COPYRIGHT
Whisper
Copyright © 2012 Chelsea M. Cameron
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. All rights reserved.
Whisper is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
One
It started like it always did, with a whisper.
My brain was absolute mush from hours of calculus homework, and I hadn’t heard one of them in months. So when I heard a voice in the back of my mind say, The answer is -1, I fell off my chair. The voice was quiet, but clear. Sometimes they were so faint it was like trying to hear them through a pool. He was different.
“Hello?” I said, getting up from my bedroom floor and rubbing my side where I’d fallen. Even though I heard them in my mind, I had to speak aloud for them to hear me. It didn’t make sense, but not much did when you could talk to people who weren’t alive.
Even though I knew I wouldn’t see anything, I stared around my room at the yellow walls, my old twin bed with the new baby blue sheets and matching comforter my mom had gotten me last week, the framed photos of my friends my father had taken, the knickknacks I had picked up at garage sales, perfume bottles, an old mirror and books. Lots of books. Nothing was out of place, but I had an intruder.
The answer is -1. You got number three wrong.
I sat on the floor a moment, thinking. Usually when I heard them, it was to deliver a message to their still-living relatives, an apology for something they said before they departed. Sometimes, they wanted to settle a grudge.
They also didn’t like the D word, so I tried not to use it.
“What do you want?” I said, putting my head between my knees. This was so not happening now. Maybe if I was rude enough, he’d go away. It was not likely. They didn’t leave until they’d gotten what they wanted.
I want you to get the answer right. It’s -1.
Persistent. And really obsessed with math. Maybe he’d left his math homework unfinished. He sounded young enough.
“Why does it matter?”
It matters to me. He got a little louder.
I tried not to show my fear in my voice. I couldn’t judge him based on one bad apple.
“Well, math isn’t really my thing, and you telling me the answer is sort of cheating, so I’m just going to leave it. Why don’t you tell me what you really want?” I had never really cared about math, and since I was graduating in a few months and had already been accepted at the University of Maine, I cared even less.
Right now, I want you to get up, erase your incorrect answer and write the correct one. He was irritated, but his voice remained level. I tried to keep my hands from shaking.
“What’s your name?”
I don’t remember.
Most of the time, people came to me right after they had left their lives behind. If he didn’t remember his name, he must have been this way for a long time.
“Do you remember anything?” I had never met one who had completely lost touch with his or her life. They usually went on before that happened. I didn’t know where they went; none of them were around to tell me.
Nothing of consequence. Are you going to change your answer?
At this point, it was fairly safe to assume that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have done so.
“Look, you’re the one who jumped into my head. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to provoke the dead?
Wow, he’d used the D word. That was a first. Also, there was now a hint of amusement. That was also different. Usually they spoke in monotone.
“No, never.” I rolled my eyes and went back to my desk and my math homework.
“Who are you talking to?” Amy poked her head into my room. She was nine and going through her blue period, so she was headband to sneaker in four different shades that clashed horribly, but I picked my battles. I loved that little punk like crazy.
“No one.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She’d found the Nancy Drew books at the library last year and had really taken them to heart.
“You’re talking to them, aren’t you?” She made sure to look behind her shoulder when she whispered them.
We fought, of course, like normal sisters, but Amy was the one person on this planet who believed me when I told her I talked to spirits. Amy also knew how to keep secrets. The most-valuable trait in little sisters that exists.
My parents would rather believe I was mentally deranged than believe I talked to dead people. And after The Incident six months ago, they were convinced. We were all still recovering from that.
She kicked her foot into the carpet. “Mom said dinner’s ready.”
I looked down and found my hand tracing one of my burn scars. “They can’t hurt you, Ames.” Only me.
“That’s not true.”
If she didn’t stop, her foot was going to dig a hole through the floor. I clenched my hands together and tried not to tell her for the hundredth time that it had been an accident.
“I’ll be right down.”
She bobbed her head and dashed back down the stairs. We’d have to have another talk soon.
He was still here.
You don’t look like the kind of girl who would speak to the dead.
“I can’t decide if that’s meant to be offensive or not.” He was right, though. From my t-shirt that had a picture of the Cookie Monster on it and a caption that read, “Come to the Dark Side, we have cookies,” my holey yoga pants that had never been used for yoga, my mismatched Christmas socks, to my not-straight-but-not-curly blondish hair, I didn’t look like the kind of girl who could talk to dead people. I didn’t hang out in cemeteries and listen to too much Evanescence and wear a lot of crystals. Not that there was anything wrong with any of those things.
It was not meant to be offensive.
“What was it meant to be?” I pulled my knees up and put my chin on them.
Didn’t your mother call you for dinner?
Evasive. There was definitely something different about him. Most spirits were so confused about where they were or if they were dead they didn’t know how to be evasive. This guy was something else.
“You sure you don’t want anything?”
No. Just visiting.
Spirits didn’t visit. The only reason they hung around was to accomplish something they’d left undone. So either he didn’t want to tell me, or he was just messing with me.
“Well, if you want to stick around, that’s your choice, but I’m going to pretend you aren’t here.”
Do whatever you want.
He was starting to get on my nerves. I walked to the doorway. Once I was through it, I was going to pretend I was normal.
“Okay, I’m going to stop talking to you now.”
Silence.
“Thank you.” I took a step.
You’re welcome.
“Ugh, stop it!”
Silence.
He was still with me, but he had stopped talking. I still felt the little buzz that told me he was there. I turned around, I picked up my pencil, erased my answer for problem number three and wrote -1.