Little Whispers

by Glen Krisch

  LITTLE WHISPERS © 2019 by Glen Krisch

  Cover design by Kealan Patrick Burke

  Interior design by Michael Bailey

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, recording, broadcast or live performance, or duplication by any information storage or retrieval system without permission, except for the inclusion of brief quotations with attribution in a review or report.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, products, corporations, institutions, and/or entities of any kind in this book are either products of the author’s twisted imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without intent to describe actual characteristics.

  Independently Published

  eBook Edition

  PROLOGUE

  MENOMONEE FALLS, WISCONSIN, 1995

  Melody Underhill clutched a stack of books as she left the library, taking two stairs at a time. The frigid wind gave her an immediate shiver after the long hours she’d spent in the library’s warmth since school ended. She was alone, but that was her existence pretty much 24/7. It didn’t bother her to walk home by herself.

  “You sure you don’t want to phone your mom to pick you up?” Mrs. Foley called out from behind her. At the sidewalk, Melody turned and found the grandmotherly head librarian standing in the doorway.

  “She works late. It’s not a big deal. My house is, like, five blocks away.”

  Her mother was most likely home, most likely high, most likely “entertaining” some biker dude she’d met at The Pour House, her favorite seedy bar off the highway north of town. Mrs. Foley didn’t need to know those sordid details to understand Melody was fine on her own.

  “I’ll give you a lift if you give me five minutes to lock up.”

  “That’s silly,” Melody replied. “I’ll be home in five minutes.”

  Mrs. Foley didn’t look convinced. She absently straightened her dark wig, as if it chafed her so late in the day. “Okay, dear. See you Saturday?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Melody said, and waved from under her mound of books.

  Mrs. Foley waved back before locking the door.

  Melody didn’t exactly want to go home, not with the many unseemly possibilities she might encounter there, but she couldn’t wait to crack the spine on the new Lauren Bacall biography. She hoped to slip inside her bedroom unnoticed, dive onto her bed, and read until her eyes dried out. She hadn’t mentioned to anyone that her dream was to become a confident, headstrong actress like Bacall.

  She had begun to hum a nonsensical tune when she noticed the streetlights casting globes of light between long stretches of darkness. She couldn’t believe she’d lost track of time, although it happened daily; the stories of lives different than her own provided an escape.

  Fearing her mom’s wrath, Melody’s heart quickened. Her mom was easy to set off, and violence often followed.

  As she neared the next intersection, a van parallel-parked into one of the islands of darkness between lampposts. Dark paint, tinted windows. She would’ve never seen it—would have walked right on by without a second thought—but a glimmer of streetlight reflecting off the chrome bumper caught her eye.

  The hair on the nape of her neck prickled and she stopped humming. The night had become unwaveringly quiet. Something felt wrong, off-kilter. She felt it to her marrow.

  She’d rather walk barefoot over broken glass than pass that van. She would head back to the library, she decided, loop around the block, and add a minute or two to her walk home. No big deal. She was already way late and way beyond hope of escaping her mom’s anger, but it wouldn’t matter as long as she got home safely.

  The revving of the engine goosed her pace. The van’s headlights turned on, blinding her for a split second. The vehicle veered from the curb, inched forward and cut a sharp left. Headlights panned the chilly street as the van made an illegal U-turn before disappearing up the block.

  Melody chuckled at her overreaction, even though her heart still thudded in her chest. Maybe it hadn’t been an overreaction. Maybe it had been instinct. Whatever. All she knew was that she was now heading the wrong direction for home.

  When she reached the library’s steps once again, the shadow of a large maple tree expanded, but it wasn’t darkness shifting in the limited light. A man wearing a tweed coat and thick-framed glasses had stepped out of the shadows. His well-groomed white beard nearly glowed in the darkness. He blocked her path.

  “I’m sorry, young lady,” the man said, startled by her sudden appearance.

  “Excuse me.” She gripped her books, getting ready to run.

  “But of course.” The man tipped an imaginary hat and trotted across the street.

  Melody let out a pent-up breath and picked up her pace, so ready to put this night and her jumpy nerves behind her. She turned at the next street corner, glancing over her shoulder.

  She didn’t notice the van until it was too late. No more than three feet away, the sliding door gaped open like a hungry mouth.

  It couldn’t possibly be …

  She dropped her books, to double back toward the library, to scream bloody murder, but something struck her temple, hard, sending stars cartwheeling across her vision. And then she plummeted through a deep well of infernal night, a warm wetness trailing down her temple, across her cheek, to her lips.

  Her body thumped onto a coarse blanket strewn across the floor of the van. She writhed wildly to get away. She only succeeded in clearing her body from the doorframe of the van when a man climbed inside after her and slammed the door shut, blanketing them in murky darkness. Melody’s attacker yanked her arms behind her and pressed his knee into her lower back.

  After the knock against her skull, she had little will left to fight, and felt disconnected from her limbs. Her fading vision throbbed to the beat of her heart, consciousness retreating.

  She tried to say something, to shout, but no words came out.

  She felt numb. So incredibly tired.

  “Shhh … Oh, don’t you say a word, Melody.”

  Adrenaline stripped away some of the grogginess.

  He knew her name, which surprised her as much as his tone. He was calm, which threw her for a loop. She was used to her mom’s full-on rage. This man’s lack of anger, his relaxed grace, only sharpened her fear.

  She felt a surge of panic.

  If he can do this without even raising his voice …

  “Please,” she managed through streaming tears.

  “Shhh …” the man repeated. He pressed a rough finger to her lips, silencing her. “Words will only make things worse. There is no excuse for your devilry. No explaining your sins … so don’t even bother.”

  He touched her hair, the tips of his fingers tracing from her slight widow’s peak to where her hair fell midway down her back. He stroked her shoulders gently, somehow affectionately. This illicit contact made him exhale in a fitful spasm.

  “Glorious,” he whispered.

  Melody sobbed, unable to control herself, even if it set him off and brought out his demons. Certainly, only demons fueled this man’s intentions.

  And what are his intentions?

  She cast the thought away, not wanting to consider the possibilities.

  He seized her hair in a firm grasp and she cried out.

  “We have much to learn,” he said, barely audible, again under control. “About each other. About weakness. About absolution and redemption.”

  “P-please …” she managed, dazed, lost in shadows both real and illusory.

  Dim streetlights lit the van’s tinted
windows. Cool autumn wind whistled against glass. The city slumbered, unaware.

  “No words, Melody. There will be no words.”

  She remained silent, biding her time. Only later would she realize she’d missed her one last opportunity, however slight the possibility.

  He helped her to sit, knees pulled to her chest.

  “Good girl. Now wrap your arms around your knees.”

  She complied, feeling powerless to do otherwise.

  “That’s my girl.”

  Melody’s eyes had somewhat adjusted to the gloom. She could see him now, and he wasn’t scary at all. If anything, he was both striking and young: dark brown hair cropped military short, eyes so blue she couldn’t help but stare into them.

  He unfurled the end of a wide roll of industrial plastic wrap, tucked the end between her knobby knees.

  “Squeeze and don’t let go.”

  She pressed her knees together as he yanked slack from the roll and wrapped it around her. With each successive pass around her body, the plastic held her ever more tightly. The plastic shrieked as it shed its spool to add layers to her confinement, making it difficult to breathe beyond shallow pants. He mummified her from feet to shoulders in a few short minutes.

  “Not … not my face?” she said, hopeful.

  “I wouldn’t do that to you.” The man smiled. “But I will need to put this over your mouth.” He held a length of fabric before her eyes. “Remember, no words? I can’t risk you shouting when it’s not appropriate. I’d like to trust you, but we just met. You understand, don’t you?”

  Melody nodded, almost relieved. He wouldn’t gag her if he was planning to kill her; she would already be dead if that’s what he wanted, or so she hoped.

  He lifted the fabric over her head, grinning. He could be reaching out to place a necklace around the neck of his girlfriend.

  “Open,” he said, and dangled the fabric against her lips.

  She complied.

  After cinching the fabric taut across her open mouth, he tied a double-knot behind her head. The gag had a chemical taste, the odor dizzying. Her eyes wanted to close and fluttered as she fought to keep them open. It would be so easy to let go, to stop struggling …

  “That’s it, Melody. My sweet girl. Relax.”

  He wrapped the plastic around her some more, cocooning her to her chin. When finished, he cut the end of the plastic with a box cutter and tucked the edge under one of the many layers. Both her mind and body were warm, sweaty, heavy—like hot molasses drawn slowly through a straw.

  Her eyes closed and only opened again after she felt him lifting her into his arms. With deliberate care, he settled her onto her side. He had placed her inside something, a small box.

  A coffin?

  Her mind raced, but she was helpless but to play her part in his sick game.

  The man combed his fingers through her hair, tucked a lock behind her ear. He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek.

  “Soon, Melody,” he whispered, his lips touching her ear. “Soon, we will learn.”

  The man closed whatever confined space she now occupied and yanked on a metal zipper. A thin seam of meager light knitted together as he pulled, the sides joining like a rapidly healing wound.

  And then the light was gone, for good most likely.

  A suitcase?

  She was unable to question anymore, and well past the point of fighting for her life. Her eyes closed for good as she fell into a dreamless abyss.

  Melody chased after unconsciousness like a moth chasing a flame.

  CHAPTER 1

  WESTERN MICHIGAN, PRESENT DAY

  Clara Forrester straightened the hem of her blue pleated skirt as she waited for the next spelling word.

  “Okay … the next word is …” her mom said, turning around in the front passenger’s seat of their Volvo. She glanced at the papers in her lap. “Precipice.”

  “Definition, please,” Clara said automatically, even though she already knew the answer.

  “A cliff with a vertical, nearly vertical, or overhanging face. A situation of great peril. Pres-uh-pis.”

  Clara pursed her lips and internalized the word, her unfocused gaze drifting toward the ceiling. She mouthed the phonetics of the word, hearing their every nuance and texture, their every etymological wrinkle.

  Pres-uh-pis.

  “P-r-e-c … i-p … i-c-e. Pres-uh-pis.”

  “Correct,” her mom said.

  “Good job, sweetie-pie,” her dad said, steering up a winding incline.

  Clara smiled on the inside, not allowing it to reach her stern façade, already eager for the next word. The windshield shifted from the road’s bare expanse to splashes of vibrant spring foliage: petals in a variety of purples, lemon yellows, virginal whites, leaves and seedlings in every shade of green. The western Michigan woods enveloped them, as if their car were the only one remaining in an empty world. The engine hummed rhythmically. Clara straightened the cuffs of her gray cardigan, rested her hands in her lap, ready.

  “Okay,” her mom said, checking her papers, “the next word is—”

  “Krista,” her dad cut in, “when exactly is the National Spelling Bee?”

  “You know as well as I do.”

  “August something-or-other, right?” her dad said. “That’s months away.”

  “It’s August 12th, Daddy.” Clara waited impatiently for the next word. “That’s two months and three days from now.”

  Her mom sighed. “Yes, it’s a long time away, but there are thousands of words to cover, and thousands of kids working just as hard.”

  “Look outside the window,” he said, not exactly changing the subject but reframing it.

  “What? Why?” her mom said.

  This was one of his favorite tactics to get people to see things his way.

  Clara didn’t care; she wanted the next word, wanted to drink it in, to dominate it and make it her own.

  “Just look. And I mean both of you.” Her dad took his eyes off the road until she caved.

  Her mom rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’m looking.”

  “Clara?” His dark green eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror.

  Clara scowled as the landscape blurred by in a colorful torrent. The hills were thick with ancient oak, maple, and beech trees. This wilderness was a foreign geography for a kid raised in a condominium on Chicago’s Gold Coast.

  “It’s my strong opinion children should spend their idle time staring out windows,” her dad said.

  “But—” her mom cut in, but her dad stopped her with a raised index finger.

  “Thousands of kids are in this competition, right?” he asked.

  “And the finalists are all practicing their lists. Every one of them.”

  “Clara finished in the top fifty last year—”

  “Forty-third,” Clara clarified.

  “Forty-third. As an eleven-year-old. I say that’s incredible. Don’t you, dear?”

  Her mom fidgeted with her seatbelt. “Yes … yes, I do, but—”

  “No buts. Clara, you are officially off the clock. No more words for the duration of this little trip. Enjoy the view. With how busy we all are, we don’t get out to the country too often. Stare off into space. Let your mind wander. Be a kid.”

  “If I have to.”

  Her dad chuckled. “Well, you do.”

  Clara harrumphed and stared out the window to prove her dad wrong. She could let her mind wander. She could be a kid … if she tried hard enough.

  Her mom gave her a quick glance and patted his hand before whispering, “Sometimes, I have to admit … you’re right. Sometimes we need to take the time to just breathe.”

  “Can I get that in writing?” he said and laughed, the sound like glue binding their family.

  “What? Like a
legally-binding agreement? Sure, counselor. I’ll get my lawyer to throw something together.”

  “But I am your lawyer,” he said.

  “Sounds like a conflict of interest.”

  She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his cheek, a gesture guaranteed to bring a smile to Clara’s normally stoic face.

  He steered the Volvo down roads winding through impenetrable woodlands. “And what about … you know?” he whispered, trailing off.

  “What about?”

  “I know this visit is stressing you out big-time. It’s been so long since you’ve been to the summer house.”

  Clara tensed, her eyes skimming the beautiful wilderness.

  “It has been a long time,” her mom said. “Since the summer I turned twelve. After all that happened, I’d always stayed back in Grand Rapids with Nan.”

  Clara waited for her to continue, but she seemed exhausted of words. Clara considered what she’d learned. Her mother had avoided the summer house for over twenty years. And the last time she traveled this same road, she had been the same age as Clara.

  Prescient. The word popped into her head, unbidden, and she recalled the phonetics of the word: prĕsh’∂nt.

  Outside—where all kids were meant to let their minds wander—the trees blurred a vibrant green panorama, cloaking skeletal branches and the layers of darkening shadows cast beneath. Clara began to lose focus, and her eyelids drew heavy and low. Her breath deepened. She verged on sleep, but remained aware of her surroundings, at least for the moment. Her parents carried on just above a whisper, sometimes glancing back to see if she were paying attention.

  “There’s nothing you could’ve done, Krista. You were twelve.”

  “Breann was my best friend.”

  Silence broken only by the steady purr of the engine carried them for another mile. Clara didn’t know what had kept her mother from returning to the summer house. It was almost impossible for Clara to imagine her mom being a kid.