the only chance we get.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this,” I whisper.

  I can feel her head shake against my chest. “We got into this together.”

  Above us, I hear the sound of something heavy being dragged away, and then the cellar door opens. A rush of freezing, bone-dry air rushes down into the basement, and Sibby is standing above, looking down at us, her silhouette stark against the deep blue sky. She beckons us to hasten out, and we step up and out of the cellar. I help her close the door so it won’t bang, and then she picks up a plastic bag and hands it to me. Inside are two knit caps and some mittens.

  “My mother knits a lot,” she says, smiling. She turns and points to a spot at the edge of the forest. “Go that way. You’ll find a shallow stream just beyond the line of trees. You should be able to follow it without leaving tracks, and it will take you to the highway.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She smiles, and the face reminds me so much of the girl I used to know that I feel my heart compress inside my chest.

  “Your name is Sibyl Carmichael,” I say. “Your name is Sibby. You were my best friend.”

  This time she doesn’t look confused; she looks sad. “I’ve wondered,” she says. “I’ve wondered who I am.”

  “We’ll come back for you,” I say. I turn to reach for Sarah’s hand, but as I do a light turns on in the window above us. Startled, the three of us turn to the window, just as the cellar door slams open behind us. With a roar, Bill emerges from the basement with a lunge.

  It all happens so quickly that I don’t have time to react, and then Sarah has been thrown to the ground. She screams in pain.

  Sibby is standing to the side, her hand over her mouth, paralyzed.

  “Rachel, what have you done?” yells Bill. He turns back to the house and yells up at the window. “Ginette! Call Barnabas!”

  Underneath him, Sarah squirms, groaning with pain. Bill lets go of her and stands, advancing toward me. When she tries to stand, her leg buckles beneath her.

  “Go! Dee! You have to run!”

  “I’m not leaving you!” I yell, as Bill stands up and fixes his awful gaze on me.

  “They’ll kill us both,” she pants. “Unless one of us gets away to tell them!”

  I know she’s right, but still I can’t move. I can’t leave her behind. I hesitate just long enough for Bill to make a sudden move and grab me by the front of my coat.

  “You little bitch,” he growls. “You should have left my family alone.”

  “It’s not your family!” I yell into his face, and he hauls back an arm as if about to hit me. But before he has the chance, something whacks into his legs from behind. He screams and then buckles to his knees, and I catch a glimpse of Sibby holding a shovel in her hands.

  “I’m sorry, Sara
h,” I say. “I love you!”

  “I know,” she says. “Now run!”

  I turn and go. The woods are a dark mammoth ahead of me, a wall of not knowing. I run as fast as I’ve ever run in my life, but this time, I’m not running from the memories; I’m running toward them. I reach the edge, my heart churning, and turn to glance back. Bill is stumbling across the expanse of lawn, but he’s far back, and I know I can get away from him. His arrogance might have told him three girls were no match for him, but he was wrong.

  He stops and drops to his knees. He’s done chasing me, but there are more coming. And soon.

  I turn and plunge into the forest.

  It takes me a minute to adjust, but once my eyes are conditioned to the dark, the forest seems to open up to swallow me. I pull my phone from my pocket, holding the screen against my mitten to keep the light obscured, then peeking carefully at the upper corner, hoping against hope that I have service, but there’s nothing.

  A dip in the terrain alerts me to the stream Sibby described, and I head toward it, sliding on snow down the bank to the burbling trickle of water. Heavy, wet stones stick up from the water at points, and I jump onto one, almost sliding in on my boots but catching myself at the last moment. It’s a lot slower than running along the ground, but as Sibby pointed out, I won’t leave tracks this way, and so I move along the stream as quickly as I can. It winds through the forest, and soon I am into a rhythm, skipping along steadily if not swiftly, making my way deeper into the forest.

  The woods bring back my dream from last night, the dream that connected me back to Pierre’s gravelly, low-pitched voice—a voice that has never completely left my memory in ten years, although it took me a little while to place it once I heard it again.

  We’ve only got one chance at this. Now hurry up.

  Pierre was one of the two men in the woods, but there’s so much more I still don’t understand. How did Sandy fit into things? Does this mean Terry was involved after all, and is Layla’s disappearance connected in some way that nobody’s yet figured out? Something’s missing.

  In the distance, from the direction of Ron and Ginette’s house, I hear engines and yelling. They’re far enough away that I think I have a good head start, but then I turn my head and my heart plummets when I see lights moving slowly only a few hundred yards away. The stream must have veered closer to the road. I stop, my heart pounding, and try to take in the terrain surrounding me. I’m running out of options, but one thing’s for sure: if I stay on the stream bed, they’ll find me for sure.

  I turn away from the lights. On the riverbank across from me, a gnarled old pine tree sticks out at almost a right angle. I judge the distance and decide that if I can jump at it the right way, I might be able to catch it, and with luck, I can do it without my feet touching the ground and leaving behind footprints.

  I jump, and my face is scratched by twigs and needles, but my left arm manages to hook around the tree, and I’m able to drag myself up onto the trunk. I glance back toward the road, and I realize that the lights have stopped moving. They’ve parked. A sharp stab of panic catches me as the light disappears. They’ve turned off the vehicle entirely. A moment later, the darkness is broken by a dim glow, the interior of a cab as someone climbs out. The glow disappears just as quickly with the slamming of a truck door.

  Then a bright beam shines straight into the forest, landing on a tree not five feet away from me. I duck as the beam sways back and forth. When it drops to the ground and begins bobbing with someone’s footsteps, I move. I scramble along the trunk and climb to the top of the bank.

  Somehow I’ve managed to do it without leaving footprints, and when I get to the top, I can see that I’m deeper into the woods and underneath the canopy of the trees are bare spots, no snow. I don’t have time to think it through, so I begin jumping from one to the next.

  The noises are closing in, and I don’t know what else I can do. Across the clearing, I see a huge tree, a maple, maybe. The biggest I’ve seen in this forest. I close my eyes and think to myself. Is this my only chance?

  I have an idea. My phone won’t work down here, but it might work up there.

  I fling myself out from my hiding spot and run across the field to the tree. As I jump up into the lowest level of branches, my hat is snagged and flung from my head. I turn and watch helplessly as it falls down into the snow, and I can only hope it doesn’t give me away.

  I scramble up, moving higher into the tree, praying for purchase with each step. I wind my way up and up, and finally, when I’m about twenty feet into the air, I move around and position myself so I’m sitting comfortably in the crook of a branch.

  I stop to catch my breath. It’s very cold, and I wish I’d taken the time to drop back down and grab my cap, but even as I’m thinking this, I can see flashlights down below beneath the canopy, hear voices yelling my name. From this high up, I can see the roof of the farmhouse skimming the tops of the trees. I wonder what’s happened to Sarah, if they’ve allowed Sibby to stay with her. At least I am sure they won’t do anything to her until they find me. They know full well that if I do manage to escape, they’re better off if Sarah is in good shape when they’re finally caught.

  My breath under control, I carefully work one of my mittens off, making sure to shove it carefully into my pocket. With my bare hand, I reach into my inner pocket and pull out my phone. I press the button on the side to spring it to life.

  The first thing I notice is a message from Carla Garcia.

  Incredible news! They’ve been found! They’re alive! Msg me immediately!

  Despite everything, my heart soars. If Vanessa and Nia were able to do it, so can I.

  I’m momentarily hopeful to see that I have one bar of cell service. Almost right away it drops off to zero before springing back to one bar.

  I have 8 percent battery left. I need to make this count.

  I open the phone and dial 911. When I hold it to my ear, it rings once before beeping to announce that the call has dropped.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself. Below in the trees, I can see beams of light moving around on the ground. At least four, maybe more of them, are circling through the woods. Occasionally a beam stops and shines around and upward, which tells me they’re searching into the trees. I’m running out of time.

  I dial again, and again the signal drops off almost immediately. My heart is pounding. This isn’t going to work.

  But I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.

  I’m at 5 percent, and I need to think quick. I begin to compose a text, not even sure who to send it to—my dad? Burke? They’ll be asleep, no question, and there’s no guarantee that they’ll get it until the morning. Acting on instinct, I open my recording app, and speaking quickly, I record a memo. Then I open the Radio Silent Twitter account, type a few words, attach the sound file, and press Tweet.

  The little blue progress line at the top of the screen begins to move and then halts at the top of the screen. A message pops up: Tweet failed.

  Shit! I almost yell, catching my voice just before it leaves me. My battery is at 3 percent, and my eyes are full of frustrated, horrified tears as I hit the Tweet button once again. This time, I stretch my arm up above my head as far as it will go. As the blue progress bar moves across the screen, I see the service indicator move to two bars. There’s a long, excruciating pause where it stops moving, and then, with a rush, the tweet sends, and an instant later my phone’s screen goes black. It’s dead.

  I breathe deeply and laugh with a wave of pure, unwashed relief. It lasts only a second, as a beam of light washes the clearing. I tuck in on myself as tightly as possible. I’m high in the canopy, but with the trees bare, I know I could be spotted, but only if someone shines the light directly on me.

  “Delia, come on out. Hurry up,” a voice calls out, soft and cajoling, like someone trying to lure a puppy. The tone is forced, unnatural, but I recognize the voice anyway. It’s the voice my subconscious recognized yesterday, the voice that
woke me out of a deep sleep and convinced me I was on the right track. Pierre is out here in the woods, stalking me the same way he stalked us when we were kids.

  I close my eyes, waiting for him to move on. He takes a step, then another, moving directly below me, beneath the canopy of this giant maple.

  “We aren’t going to hurt you, Delia,” he calls, and I take some comfort in the fact that he’s speaking out, not up. He hasn’t figured out that I’m directly above him. “We just want to talk. Fill you in on a few things.”

  He stands still, waiting for something. For a sign? After a few moments, he gives up and begins to walk away. I release my breath slowly. At the edge of the clearing, he stops and turns, gives it one more sweep of the flashlight.

  The beam stops abruptly, and suddenly he’s striding back into the clearing. I know before he reaches it what he’s seen. And then the beam is shining up and up and straight at me, and I stare down into the light, squinting against the glare, aware that, behind it is a face and a hand holding the hat that I dropped.

  41.

  Transcript of RADIO SILENT

  Emergency Episode 45

  HOST (intro): You won’t recognize my voice because I’m not using a filter, but this is the Seeker. I am the Seeker. My real name is Delia Skinner, and I’m seventeen years old. I have a lot to tell you all, a lot to explain, and I promise I will do that soon, but right now, I need help. I am in trouble. My girlfriend is in trouble. We have traveled to a farm outside the small town of Finley. The thing is, we received a tip from a listener that led us here in search of Sibyl Carmichael.

  We found her.

  We found her, and now I’m in big trouble. I need help, Laptop Detectives. I need help right now.

  If anyone is listening to this, please contact the police department in Finley, please contact any law enforcement in the surrounding area. Please send them to the communal farm on Brewster Road and tell them that lives are in danger.

  I am currently in the forest behind the farm, being pursued by some bad people. I have no idea if I’ll get out of this alive. I’m not exaggerating.