The Seven Whistlers

by Amber Benson; Christopher Golden

  “You’re gonna think I’m nuts, but I’ve seen them. The hounds, that is,” Rose said quietly. “Two of them, in the woods outside my parents’ cabin. Other people have seen them, too; they just don’t know it. Look at the front page of today’s Gazette, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  Arlene stared at her, the mug of tea trembling slightly in her hand as a swath of clouds passed over the skylights, casting the room into shadow. Arlene set her mug down on the tea tray and looked up at the skylights, then back at Rose. Her face was ashen.

  “Believe me when I say that I would love to think creatures like the Whistlers existed in real life, but I’m afraid that they are just a figment of our ancestors’ very vivid imaginations.”

  “You don’t understand —” Rose began, but Arlene cut her off.

  “Of course I understand. I just think that things like this are better left to paintings and books. Put away what you’ve seen, Rose. Even if what you say is true, there’s nothing you could do but get in their way. And that you most certainly do not want to do.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Marco Ferrara and his best friend, Evergreen Knollson, were sitting cross-legged on the floor of their makeshift fort smoking a bowl when they heard something weird in the woods below them.

  When they had told Marco’s dad their plans for building a fort out in the woods behind the Knollson House, Cesar Ferrara had told them to put the fort high in a tree so that no wild animals would be tempted to attack them. At the time, the boys had thought he was joking, but now, almost five years later, they both had the exact same thought at the exact same time: Marco’s Dad wasn’t so full of crap, after all.

  “What the hell was that?” Marco said, as he almost dropped the lit match he was holding in his hand. He quickly shook the tiny fire out and dropped the match head onto the wooden floor, where it promptly rolled away into a corner.

  “I don’t know, man,” Evergreen said, his voice cracking a little.

  They waited in silence, the only sound the thrumming of the woods around them. Marco sat up on his knees, trying to get a look over the walls of the fort, but Evergreen grabbed the neck of his T-shirt and yanked him back down out of sight.

  “What’re you doing, idiot?!”

  Marco turned and glared into Evergreen’s chubby face. His friend was trying to grow a mustache to impress the senior girls, but Marco thought the pathetic wisps of facial hair only made Evergreen look like a 1970s child molester.

  “I’m trying to see what’s down there, turd,” Marco snapped.

  The sound came again, and both boys shrank back from it. It was a deep, guttural bark accompanied by a sharp, reedy, whistling sound. Neither of them could think of a single animal that made a sound like that.

  “Maybe it’s a wolf, or even a bear or something, but wounded. My dad said a hurt animal can sound like a human baby sometimes,” Evergreen whispered, but Marco could tell by the panicked look on his friend’s face that Evergreen didn’t believe a word he was saying.

  “I don’t know, man. I’ve never heard an animal sound like that before.”

  Evergreen’s eyes lit up and he gave Marco a knowing smile. “You know what it is, man? It’s the pot. It’s, like, laced with acid or something. We’re totally hallucinating!”

  Marco shook his head.

  “We can’t both be hallucinating the same thing, dumb ass!”

  “How do you know?” Evergreen shot back.

  “Because I just know,” Marco said. He’d never tripped before, but he was sure whatever they were hearing was real, not some drug-induced auditory hallucination.

  “Besides, I don’t care if it is a hallucination. I’m not taking one step outta this fort till it goes away.”

  “Yeah, bro, I’m with you on that one.”

  Evergreen nodded sagely and they settled back into silence, listening for the telltale signs of the creature’s departure. After a few more minutes of silence, Marco began to relax, the tension flowing from his shoulders and neck. The reek of burnt marijuana was still strong in the air around them, and Marco decided that smoking a little bit more of it to relax himself might not be a bad idea.

  He crawled over to his school backpack and slowly unzipped it, trying to keep the noise to a bare minimum. Ignoring his Calculus text, he dug farther into the inner compartment until his fingers found the tiny, knotted plastic bag they’d bought that morning from Evergreen’s older sister, Holly.

  Just as he brought the little baggie out into the light, the Earth below them began to shake. Or, at least, that’s how it seemed at first.

  “What the hell?” Marco yelped, falling back onto his ass.

  “Earthquake!” Evergreen screamed, grabbing hold of a tree branch to steady himself.

  There came another violent shake and Marco was thrown back against the wall of the fort, the wood splintering with the impact of his weight. He tried to grab a hold of a branch like Evergreen, but his sweaty fingers slipped on the bark and he fell backward, crashing through the already broken wooden slats.

  Landing on the leaf-strewn ground with a sickening crunch, Marco cried out as his knee exploded with pain. He looked down at his leg and nearly passed out. Through his ripped jeans, he could see a meaty protrusion of bone and cartilage poking out where his knee used to be.

  “Oh my God,” he moaned, closing his eyes tight against the pain.

  When he opened them, Marco saw Evergreen staring down at him from the wreckage of the fort, a big, chubby kid clinging to a tree for dear life.

  “Ever, get down here, you prick. You’ve gotta get a fuckin’ ambulance.”

  For a second, Evergreen remained frozen. Then he began to climb warily down from the ruined tree fort. Impatient and in agony, Marco railed at him to hurry — letting out a string of curses that would have made his mother faint — and glanced around, desperate, wondering how much damage the earthquake had done and how long it would take an ambulance to come.

  He blinked, startled by a sudden realization. Marco couldn’t see any other damage. None of the houses within view had so much as a broken window.

  What the hell? Marco thought to himself, his mind spinning. What kind of earthquake only shakes one tree?

  Wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders for warmth, Hester McMartin shivered. The wind had picked up considerably since she’d brought Kaylie to the park at twelve-thirty, and she was all for putting her knitting back in her bag and going home.

  But when she looked over at her granddaughter standing at the top of the jungle gym, preparing to catapult herself down a length of plastic yellow slide, she felt guilty. Kaylie loved coming to the park, and playing on the gym equipment. If she called Kaylie in now, after less than an hour of play, she’d have a tantrum on her hands — and she’d never get the girl to take a nap later in the afternoon.

  Between a rock and a hard place, she decided to just keep an eye on her granddaughter and the weather. If either showed signs of irritability, she’d make a beeline back to her son’s house and put on one of those Wiggles videos Kaylie loved so much.

  Since both of Kaylie’s parents worked, Hester had become the de facto babysitter for her only grandchild almost from the moment she was born. Her son and daughter-in-law were very appreciative of the help, and Hester didn’t mind looking after the rambunctious four-year old at all, so it worked out perfectly. She even had time to knit — her passion — when Kaylie was playing at the park or taking her afternoon nap.

  As she continued her knitting, Hester got lost in the work, listening to the happy sounds of children playing. As long as the kids sounded happy and there were no cries of pain or alarm, all was right with the world. She became so involved with her knitting that Hester didn’t notice the sky turning from gray to a mottled black, or the way the clouds stretched across the horizon like a battalion of angry soldiers. Nor did she see the first hailstone as it plummeted from the sky directly at her head.

  The chunk of ice hit Hester squarely on
the top of her skull. She flinched and reached up to touch the tender point of impact, thinking someone had been cruel enough to throw a rock at her. The second and third hailstones found their marks on her shoulder and thigh, respectively. Both hurt like the dickens, forcing hr up off the park bench so that she could see where they were coming from. It took her a few moments to realize the culprit wasn’t some troublesome brat, but God, himself.

  “Kaylie!” Hester called, running toward the jungle gym.

  Her granddaughter looked up, and the little girl’s eyes went wide. Hester saw that Kaylie’s eyes were fixed not on her, but above her. She threw herself to the left and landed hard in the dirt, scraping both knees and the palms of her hand. The massive hailstone landed with a loud thud on the spot she’d just vacated, sending bits of ice and dirt in all directions.

  “Kaylie! Stay inside the jungle gym!” Hester screamed, pulling herself back up, and starting toward the slide. She caught sight of the girl cowering under the overhang where the swinging bridge connected to the monkey bars.

  “Stay where you are, Kaylie! Grandma’s coming for you!”

  The little girl nodded, her blonde pigtails bobbing on either side of her head.

  Hester threw herself under the swinging bridge, wedging her adult bulk underneath the plastic slats and nickel rivets beside her granddaughter. Clutching the terrified child to her chest, Hester looked out at the chaos that surrounded them.

  Hailstones the size of softballs plummeted to the Earth, knocking leaves and branches from trees, tiles off roofs, and even a bird from the sky. The one that had nearly struck her had been as big as a melon. Hester had never seen anything so destructive in her life, and it terrified her. Cooing softly to her sobbing grandchild, she closed her eyes, and began to pray for the hailstorm to stop.

  When she opened her eyes, Hester saw them — four massive, black hounds. They skirted the trees by the edge of the park, their eyes as bright as new copper pennies.

  CHAPTER 11

  Rose spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon cleaning her apartment and washing clothes. She hadn’t realized how desperate she’d become for clean clothes until she opened her underwear drawer to tidy it, and found it completely empty. The pair she had on was all she had left, and since she hated going commando, laundry duty became an instant priority. She scoured the apartment looking for dirty clothes — why did dirty socks always end up gathering dust under her bed? — then threw them in a large canvas sack that she walked to the Laundromat two streets over.

  Sitting in the warm, humid Laundromat, waiting for the last of her bed linens to dry, Rose found herself wishing she was far away from Kingsbury in some tropical environ. She had never felt this way about her home before. It had been sheer anguish to live in cosmopolitan Boston while she was going to B.U. — so much so that she had quit after two semesters, immediately moved back home, and gotten the job at The Red Oak Inn.

  Her parents hadn’t approved of her choice, but they were fairly quiet about their disapproval. Her grandmother, on the other hand, had been very vocal. But Rose wanted to be happy, and going to school had just made her miserable.

  She had settled back into small town life like she’d never left it, Kingsbury embracing her like the long lost child she was. Rose loved the town, and the sense of community she felt every time she walked out her front door. She had the good fortune to have great friends, too. Jenny, Mike, and Alan had become her surrogate family. If she ever needed their help, or had a problem she couldn’t solve on her own, Rose knew they’d be there for her no questions asked. It made her heart lighter just thinking about how safe their friendship made her feel.

  If Jenny hadn’t been there to hold her up, on the night she’d found out about her grandfather’s death, she didn’t know what she would have done. Death was life’s schoolyard bully. One of these days, it would catch you alone, and then you were shit out of luck. But you still had to stand your ground, keep your chin up. Being afraid was okay; totally natural. But you couldn’t run from it for very long. Standing your ground in the face of Death was a hell of a lot easier when you had friends who’d stand there with you, just as afraid, but just as unwilling to run.

  Rose was still sitting in the Laundromat when her cell phone rang. She recognized the number and answered immediately, Jenny’s calm voice filling her ear, and making her feel instantly better.

  “The Pennywhistle. Tonight. Six o’clock. Be there or Alan and I get the ‘stang out, and hunt you down.”

  Rose had to smile. Jenny had a way of always saying the right thing at the right time.

  “No need to get the ‘stang all hot and bothered,” Rose giggled. “I’ll be there. Besides, there’s some stuff I wanted to run by you guys tonight anyway.”

  “Good,” Jenny said. “Oh, shoot. I gotta run. Someone’s yelling in my kitchen, and I’m trying to raise mini-chocolate soufflés for the dinner menu tonight.”

  “Go look after your soufflés. I’ll see you later.”

  She punched the end button on her cell, then pulled her bed sheets out of the dryer and began to fold them. She didn’t know how she was going to broach the subject, but the strange happenings in Kingsbury needed to be addressed one way or another.

  Mike was running late — later than even he had expected. His finger hurt like hell, and changing the dressing like the Nurse at the emergency room had shown him had proven to be a lot trickier than he had anticipated.

  The nurse had also given him a full bottle of extra strength Vicodin, which was a lot easier to manipulate than the gauze and tape, but he’d taken one of the little devils that afternoon and it had barely made a dent in the ache. Since the stuff wasn’t really working for him anyway, and he wanted to drink tonight, he’d forgone taking another dose in the evening. He figured two or three Black and Tans would do a fine job of taking the edge off his pain.

  The Pennywhistle was swinging when Mike pushed open the double doors and stepped inside. The air was thick with conversation and liquor . . . and something else Mike couldn’t put his finger on. He spied Alan, Rose, and Jenny sitting in their usual spot in the back of the bar, already knee deep into their first round. Mike gave them a nod, then sauntered over to the bar where one of Dave’s latest barmaids, Elektra, was manning the taps. She was a buxom girl from Greece. Elektra and her twin sister, Leni, were spending a year abroad, touring America and working odd jobs here and there for cash.

  The Pennywhistle was notorious for its barmaids. The owner, Dave, had an eye for the ladies, and he was always hiring the prettiest specimens he could find. Local guys flocked to the bar, making a sport of seeing who could score with the new hires.

  Dave knew that men who needed confidence needed liquor, so his hiring practices had a very positive effect on trade. More customers, drinking more. Business was so good these days, Mike had heard that the owner of the Pennywhistle had even talked of retiring early to the Florida Keys, putting the sailboat he’d bought on a whim at a government auction in Montpelier to good use.

  Elektra gave Mike a wink as she grabbed a tall glass and started pouring his favorite. She had never said as much as two words to him, but he got the feeling if he were ever interested, she’d be willing. Maybe he was fooling himself, but the self-deception felt good, if that was the case. Elektra slipped the glass onto a coaster and slid it toward him, brushing his good hand with the side of her palm.

  If this wasn’t an invitation, he didn’t know what was. Flattered, he left her a three-dollar tip, which she expertly slipped into very enticing cleavage.

  Maybe she just knows how to play the game better than I do, Mike thought to himself, retracting his earlier inclination as he watched her ply the next guy with the same inviting smile she’d just used on him. Shaking his head in wonder at the female species — and his complete and utter lack of understanding where they were concerned — he walked over to his friends’ table and sat down. At least here, he knew where he stood: Jenny was taken, and Rose . . . well, Rose was
just Rose.

  “We’ve got a lot more to worry about than just wolves and bears picking our trash,” Rose was saying when Mike tuned in to the conversation.

  It took him a few seconds to figure out what she was talking about, and then he remembered the front page of the Gazette from that morning.

  “She’s right,” Mike said, taking a sip of his Black and Tan. The head tickled his nose, making him almost sneeze his next words.

  “I’ve seen them, and believe me, they’re not wolves.”

  “You saw them, too,” Rose said, almost breathless with some combination of surprise and relief.

  “Yeah, When I did this,” he said, holding up his bandaged hand. Everyone gasped.

  “What the hell happened to you, Mike Richards?” Jenny demanded as she leaned forward in her seat to get a better look at his gauze-wrapped right hand. After the doctor had sewn the missing piece back on, he’d wrapped the whole of Mike’s hand to keep the finger stable, and Mike had repeated the process after he’d changed the dressing,

  “Little fight broke out between the table saw and my pinky finger,” Mike replied. “Finger got the worst of it, and I don’t think anyone’s hoping for a rematch. As for these animals, I saw two of them — biggest damn dogs I ever laid eyes on — right before it happened. Wolves, my ass.”

  “Is your hand gonna be okay?” Rose asked.

  Mike grinned. It pleased him that Rose would worry about him. If he’d known cutting off a body part would get the girl’s attention, he would have done it ages ago. Or not. But it still felt nice, the way Rose was looking at him. Almost enough to dull the pain.

  “The doc at the emergency room said I’d gotten to him just in time,” Mike said. “The EMTs were smart enough to put my pinky on ice, so they were able to reattach the tip —”

  Alan shook his head in wonder.

  “Didn’t I warn you about takin’ a finger off, man?”