Whispers

by Lynn Moon

  Shaking my head, I sighed. “I can’t believe Hunter had to leave town this weekend.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “And that Quinton is babysitting his little cousins tonight.”

  “Don’t worry, Musetta.” Charlie wrapped her arms around me and rested her head on my shoulder. “My being here should be enough to keep your ghosts away.”

  “Ghost,” I repeated.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You said ghosts. It’s just one. My dad.”

  Charlie stood back and laughed. “Fine, ghost. Now, what did Hunter want us to do?”

  “Walk the attic and the basement. We’re to give him measurements and a rough floor plan.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” she said. “Did you ever find your book bag?”

  “Nope.”

  With a tape measurer in one hand and a pad of paper in the other, I stared at her. She’d been my best friend since kindergarten and I loved her. But whether she could protect me from my ghost, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Ready?” she asked, holding up a pencil.

  “Let’s go.”

  We walked toward my dad’s study. I paused when we reached the landing and glared at his door.

  “Wait a minute,” Charlie said. “I could have sworn that door was wide open when I came up here.”

  “This is exactly what I’ve been telling you about. This door always closes after I open it. If we go in there, the curtains will be closed, too.”

  Charlie walked over and placed her hands on the carved wood. Grinning over at me, she pushed on the door. Only a dark room greeted her. Frowning, Charlie marched in.

  “Whoever’s playing this stupid game will stop it now!” Charlie’s words echoed. Does she honestly think my ghost will appear and apologize or something? Grasping the thick material, she yanked the curtains open and shrieked. “Oh, my stars!”

  “What is it?” Running to Charlie’s side, my wobbly legs almost buckled.

  Together, we stared at my missing book bag, which now dangled from one of the upper branches of the old oak tree. The pack had to be at least thirty feet above the ground.

  “How did somebody do that?” For some reason, Charlie refused to let go of the drapes. They seemed to be grounding her to something. “Actually, the real question is, why would somebody do that?”

  “Told yah. My dad’s ghost.”

  “Why would your dad want to hang your book bag in a tree? And there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “There’s your proof.”

  Charlie couldn’t stop staring. “How’ll we get it down?”

  “Just leave it. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” As her eyes shifted to my father’s desk, she let out another high-pitched scream, her eyes widening as her face paled.

  Staring at the desk, my hands shook. Inching our way closer, I squeezed Charlie’s hand as hard as I could. Charlie squeezed back.

  My missing pad of paper sat ominously on my father’s desk, sending waves of terror through me. To make matters worse, scribbled across the pages in bold, black letters were three little words:

  Daddy’s little girl.

  Tears blurred my vision as I picked up the pad. Thumbing through the pages, not one sheet remained blank. The same words had been written over and over again on each sheet. Daddy’s little girl . . . Daddy’s little girl . . . Daddy’s little girl.

  “We need to give this to the sheriff,” Charlie whispered from behind me.

  “It’s not illegal to write on a piece of paper.”

  “No, it’s not. But something’s definitely going on around here. Somebody, not some ghost, stole your book bag and paper. Then they did this.” Her flailing arms slashed through the air. “Which means, Musetta, they broke into your house. Now that’s illegal.”

  Glancing around, nothing looked suspicious. “There’s nothing we can do about it right now. I’ll keep this and show it to Auntie Delphie later. I just want to measure the attic.”

  “Isn’t this bothering you?” Charlie asked.

  “Of course it is!” I yelled. “But if I keep thinking about it I’m going to go mad.”

  ***

  As I climbed the stairs to the attic, something told me that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The stairs felt sinister. Since Charlie had opened my dad’s drapes, the afternoon sunlight brightened the stairs just a little. However, I still feared that something non-human would grab us at any moment. With each step, my anxiety grew, and with each step I wanted to go back to my room and hide. Sweat ran down my face. I could hardly control my still-shaking hands. Anguish sizzled through my jaw and ringing buzzed my ears. Unable to keep my balance, I grabbed onto the banister.

  “Musetta? You don’t look so good.” Charlie seized my arm. “Sit down before you fall.”

  Weary, I sat on a step.

  “Never realized these stairs didn’t go straight up,” Charlie said. “All the others go straight.”

  “I don’t think we ever came up here before.” I bent over, putting pressure on my stomach. I didn’t want to puke. Talking seemed to make me feel better. “The roof’s right here.” I patted the wall. “The stairs turn to go over my dad’s study.”

  “Are you feeling any better?”

  “A little,” I replied. “Don’t know what happened. All of a sudden, I felt like we were in danger or something.”

  “I feel a little creepy, too. Just take in some deep breaths.”

  Resting for a few more seconds, my nerves settled.

  “I think I’m okay now.” I stood, using the railing for balance. The last five steps felt more like five miles than just a few feet. When we reached the attic door, I grabbed the handle expecting a shock or something. Instead, I was greeted with a harsh surprise. “It’s locked? This door is never locked.”

  “Maybe it’s just stuck.” Charlie tried the knob. “No, it’s definitely locked, it won’t turn.”

  “Wait for me.” Heading down the stairs, desperate not to fall, I yelled out. “Katrina!”

  The house remained silent.

  The aroma of food coming from the kitchen turned my stomach again. Ignoring the growing urge to collapse, I yelled, “Katrina, why is the attic locked?”

  “Why are you yelling?” she asked, peering around the corner. “Didn’t know the attic door even had a lock on it.”

  “Know where the key is?”

  Katrina shook her head.

  “Mom?” No answer. “Katrina, where’s mom?”

  “Don’t know,” she hollered back.

  After searching the entire downstairs, I finally found Mom outside in the garden. Mother’s face and hands, covered in dirt, were a mess. But she looked happy and content.

  “Mom?”

  “Hi sweetie.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Getting ready to plant spring vegetables. What’s up?”

  “Where’s the key to the attic?”

  “That door doesn’t have a lock on it.”

  “It does now,” I said, panting.

  “That’s odd.” My question piqued her interest. “Let’s go see what’s going on.”

  We climbed the stairs together; her presence gave me a little comfort. The whole way up, my mom kept arguing with me that the door didn’t have a lock on it. Charlie, waiting patiently by the attic door, smiled when she saw us.

  “Let me see this locked door,” Mom said, grabbing the doorknob. “Now isn’t this odd. It’s locked.”

  “See,” I said. “I’m not crazy. The stupid door is locked.”

  “I can fix this,” my mom said, heading back down the stairs. “Wait here.”

  Mom returned with a tool bag. We watched patiently as she pulled everything apart. Once the knob was off, she used a screwdriver to push a small lever. With a sharp click, the door swung open.

  “Got it,” she said. “Now it won’t ever lock again. I guess your father did this. Had no idea. Hmmm. I see no reason to lock an attic door. Do you?”


  “Nope,” I said, as we scooted around her. “Thanks.”

  Charlie walked over to a small window as I scanned the room for anything unusual. My mom worked on removing the rest of the locking mechanism that was still inside the door.

  “I’ll get a new non-locking knob, tomorrow,” she said. “For now, just pull the door open and close with your fingers.”

  “Will do.” I listened to her feet on the stairs. It felt wonderful to have my mom awake and alive again. Did mourning always make a person sleep so much? I wanted to tell her about my book bag and paper—I just couldn’t take the chance of pushing her back into that awful place where she slept all the time, curled into a ball. Besides, Auntie Delphie would take care of it.

  “Your attic is small,” Charlie said, walking across the dusty floor. “This must be the upper part of the fireplace in your dad’s study.” Charlie slapped her hand against the bricks several times.

  I nodded.

  “Where do these doors go?” she asked, pointing across the room.

  “Storage.” I pulled one open. “See.”

  Charlie peeped inside. “Dark.”

  “Sorry.” Reaching inside, I flipped on the light.

  “Oh. Christmas stuff.” Charlie opened the other door and flipped on the light. “Empty.”

  “It used to have boxes in it,” I said. “I wonder where they are.”

  Actually, the attic was mostly empty. In one corner, a few boxes stacked three high held up an old chair. Several wooden picture frames tilted against a wall looked worn and faded.

  “I counted forty-three steps across,” Charlie said. “Now, I’ll count the other way.”

  Sketching out the small room, I added the two storage closets, my dad’s chimney, and printed the number 43 with the words back wall to the windows.

  “A hundred and two the long way,” Charlie said.

  Jotting down her number, I glanced around one last time. As a little girl, this place used to give me the creeps. Not sure why. Now that I was really looking at it, nothing here would hurt me. So why am I so afraid?

  “Now where to?” Charlie asked.

  “The basement.” Pulling the attic door shut behind us, I again wondered why I was always so afraid of this place. And who locked the door and why?

  “How do we get into the basement, again?” Charlie asked.

  “From outside, remember?”

  “You mean under the front steps,” she said, nodding.

  “Yep.”

  Bouncing down the stairs, I paused just before we reached the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie asked.

  “Listening,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “A ghost,” I replied.

  “You’re weird.”

  “I know,” I said.

  I jumped down the last few steps. Grabbing the keys from the hook, I led her through the kitchen, outside and around to the front, and then under the arch that held the front stairs, where the other set of stairs led down to the basement door. A damp, musty order filled me with pleasant and innocent childhood memories.

  “Remember when we played dolls down here?” Charlie asked.

  “This was our dungeon. We tortured a lot of dolls back then.” Laughing, I pushed the key into the lock. The old door creaked as I shoved it open.

  “Spooky,” Charlie said. She followed me inside.

  The basement didn’t look anything like the attic. Instead of being somewhat empty, it was dark, dirty, and filled with everything from old furniture to broken down wooden boxes. Crates filled with chopped wood lined one side—leftovers from winter, I supposed. The area around the furnace was clean, probably to keep it from catching fire. The only light, from the small windows near the top, cast a dim, dirty beam across the floor. The ceiling, packed with pink insulation, was probably full of nasty rats.

  “This place is very creepy,” Charlie said, searching through the junk.

  “I don’t come down here much.”

  “I can see why,” she replied as a small animal ran across the floor.

  “Yuck,” I said. “Rats.”

  As she searched, I tried to get beneath my parents’ bedroom. Too many boxes and unused or discarded junk blocked my way. Against a far wall, however, a shadow resembling an old door caught my attention.

  “Hey, Charlie. Do you think that’s a door?”

  “Where?”

  “Over there.” I pointed. “See. I bet that’s a door.”

  “I see something,” she said. “But why would a door be way back there? Where would it go? Into the dirt?”

  “Can we get to it?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “There’s too much junk in the way.”

  “I bet Hunter and Quinton could get back there.”

  We tried to sketch out the basement but it wasn’t easy. If we started walking to count our steps, something always blocked our way. Before we could get too frustrated, a heavy thud boomed from above.

  “What’s that?” Charlie asked.

  “Dinner. Katrina’s way of letting us know. Let’s get outta here.”

  ***

  We locked up the basement and ran for the kitchen. Katrina’s dinner, comprised of fried chicken, baked potatoes, and a salad, tasted wonderful. Since my mother was eating with us, Katrina was back to her old schedule of leaving as soon as dinner was on the table. After washing up, we sat next to my mother.

  “What are you two up to?” Mom asked, watching as we filled our plates.

  “Hunter wants to be an architect someday,” I explained. “He has this computer program that makes floor plans and stuff. He wants to draw out this house. We’re helping him get measurements.”

  “I see. Well, the original house plans are in your father’s study,” Mom said. “That closet that’s behind the wall with a bookshelf.”

  “I thought I wasn’t allowed back there.”

  “Mue, your father is no longer with us, sweetheart.” Mom looked away as she talked. It must have hurt to talk about him like that. “What’s in this house is ours now. Snoop all you want.”

  “Thanks,” I said, still not comfortable about snooping in the study.

  As I licked the fried chicken off my fingers, I wondered how much Auntie Delphie had told my mother about my ghostly visits. Not wanting to upset her, I decided not to mention it unless she brought it up.

  “It’s nice having you over again, Charlie,” Mom said, buttering her baked potato.

  “I’ve missed everyone,” Charlie replied.

  “We’ve missed you too,” Mom said.

  We continued with our small talk throughout dinner. Charlie and I filled the dishwasher as Mom put away the food.

  “I’m going to take a shower and lie down now,” Mom said. “So I’ll say my good nights.”

  “Night,” Charlie replied, dropping a plastic cup in the washer.

  “Love you,” I added as Mom disappeared around the corner.

  After turning off the lights and locking the doors, I set the outside alarm. Charlie nodded and smiled. Maybe she, too, felt safer.

  “Can never be too secure these days,” Charlie said. We headed for the stairs.

  We only climbed about halfway up before I stopped. Again, the sound of muffled laughter made me cringe.

  “What’s that noise?” Charlie asked.

  “My ghost,” I replied, placing my ear against the wall. “Listen.”

  Charlie pressed her head against the colorful wallpaper. Her eyes widened as a muted but strong laugh echoed.

  “See?” I said. “My ghost.”

  “But only the kitchen is on the other side of this wall.” Charlie ran down the stairs and peered into the empty kitchen. “See, here’s the wall and there’s the stairs and there’s the kitchen. No one is here with us. So where’s the noise coming from?”

  I shrugged.

  Charlie pressed her ear against my mother’s bedroom door. After a few seconds, she whispered, “I thought maybe it
was your mom’s TV, but it’s quiet in there.”

  “I told you, it’s my ghost.” We returned to the stairway wall. The laughter continued. “Hey!” I yelled. All went quiet. Tilting my head to one side, I shrugged and headed upstairs.

  “But there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Charlie said, following me.

  “Then what was that? And what about my book bag and what about the pad of paper?”

  “Just doesn’t feel right,” Charlie replied, sitting down on my bed. “Oh look, Katrina left us ice water. That was nice. Funny, when did she have time to do this?”

  “She does it for me every Friday night.”

  I picked up my glass and took a couple of sips. Charlie did the same. After showering, we climbed into bed. The clock said it was just a little before nine. I wondered what would happen once we fell asleep. Will my ghost visit me?

  “Did you know you’re supposed to drink eight glasses of this stuff every day,” Charlie said, finishing off her water.

  “I try, but never make it.” Taking a couple more sips, I sat my half-full glass back onto my nightstand. “Wanna watch a movie?”

  “Sure,” Charlie said, pulling the covers over her chest.

  The movie lit up my room. Trying to concentrate on who was who, my eyes kept closing. Glancing over, I saw that Charlie was already asleep. Not wanting to resist, I allowed my world to slip away into a dreamless abyss.

  ***

  Dim light cast a white line across my bedroom floor. I wondered why I was even staring at it. Cold air blew softly across my skin, making me break out in little bumps. I shivered, my hands automatically reaching for my arms. Instead of feeling my nightclothes, I felt only bare skin. What happened to my pajamas? Trying to focus, I felt a brush run through my hair. A brush—and I was naked, again. My ghost came back to visit me.

  Over my shoulder, Charlie was sleeping, soundly. We were still in my bedroom. In front of me stood a dark shadow. With each brush stroke, I tried to reach out and touch whoever was there. My fingers only glided effortlessly through the cool air.

  As my mind whirled in all directions, I realized what was happening. My father was dead. I accepted that now. So who is in my room doing this to me? I felt for the glass of water on my nightstand. Wrapping my fingers around the slender cylinder, I took a deep breath. Concentrating on the direction of the brush strokes, I could tell that my ghost was standing just to my right. I moved the glass from my left hand to my right and waited for my opportunity. Studying the shadow on the floor, I watched his feet move along the thin line of moonlight. That dim light gave me just what I needed.