Whispers From The Dark (16 page)

Tim said nothing, glancing over his shoulder to assure himself the pond's owner was nowhere in sight. He rolled his clothes up, wrapping the shoes inside the shirt and jeans and tucking the entire roll under his arm as he stood his bike up on the road and began jogging back up the road towards their house.

"Hey," his brother protested with a whine, "you said we'd go to the creek!"

Tim said nothing.

"Tim! You said-"

"I know what I said, damn it! Gimme a minute, alright?" Tim snapped the words out in a tone he was sure his brother had never heard. "I need a minute to . . . rest."

They had rounded the bend in the road and were out of sight of the house and pond. Tim let his bike fall and sat down on the side of the road, slowly pulling on his clothes as he thought about his situation.

Now what? All the hushed whispers about the town hermit were somehow true. He was a murderer. Tim knew that . . . although he was sure that he was the only person other than Mr. Young himself who knew that.

Who should he tell? He father came to mind first. But his father had known Thomas Young for a long time. Although the man seldom left his house, he and Tim's dad were neighbors and had been for years. Tim's dad was a man who firmly believed in friendship and helping your neighbors. Many of his lectures, his male bonding discussions with Tim had concerned the importance of honor among friends.

So what if Tim told his father and his father didn't believe him? It seemed an impossible story to him, and he had just seen the bodies. Why would his father believe that his friend and neighbor was a killer of children? More likely was a heavy whipping at the hands of his father for disobeying his wishes and swimming in the forbidden pond.

And if word somehow reached Mr. Young that his young neighbor was spreading tales about murder, just what would he do? Crawl through Tim's window at night and drag him to that pond to spend eternity in its cool water?

Jeff . . . should he even tell his brother? To do so would involve him, and at ten years old Tim doubted he would be able to stay quiet about it or even really understand the far reaching consequences that such knowledge contained.

Even now Tim felt his brother's questioning eyes burning into him as he dressed. He knew that Jeff could tell something was wrong, but that asking would not gain an answer.

Fully dressed, Tim climbed onto his bike and jerked his head down the road. He forced his voice to be as deceitfully calm as possible. "Come on. Let's get to the creek and get back." They rode back down the road towards the trail leading to the creek in silence.

As they passed by the pond Tim could see the old pickup truck parked once again in the driveway, but its owner was thankfully absent. Tim eyed the pond silently, his heart pounding in his chest.

By the time the boys had reached the creek bank, Tim was trying unsuccessfully to convince himself to tell someone what secret Thomas Young's pond held. He knew it was the right thing to do. The man was a killer, after all. But what if he wasn't believed? A spanking from his father would be the least of his worries.

Tim sat in the shade of an ancient willow tree as his brother splashed around in the shallow water of the creek, innocently oblivious of the horrors a mere mile from them.

He couldn't be sure Thomas Young had killed anyone, or even knew what floated in his pond. There had been no missing children anywhere in the county that Tim knew of. Perhaps someone from another town, another state, had used Mr. Young's pond to hide their secrets.

Some secrets we keep out of fear.

The thought appeared in his mind like a rabbit appearing in a magician's hat. Tim wasn't sure where it had come from. It seemed as if he remembered someone saying it--his dad perhaps. Maybe someone in a movie? Or perhaps he had formed the thought to rationalize why he was coming to the conclusion that he shouldn't share his discovery with anyone.

Wherever the thought came from, it sounded true and right. Some secrets we do keep out of fear . . . the majority of them, Tim figured.

He decided to keep this secret.

The decision made, a tear rolled down Tim's face. He was surprised to find that he wasn't entirely sure why the tear came. It may have been shame, or fear, or pity for the dead he had just seen.

When Jeff grew bored of the creek, the two boys made their way back home in silence. Tim spent the rest of the evening without speaking, only half-grunting monosyllabic responses if his parents asked him a question.

Within a month, Tim's young mind had buried what he had seen under happier memories, boyish thoughts. When he passed by the pond he would shiver as he stared at the water, knowing what was beneath. From time to time, when he lay in bed at night staring into the darkness he could see the pale girl's face. Most of the time, however, Tim was able to keep his mind on other things.

Six weeks after Tim's swim in the pond, the severe drought had dried up most of the area's creeks to a minuscule trickle. And one week later Tim's father came home with the news.

The stream that fed Mr. Young's pond had disappeared completely. The pond's water level had dropped drastically, two feet lower than usual. And with that drop in water, the pond's secret was discovered.

It had been Leon Russell who saw them. He had driven by the pond like he always had, his eyes fixed on its surface, hoping to catch sight of Thomas Young's legendary fish. Instead he had seen strange white shapes floating just below the surface. Curious, he had parked his truck in the road and used the scope of his hunting rifle to take a closer look.

Children. One floating so close to the surface that her nose and forehead were above the water, face bared for Leon to see. The rest were a little deeper, the pond dotted with hands and fingers and feet poking up from beneath like cattails growing out of the pond.

Leon had vomited, then driven straight home and called the police. They arrived to find Thomas Young floating in the pond on a small canoe, armed with rocks and bricks. He was trying to weight the bodies down more, trying to push them deeper into the water.

Six little girls were in the pond, and one inside the attic of the house. According to the newspaper she had been missing for over a month from Ashton, a town about thirty miles away. She had been killed only a couple of days before Leon Russell's discovery.

Hearing of the girl in the attic, Tim turned and quickly left the room. He sat on the porch of the house staring into the distance. Thomas Young's secret was out. The rumors the school kids told about him were true. Tim had known for weeks, but now the world knew as well. Tim could safely tell his story, if he wanted.

But she wouldn't let him.

She had probably been in that attic the day he had went for his swim, alive and scared and praying for someone to help her. Praying for someone to discover what horrible secrets Thomas Young hid in his pond.

Tim had discovered that secret long ago, and hadn't told anyone then, just as he wouldn't tell anyone now or ever.

Because, after all, some secrets we keep out of fear.

The rest we keep out of guilt.

GRANNY

The thick brambles and tangled briar thickets assaulted Tom as he hurried through them, clutching his infant daughter close to his chest.  He’d abandoned the pickup truck an hour ago, when the dirt road had narrowed to the point that a vehicle could no longer pass through it.  Within minutes of leaving the truck the road became a trail that quickly dwindled away and vanished into the dense Appalachia underbrush.

The distance and difficulty of the journey was a necessity.  Only the mad or those who truly needed her help would endure it; she was far too old to listen to the desires and whims of anyone else. 

It was amazing that Marie could slumber now while he picked through the underbrush, and Tom took it as a good omen.  Even her breaths didn’t seem as rasping and labored as usual.

Finally, the trickling sounds of the stream began to dance through the woods and within seconds he found the thin ribbon of water just where it disappeared beneath the ground.  He stood for a moment, staring at the shimmering stream that was now the only path to Marie’s salvation.

A quick glance at his child, and Tom set off up the mountain.

Another two hundred yards and the stream turned to the right, wrapping around the mountainside and leading him into a wide ravine.      

Through the trees, Tom could see the rusted metal roof of the shack, nestled in the wide base of the gully.  The land had been somewhat cleared around it, and he could make out an outhouse and a tiny shed stacked with firewood.

The smell of livestock filled the air. Free-roaming chickens and turkeys dotted the forest floor, scratching about for worms and bugs.  An area had been cordoned off with a fence built of small saplings and held a half-dozen pigs, all rooting about in the muck beneath them.  Four goats were tethered to trees a hundred feet from the shack, each of them unmoving; watching like bemused children as Tom walked towards the shack.

Marie stirred in his arms, struggling briefly against him.  She opened her eyes for a moment, then settled again.  Tommy stood still until he was sure that she wouldn't wake, then he set off again.

He finished his approach to the shack, goose bumps covering his skin despite the summer heat.  All of the animals seemed to be staring at him now; even the chickens had forsaken their scratching and stood regarding this stranger in their midst.  The swine had all pressed themselves up against the nearest wall of their pen, their snouts sniffing and snorting.  Three feline faces peered out from beneath the edge of the windowless hut.  The forest had fallen silent save for his footsteps crunching in last autumn’s fallen leaves.

He came to the door, bare planks nailed roughly together.  He took a deep breath and knocked.

A moment, and a voice drifted through the door.  “C’mon in.”

There was no handle to work, no knob to turn.  Tom pushed against the door and it swung inward without a sound.  He hesitated for a moment, and then stepped into the shack.

Shelves made of thatched together tree limbs lined the bare walls, holding a dozen or so candles that provided the shack’s only illumination.  A small table and chair, crudely built from similar rough-hewn branches, sat near the middle of the room.  A small stone hearth filled one corner, orange coals flickering beneath a black pot.  In the shadows near the rear of the shack was a small cot piled high with hand-stitched quilts.  A figure, hunched from decades of hardscrabble life, crept out of the darkness near the bed.

When the candlelight fell on her weathered face, Tom’s nervousness abated.  He’d only seen her once before, in his early youth.  That memory of her had been shaped by time and the imagination of a child.  He had been expecting a frightening, imposing figure worthy of the legends she had borne for so long.  Instead, a frail woman stood before him, one eye milky in the dim light, a thin smile welcoming him.

“Thomas Sutton,” the woman said.  Her voice was like ancient paper rustling.

“Ye..yes m’am.”  He whispered.

“Long time since these eyes have seen ye or ye kin.”

Tom nodded.

“‘course, I reckon it’s been ‘bout three years since I seen anybody.”

“Long time,” Tom said.

She chuckled softly.  “The haints ’er come back?”

He shook his head.  When he had been three, his father had made the same journey he’d just undertaken, and returned with this same woman.  Their home had been filled with something evil, something that tortured his younger sister in her sleep.  A dark shadow that spread fear throughout their family and whispered unspeakable things into their ears when they were alone; a presence that he could only barely recall now.

She had arrived with Tom’s father those many years ago, and crushed some secret mixture of dust and herbs and powder in a pestle.  She’d mixed the concoction in with a baby blue paint and set Tom’s father to painting their porch roof while she squatted over a fire in the yard and murmured in a language foreign to all mortals save her and others like her.

The terror had left their house that day, and shortly thereafter so did the old woman.

She nodded, making her way to the chair and easing herself into it with a whispered groan.

“Gettin’ old, son.  Gettin’ old.”

“Yes m’am.”

She eyed the swaddled infant in his arms.  “Ye’ve got a young’un sick, then?”

He nodded.

“Speak up, son.  My ears don’ work like they ought to.”

“Yes.  She’s…she’s sick.  Something with her breathing; the doctors don’t know what it is.  They put her on oxygen and all kinds of medicine, but it ain’t doing nothing.  She can’t sleep, or eat, or nothing.  They say she ain’t gonna live two years.”

“Maybe she ain’t.”

Tom looked at the woman dumbly.   “Please…can you help her?”

The old woman leaned forward and gestured for Tom to come to her.  “Hand her here.”

He did as she asked, placing Marie into her withered hands.  The woman studied the child in silence, leaning in so close that her nose nearly touched Marie’s face.  Tom watched as the baby’s eyes blinked open and found the old woman.  Expecting Marie to cry, he reached for her, but the old woman threw up her hand to stop him.

Instead of breaking into tears, Marie simply stared at the woman’s face, her breath wheezing in her chest.

“She’s a good ’un, Tom.  A real good ’un.”

“Thank you.”

“Whereabouts her mama at?”

“She died having her.”

The woman pursed her lips and nodded.  “Pity.”

“Yes m’am.”

      The old woman looked up at Tom.  “I can help yer baby, Tom Sutton.  But I’m old, an’ it ain’t easy fer me anymore to do things like this.”

“I can pay you.”

“Money ain’t nothin’ to me.”

He was silent, his eyes flitting back and forth between the old woman and his infant daughter.