NOTE:

This is sample portion ONLY. To request this manuscript, click here.

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The Whisper Kids

by

Jason R. Peters

 

Mark met his first Whisper Kid in U.S. History. He had seen them before, conspiring together in dark corners, hushing when anyone drew near. But there was nothing sinister about Jessica in the depressing pale fluorescence of the classroom, where mundanity ruled and imagination fled. Mark was more impressed with her beauty than her strangeness, and more pleased with her ethics than her beauty.

He could not have imagined she was dangerous.

The class was instructed to prepare group presentations and papers on U.S wars. They would be graded as a group.

To Mark’s horror, groups were randomly selected.

The first kid in Mark’s group was a scrawny sophomore with an overlarge nose. He spoke intelligently in class, and Mark thought he was a good student.  Beside him was chubby black girl with beaded hair and a pleasant face; her name was Kayla. She was chewing gum, making faint smacking sounds with her teeth.

The last was an attractive cheerleader, long blond ponytail tied with a white ribbon, wearing a sleepy gray sweater. Her face was open, showing none of the pinched selfishness often acquired by girls born beautiful, subsequently spoiled. Her eyes were the enshrouded green of a forest in morning fog.  Mark had seen her before:

She was one of the Whisper Kids.

The little guy spoke first, turning to face Mark. “You’re a good student, so I’m letting you do all the work.”

“What?” Mark asked, bewildered. He must have misunderstood.

The kid explained patiently. “I know you’re going to get an ‘A’ no matter what I do, so I’m not doing any work.”

Mark looked to his other group-mates for help, bugging his eyes as if to say, man, can you believe this guy?

But Kayla was nodding slowly.     “Good idea, Tavis,” she said.

“What?” Mark said again, immediately regretting his lack of eloquence. “You can’t be serious, Travis.”

“It’s Tavis,” the kid corrected, drawing out the word to emphasize the lack of ‘r’, his annoyance palpable. “I’m  serious as a heart-attack.”

“You have to do some of the work or you’ll fail,” Mark said.

“We’re being graded as a group,” Kayla insisted. “Mr. Kitt said so.” She was right. Mark had no idea how to respond. In stubborn silence he stared at them, willing common sense or decency or duty to compel them to collaborate. Kayla met his gaze defiantly, Tavis sullenly.

“I’ll help you,” said the cheerleader.

#

Jessica quickly disproved the stereotype of a dumb blond cheerleader. She was smart, which was fortunate, and hardworking, which was a relief. Kayla turned out to be right about Mr. Kitt’s intentions; Mark even stayed after class to ask.

“They told me point-blank they weren’t going to help,” he complained. “They don’t deserve credit for my work. Can’t I at least switch groups?”

“Sorry, no,” Mr. Kitt said. He was one of the “cool” teachers, and Mark hoped he’d be reasonable. “Working with people you don’t like is part of the real world. Might as well get used to it now.”

“It has nothing to do with liking them,” Mark persisted. “They aren’t doing any of the work. It isn’t fair.”

“Mark, there’s only three kinds of fair: County, City, and State.” End of discussion. They exchanged goodbyes and Mark left, as frustrated with the teacher as with his delinquent classmates.

So he was even more pleased to have a reliable partner. Jessica let Mark make the decisions, but she offered ideas, contributed research, and did her share of the work – which was considerable. The two of them were doing work calibrated for four.

That she was easy on the eyes was an added bonus.

Mark enjoyed working with her, and though they stayed on task, he couldn’t help feeling glad when she invited Mark to her house to study.

But that was before he learned about the missing students.

#

As the new kid, Mark’s options for companionship were limited. He’d played JV basketball in Boulder, but the Eastmont High coach told him curtly to wait for next year’s tryouts. Not wanting to appear clingy, Mark ignored the basketball team (and pretty much everyone else). One group, however, reached out to him in friendship:

The Dungeons and Dragons clique.

Though Mark was aware of their stigma, he saw no reason to reject their hospitality. And as “geeks” go, he found the group surprisingly multidimensional. If the classroom was where imagination died, the D&D group was where it was revived.

Of course, like any high school students, their favorite hobby of all was making fun of each other.

“Hot Shot Marky-Mark is gonna score with a cheerleader!” Jeff announced at lunch. Though Jeff embraced the geek stereotype, relishing in his own supposed weirdness, he was a conservative dresser who rarely said anything controversial. Today, though, Mark wished Jeff would keep quiet.

“Shut up,” Mark muttered into a hamburger. The last thing he needed was for his sole study partner to hear she’d been touted as some seedy conquest.

“Stud’s going to her house today,” Jeff elaborated.

“Didn’t you know?” Brian said, “Mark isn’t one of us, he’s a big-time basketball jock. Was probably homecoming king two years running.” Brian was the group’s Dungeon Master. Though popular within his own community, it was unlikely he would ever join the homecoming court. He was also a fervent Christian.

“Nah, it was golf, not basketball,” Jeff the Rat corrected. He peered at Mark over a hooked nose. “Or was it polo?”

“Definitely polo,” Mark agreed, relieved that the topic had moved away from the girl.

“I hope you aren’t planning on fornicating with that heretic,” Brian said, and Mark winced.

“I’m a heretic,” he reminded the over-zealous Dungeon Master, hoping to steer the conversation back to himself.

“Exactly,” Brian agreed. “No need to compound your sins.”

“Make him roll initiative!” Steve the Rat suggested, eliciting a round of chuckles. As usual, Mark didn’t get the joke. Maybe I should go play this weird game of theirs, he thought, if only so I can finally understand them.

Mark decided to go on the offensive. He looked Brian, the group’s unofficial spokesperson, square in the eyes. “She’s smarter than you are.”

“Ooooh,” was the universal comment, in eerie synchronization.

Brian laughed easily along with the rest; he was a good sport, which Mark appreciated. There was more to him than Christian brow-beating and game-master know-it-all. But then Brian grew serious, and he leaned closer. Mark could smell mustard and onions on his breath. For a moment, the whole table was quiet as a cemetery.

“Just don’t get too attached buddy,” he said. His tone was so grave, Mark felt a moment’s fear run through him. It was as if Brian knew a whole story of which Mark had scarcely guessed, and Brain (ever the mentor) was trying to protect a member of his circle.

Mark wanted to ask what he meant, but the moment passed before he could react. Comments only half-heard were fired from one kid to another, the usual banter returned. Brian’s remark was foreboding, but why? Jessica was bright and cheerful. For a cute girl, she wasn’t even stuck up.

But Mark couldn’t help thinking of his first impressions of the Whisper Kids. Brian had said they were a cult. Was that religious zealotry talking, or some knowledge he hadn’t shared?

Mark could not begin to guess. He suddenly felt chilled that his only friend outside this group was a girl he knew virtually nothing about. A girl who associated with students with no common thread, huddled in hallway corners, and offered only furtive glances to outsiders.

With a shiver, Mark assured himself that his imagination was running wild – perhaps the D&D kids were rubbing off on him – and forced himself to laugh and joke along with the others. Before long, feigned humor gave way to actual humor, and his smiles were genuine.

Later, Mark wondered why he’d even worried.

#

Jessica’s imposing dad answered the door when Mark rang the bell. He was gigantic, perhaps six-four, and muscled. Mark thought of himself as athletic, but his basketball build was slender. This man could crumple his wiry frame into a ball and dribble him up and down the street for fun.

Trying to forget that unfortunate image, Mark wanted desperately to explain why he was here – and that his intentions were pure – but his mouth had gone as dry as paper. He swallowed twice, and it didn’t help. He was saved the trouble.

“You must be here to study with Jessica,” the behemoth decided. Mark trusted himself only to nod. “Jessica!” the man bellowed, and then disappeared from the doorway with a grace that belied his size.

After an interminable moment, he was replaced by his must less imposing (and much more attractive) daughter. Her hair was braided to her shoulders. Her shirt featured a blue Care Bear under a rainbow with the caption, “Who Cares?” printed in cheery pink and green. It was the warmest way to express apathy Mark had ever seen.

“Hey Mark!” she said warmly. For a moment, he imagined she was about to hug him, but this was wishful thinking. Her next words were almost as wondrous, though. “Come upstairs!”

As they crossed the foyer, Mark glanced around for the chiseled father, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Your dad could have been Drill Sergeant,” he said in a low tone, hoping to amuse Jessica without offending her family.

“He is,” she said simply. Mark nodded as if he had expected nothing less, but his pulse quickened at this news. He followed Jessica up a flight of stairs carpeted in mellow white and into a hallway crowded with family photographs. From them, Mark discovered Jessica had a large family – two younger sisters and an older brother – and that she’d been cheer-leading for years. Her mother looked plump and matronly, her brother much thinner than his militant father.

Mark felt a thrill when they reached Jessica’s room, and she opened the door and stepped in without preamble. As soon as Mark entered, she closed the door behind him.

At home, Mark’s mother insisted that Mark’s door stay open at all times when girls were over, but Jessica’s parents were apparently more lenient. Given the beauty of their daughter, Mark found this hard to credit.

“Sit wherever,” she offered, and Mark had several options: The bed was neatly made (the comforter featured white frills and wavy blue lines), but he was afraid that would seem over-familiar. Jessica herself sat at an oversized desk replete with shelves and compartments, governed by a sticker-decorated computer. Mark contented himself to slump into one of the bean-bags chairs. “You want something to drink?”

“Coke?” he asked.

“Pepsi,” she said apologetically, her mouth twisted.

“All good,” Mark allowed. She nodded and left the room.

Left alone, he couldn’t help looking around, though he stayed seated. He didn’t want her to return and find him snooping.

But when he saw the newspaper clippings, he couldn’t help getting up for a closer look.

The one that caught his eye was half tucked under Jessica’s bed. He was only able to make out a few phrases at a distance:

student missing

parents distraught

nightmare

related cases

In spite of himself, he stood up and crossed the room, pulling the clipping out just far enough to read the article.

BALTIMORE STUDENT MISSING
Fourth this year, police baffled, parents distraught

Denver, CO – Authorities are searching for Dean Barringer, a star student from Baltimore who went missing during a church youth trip to Colorado. Barringer was reported missing when he failed to arrive in time for a whitewater rafting trip with the group.

“We’re deeply disturbed,” said Pastor Richard Dawes, the youth minister for St. Paul’s, Barringer’s church. “Dean and his roommate were accounted for the night before. The next morning, he was gone.”

At first, Dawes assumed nothing more than a miscommunication had happened, but hours passed without word from Barringer, and he was forced to call the police.

Local investigators have no leads. When asked whether Barringer’s disappearance could be related to the disappearances of several teens earlier this year, they declined to comment.

Barringer’s parents said that they are “living a nightmare” and will do “whatever it takes” for the safe return of their son.

Mark had read only a portion of the article when he realized there were additional clippings tucked under the bed. He leafed through several, skimming them. Most had to do with missing teenagers, all high school students. Some of the kids were local; others were visiting from out of state. Several were students who had newly transferred to the area, just like Mark. Two were among those referenced in the first article, but others had no connection that anyone else had made.

No connection except this collection under Jessica’s bed.

As if thinking of her had summoned her, Mark heard the unmistakable approach of someone on the stairs. Panicked, he shoved the articles back under the box spring. There was no time to verify their order.

He scrambled back into the bean bag chair an instant before the door opened.

For a moment, Jessica stared at the bed, while Mark tried desperately to slow his breathing. Was it obvious he had disturbed her things? Mark didn’t dare look in the direction of her bed. He kept his eyes firmly on her face.

“Is something wrong?” he asked tentatively.

She shook her head and favored him with a smile. “No, why?”

“You seemed a little lost.”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine.” She handed him a can of Pepsi, unopened and ice-cold. “Just having a blond moment.” She smiled again, prettily. But he’d never seen her have a “blond moment” before, not even jokingly.

Maybe the articles had nothing to do with Jessica or the Whisper Kids. Maybe she just collected interesting news clippings. Maybe the articles scared her, because she was afraid something like that would happen to her. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Hoping to distract her from the possibility that her stash had been disturbed, Mark procured their homework. In minutes, all conversation revolved around the Spanish-American war and its long-term impact on the economy. Though perplexed about Jessica’s frightening collection, Mark concentrated on their study topic. He knew only that they had a lot to do, and that Tavis was right: He wanted to ace the project.

#

Twenty minutes after Mark left, Jessica’s mobile rang.

“He’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“What did he learn?”

“Hard to say,” Jessica admitted, a little scared. “I think he might have found the articles.”

“He’s the one, you know.”

“He’s a nice guy,” she said. She didn’t add that Mark was cute.

“He’s the one.”

“Fine, he’s the one,” she conceded, and hung up.

#

As Mark ambled home in the pleasant twilight of late spring, his mind churned over and over the phrases and images from Jessica’s news clips.

It seemed impossible that she could be personally connected with those incidents. They’d gone on for fifteen years; unless Jessica had engaged in criminal activity as a toddler, she couldn’t have been involved. It seemed plausible that she only collected the articles out of some extracurricular interest.

But Mark had watched enough television and read enough books to be aware of a wholly different motivation for collecting related articles:

Trophies.

Trophies gathered by the perpetrator of a crime, a collage to form a hidden monument for shadowed deeds. This behavior was well-documented for serial killers. Whether it also applied to kidnappers, thieves, or rapists, Mark wasn’t sure. The idea of Jessica as a serial killer was laughable (weren’t most serial killers white men?), but then, the collection of articles sure didn’t fit anything else about her.

Mark entertained, briefly, the idea that Jessica was somehow involved with the missing teenagers in the articles she had so dutifully compiled. He wasn’t sure why they would span fifteen years, but connection didn’t imply cause. Perhaps Jessica had joined some kind of club

(cult)

that perpetrated the crimes. Mark already knew she was smart. If she was able to involve herself with a conspiracy that deep, maintaining its secrecy, she was way smarter than he’d thought.

Too smart to leave newspaper clippings where a boy would easily spot them on his first visit.

Another thought occurred to Brian then, the certainty of it chilling him even while the rest of his guesses flailed helplessly in the dark:

She wanted me to find them.

 

NOTE:

This is sample portion ONLY. To request this manuscript, click here.