Anya’s skin crawled. She clung to the rock and drew back a leg to kick at the ghost. At her. But she remembered that Marie had tried to save her.
Marie’s smile faded. “You need to get out of the water now.”
“Because of the . . . the monster?” She didn’t know what else to call it.
“Yes,” Marie said. “Because of me.”
Frozen with fear, Anya gripped the rock with both hands. Could she make it to land?
“You came because of me,” Marie said. “And it nearly got you.”
Anya swallowed. “It . . .”
“The thing that got me. Got us.”
She gestured with her head toward the ocean beyond. Anya looked. Gasped.
The sea was littered with floating bodies, perhaps two dozen, facedown, arms outstretched. They rode the swells like pieces of debris. Anya found she couldn’t scream; instead, she was overcome with a deep, burning pang of overwhelming grief. Something loosened inside her, but not too much. Everything inside her had been clamped down tight for way too long.
“I went swimming that night after the guys left me, and it came after me,” Marie said, and her voice shook. “It killed me.”
“I left you,” Anya said, and the something loosened a little more. She stiffened as a body rode the waves toward her. But as it bobbled closer, the figure sank and disappeared. “I was scared—” Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.
Marie shook her head and took her hand. She did a breaststroke with her free arm toward the cove, bringing Anya with her. A chorus like one long wail rose from the ocean, keening, mourning. The sound became the tolling of a bell; she and Marie were passing a red metal buoy about six feet tall bobbing on a rubbery platform. The top of the buoy was a bell; on the center of the buoy was a sign that read DANGER. NO SWIMMING. RIPTIDE. NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY.
“I didn’t see that sign,” Anya said.
“If you had stayed, it would have gotten you, too,” Marie told her.
“You wouldn’t have gone swimming. I wouldn’t have let you,” Anya said.
Marie turned her head. “You think you could have stopped me? I did see the sign. And I went in anyway.” She started to cry. “That was my life then. I went in anyway.”
“No,” Anya insisted. “No, Marie.” And then she said in a flood, “I’ve been holding my breath for a year. Ever since you . . . ever since. I never confessed. No one knew.”
“There was nothing to know,” Marie said.
• • •
Night.
The cove, the full moon, and the bonfire.
Marie was belly dancing. The guys were leering and hooting, throwing alcohol bottles into the bonfire to make them explode. Comets of glass shards sprayed the night sky with new stars. Beyond, the ocean rolled black and silver beneath the moon.
Anya gaped and made a little circle of her own. Had it been a dream? A hallucination brought on by a contact high with all the weed? Anya touched her face, her hair, her arms. All dry. She looked out at the ocean.
And saw the floating bodies listing over the waves like body surfers in slow motion. Into and out of the light. And among them, something white swimming from one to the other like a sheepdog checking on its lambs.
Her blood froze. Then clouds swallowed up the moon and swathed the ocean in inky black. Opening the coffin lid.
“We have to go,” she half shouted at Marie. Marie raised her brows, turned around, and shook her ass at Anya. The guys cheered, and one of them struggled to his feet, aided and abetted by his friends. He staggered toward Marie with his arms opened wide. With a triumphant grin, she shimmied toward him. As Anya watched, the white skull glowed through his skin. Evil blazed in the empty eye sockets where bloodshot brown eyes had been.
Then it was gone, and he was just a slightly too old guy who was way too drunk. Maybe he had killed Marie that other night. Maybe that was what Anya was seeing. Maybe the entire year had not happened, and her suicide attempt—
—I never got that far; I jumped in to save someone. . . .
—Didn’t I?
“Marie, we have to leave,” she said, crossing over to Marie and planting herself between her best friend and the drunk guy.
Sparks flew as Marie shook her head, black hair a nimbus, soft and floating in the night breeze. “No way. I’m having too much fun.”
Anya reached out and grabbed Marie’s hand. “I am taking you home now.”
Marie staggered a little as she glared at her and tried to shake her off. “Who are you, my mother?”
This time Anya knew not to lose her temper. But she was so far from that. So far.
Very soberly she said, “Who am I? I’m someone in desperate need of a do-over.”
Marie blinked and shook her head. She pawed at Anya’s fingers. “No such thing.”
“There is. There really is. Now, come on.”
“Hey,” said the big, drunk guy. “Let her party.”
“Come on,” Anya said more quietly. “Marie.”
There was a beat. Another. Marie stared hard into Anya’s eyes, and her own eyes welled. Her hand in Anya’s went limp.
She said under her breath, “But it’s scary out there.” Then her face crumpled and she touched her head. “And even scarier in here.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She began to cry, great rolling sobs that shook her entire body.
Oh, thank you, universe, Anya thought. Whatever god or fate or fairy godmother has given this to us, thank you.
She drew her weeping best friend into her arms and held her tightly. Felt her own tears, held in check for a year, held so long, held taut, streaming down her face. Tasted the salt. Felt the struggle drain out of her. And out of Marie. Even in the darkest place, there is hope.
“Breathe,” she told Marie. “Just breathe.”
Nancy Holder is a New York Times bestselling author of over ninety books and two hundred short stories, essays, and articles. She has received five Bram Stoker Awards, a Scribe, and a Young Adult Pioneer Award. Her series, Wicked, was optioned by DreamWorks, and her fiction has appeared on recommended lists from the American Library Association and the New York Public Library Stuff for the Teen Age. She coedited Futuredaze 2: Reprise, featuring science fiction short stories from authors such as Neil Gaiman and Cassandra Clare. She is a trustee of the Horror Writers Association and the director of ceremonies for StokerCon. Her most recent YA novel is a thriller titled The Rules (Delacorte).
Website: nancyholder.com
Twitter: @nancyholder
Facebook: facebook.com/nancyholderfans
* * *
The Whisper-Whisper Men
TIM WAGGONER
* * *
She runs down the street, shouting at the top of her lungs.
“Hello? Can anyone hear me? Is there anyone there?”
The only sounds are her voice, her ragged, panicked breathing, and her sneakers pounding on asphalt. No cars, no barking dogs, no chirping birds, no anything. It’s a beautiful day in late April—cloudless blue sky, sun bright overhead, warm but not too warm. People should be out doing yard work, washing cars in their driveways, or walking their dogs. Kids should be playing in their backyards or on sidewalks, riding bikes or skateboards. There should be joggers running by, couples walking hand in hand, cars cruising up and down the street, people on their way to the park, the movies, the mall . . . going anywhere, doing anything, just getting outside to enjoy the day.
But there’s no one. No one but her.
She doesn’t know how long she runs, how many times she shouts without getting any response. She’s not even sure what neighborhood she’s in anymore. The houses here look the same as on her family’s street: ranch style houses with small yards, an occasional two story home here and there to break the monotony. But she doesn’t recognize any of the street names.
Lungs burning, throat sore, feet and knees aching, she slows to a walk and then finally stops. She doubles over, puts her hands on her knees, and spends the next several moments gulping
air, sweat pouring off her. As her heart rate begins to slow, she thinks back to when she started running. Or rather, she tries to. But no matter how hard she tries, the memory won’t come.
Her breathing eases, becoming almost silent, and she finally hears something beside the noises she’s made herself. She straightens, listens.
It’s a soft sound, one that reminds her of a rushing river or distant highway traffic. But it’s not either of these. There’s no river or highway close by. Wind rustling tree leaves? No. The air is still, and she can see that the leaves aren’t moving. She holds her breath, listens harder. It’s a shhh-shhh-shhh sound, but it’s not regular. Sometimes its rhythm is faster, sometimes slower, the volume louder or softer. Almost like people talking. No . . . whispering.
The sound should fill her with relief. It means she’s not alone. But there’s something strange about it—sinister, unsettling—and it provides no comfort. Just the opposite. It fills her with dread.
She catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye then, and her head snaps around in that direction. She has the impression of someone dressed in black from head to toe disappearing behind a large oak tree. But the figure moves so fast, she’s not sure she didn’t imagine it. She sees another flash of darkness, this one on the other side of the street, and she turns that way. She’s faster this time, and she sees this figure more clearly. It moves with a silent gliding motion, like the shadow it resembles. She can’t make out any features, for the thing is nothing but a dark silhouette, a human shape cut from black construction paper. It too quickly vanishes, ducking behind a car parked in a driveway. But she knows it’s still there. She can feel its presence, feel it watching her. Just like the one hiding behind the oak tree. And they aren’t the only two. She can sense that, too. They lurk behind trees, the sides of houses, inside drainage openings, and their whispering grows louder, becomes harder edged, until it resembles the ratcheting thrum of cicadas. Fear cuts through her like a blade of ice, and she has to get off the street, find someplace safe where she can hide from the shadow-things.
She doesn’t think. She picks a house at random and runs toward it. It’s another ranch home, one that doesn’t look all that different from hers, really—although she barely has time to register that fact, terrified as she is. She races across the neatly trimmed lawn, bounds up the concrete steps to the porch, and begins pounding on the front door with her fists.
“Help me! Please! They’re after me!”
She feels a tingling sensation on the back of her neck, and she knows the shadow-things have left their hiding places and are moving toward her, silent and swift.
“Please!” she shouts one more time. But the door doesn’t open. If there’s anyone inside, they’re not going to answer. Maybe she sounds crazy, and they’re afraid to let her in. Or maybe they’ve peeked out the window and have seen the dark creatures approaching the house. Or maybe this house—like the rest of the neighborhood—truly is deserted, and there’s no one to help her.
The whispering grows louder still as they draw near, and she thinks she can almost make out words, but she can’t quite. She presses against the door, eyes closed, praying that they’ll go away, knowing they won’t.
The air becomes colder as they approach, and she feels frigid breath on the back of her neck. She squeezes her eyes shut even tighter, as if that will help somehow, and she tenses her body in anticipation of shadowy hands reaching out to touch her. She feels the sensation of fingers brushing the skin on her neck, their touch so cold it feels as if they draw all the warmth from her body.
She sucks in a breath and starts to scream—
• • •
Alex sat up in bed, drenched with sweat, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps. Dim light came through the crack between her window curtains, and she knew it was close to dawn. She sat unmoving until her pulse and breathing slowed and some measure of calm returned to her. Only then did she take her phone off the nightstand and check the time. 5:17. She sighed. Her alarm was set for 6:30, but she knew there was no way she’d be able to fall back to sleep, not after that dream. Might as well get up and get ready for the day.
She drew the covers off her, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stood. As she left her room and headed for the bathroom, she felt a cold sensation on the back of her neck. She told herself it was only her imagination, but she didn’t believe it.
• • •
Alex dragged through her first couple classes, and by the time she got to Ms. DiPietro’s psychology class, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open.
“You look worse than you did yesterday.”
Alex turned to Jackie and gave her a withering smile. “Thanks a lot.”
“She’s not wrong,” Kerri said. “Seriously, how are you?”
Jackie Kingston and Kerri Howell were two of Alex’s best friends. They’d been close since the beginning of middle school, and now in their second year of high school they did their best to take their classes together. It didn’t always work out, though, and this semester psych was the only class they shared. Jackie sat to Alex’s right, while Kerri sat behind her.
“I’m okay,” Alex said. She thought her voice sounded weak, too soft. Entirely unconvincing.
Jackie wore her blond hair in a ponytail, had large owl-like glasses, and wore shirts that displayed her favorite obsessions—usually singers. Today she had on a Taylor Swift shirt. Kerri, on the other hand, enjoyed looking her best. She was a beautiful African American girl, and her hair, nails, and makeup were always perfect. She wore dresses most of the time, even in winter. Fashionwise, Alex normally fell somewhere between her two friends, but lately she’d taken to wearing a pullover hoodie and jeans every day. As tired as she was in the mornings, it was simpler to grab the hoodie and leave the house. No makeup, either. She just didn’t feel like bothering with it.
“You had that dream again,” Jackie said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. Same as always.”
“Have you talked to your parents about it?” Kerri asked.
“No, I haven’t said anything to my dad and stepmother,” Alex said. Then she sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Just tired, you know?”
Ms. DiPietro usually stood in the hallway chatting with the teacher next door until it was time for class to begin. She always walked in right before the bell rang, and she came into the room right then.
“Maybe you should talk to Ms. DiPietro,” Jackie said, grinning. “She does teach psych.”
“Funny,” Alex said in a tone that indicated she thought the opposite.
The bell rang the moment Ms. DiPietro reached her desk. Alex wondered how the woman was always able to time it so precisely. It was like she was a robot or something.
“Good morning, class. Today we’re going to talk about fear.”
Ms. DiPietro wasn’t very old, late twenties, maybe early thirties. Alex wasn’t good at guessing the ages of adults. She was a tall, slender woman who dressed more like a businesswoman than a high school teacher. Today she wore a sharp gray business suit and killer black heels. She had long, glossy black hair that she wore loose. Alex envied the woman’s hair. Her own brown hair was short and curly, and no matter how she tried to style it, it always stayed that way.
Kerri leaned forward and whispered close to Alex’s ear.
“This is your lucky day. Maybe you’ll pick up a few tips about dealing with nightmares.”
Alex knew her friend was only teasing, but hearing her whisper like that made her feel instantly sick to her stomach. She thought about raising her hand and asking if she could be excused to go see the school nurse. But she didn’t. She didn’t want the other kids—especially Jackie and Kerri—to think something really was wrong with her. Besides, she couldn’t stand the thought of lying on the cot in the nurse’s sick room all by herself while the nurse tended to other students. The last thing she wanted right now was to be alone. So she remained in her seat and gripped the edge o
f her desk to steady herself and keep from trembling.
“Fear is a natural, inevitable part of the human condition,” Ms. DiPietro began. “No matter how hard we try, none of us will ever be free of it. Because of this, it’s important we learn to do more than just live with our fears. We need to embrace them.”
Alex liked Ms. DiPietro and thought she was a good teacher, but half the time she had no idea what the woman was talking about. This was definitely one of those times.
Ms. DiPietro lectured a while longer, and then she told the class to get out their notebooks and pens.
“I want you to take the next ten minutes and write about something you fear. And not something unimportant like spiders. Something deeper, more personal. Don’t worry. You’re not going to have to share this with anyone in the class. I just want to give you—in one small way—the opportunity to confront your fears. Go ahead and get started.”
Like the other students, Alex had taken a notebook and pen from her backpack, and now she stared at the blank page in front of her. Most of the other students, including Jackie and Kerri, were already writing. But Alex had no idea what to put down. The easiest thing to do would be to write about her recurring dream of the shadow-things she’d come to think of as the Whisper-Whisper Men. But not only didn’t she want to revisit that dream, if only in her memory, she didn’t think it would fit the assignment. The dream was scary, sure, and she hated it, but she didn’t think it counted as a fear she had. Not the way Ms. DiPietro meant the word, anyway.
What was the worst thing she could imagine? That was an easy one. The death of her mother. Her real mother. Alex had been six, and her brother, Steve, almost eight and a half when their mother had been driving home from the airport late at night after getting home from a business trip. It had been raining, and her car had been struck head-on by a drunk driver in a pickup. She’d died that morning in the hospital. Their dad had thrown himself into his work after the funeral, and Alex and Steve didn’t see much of him after that. They were stuck in after-school care and dropped off at relatives’ houses on the weekends. Even after their dad remarried, Alex and Steve kept going to after-school care until they were old enough to stay home and take care of themselves. But as bad as all that was, did any of it count as a fear? She was a little nervous about taking driver’s ed over the summer, but mostly she was excited.
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