House of Whispers: Chapter 1 - Voices in the Forest

Whisper slouched in the back of her parents' car, her arms folded across her chest. “How much longer?” she asked, stifling a yawn, her eyelids hanging heavy. The constant droning of the engine had nearly put her to sleep, but her dad had insisted she stay awake long enough to see the redwoods for the first time in her life.

“Not too long—maybe fifteen minutes. When we get over into the valley—I expect it'll be misty. Can you stay awake that long?” Mr. Spring glanced back at his daughter with a quirk in the corner of his mouth.

“We'll see,” Whisper mumbled, her eyes drooping.

Mrs. Spring fidgeted anxiously. “I can't believe we're actually moving back here,” she muttered, obviously still not too keen on the idea.

“You never even let me go there,” Whisper protested, although without much energy. “All I got was Grandma's letters about how beautiful and mysterious it is.”

“It is beautiful and mysterious,” Mr. Spring replied enthusiastically. “Actually, you were here once, when you were small. You wouldn't remember. I had to come on a business trip. Anyway, the house is locally known as Faerie Haven. Sounds enchanting, doesn't it?”

The name certainly perked Whisper’s interest. “Faerie Haven?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Spring responded heartily. “Your mom’s ancestor believed in them, apparently. He bought the estate in 1845 and everything he built there was a tribute to the Fey Folk.”

“Great, and I thought I was excited before! Come on, can’t we go any faster?”

“Don’t you dare drive this car faster,” Anne Spring snapped. She’d been very quiet for most the trip and when she did speak she was grumpy. Mrs. Spring was not pleased about moving back to her childhood home. Mr. Spring rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Anne, toss my briefcase back to Whisper,” he said. “She can take a look at those papers.”

Mrs. Spring didn’t answer, just heaved a sigh and then passed back the black leather case. Whisper took it eagerly and opened the clasp. Inside were stacks of letters from Whisper’s grandmother, Marian Carpenter. “Whoa, you’ve got letters from Grandma with you?”

“Well, she wanted to give up all ownership of the estate and family fortune. Your uncle wasn’t interested, either. She knew your mother wouldn’t want to return to the old house, so she started writing me about it. I’ve never met a family so uninterested in a fortune. I must say, I was hooked on the idea. And,” he continued with a pointed look at his wife, “I am very grateful Anne has agreed with us moving here. It’s better for my business, in any case.”

Whisper scanned through the letters. There were five in all, each about two or three pages, describing some of the history of the house and the rituals to keep the faeries appeased. “Grandma Marian believes in faeries?”

“She’s kind of crazy, Whisper,” Mrs. Spring said.

“Oh, it’s harmless,” David Spring retorted. “Take a look at the last letter, Whisper. She included one of her grandfather’s drawings.”

Whisper took out the last piece of paper, which was old and yellowed but well preserved. It had a sketch of a beautiful tree with mossy limbs twisting about in every direction, like webs spreading across the page. She thought it was probably a maple. “It’s amazing!”

“He’s where the artistic talent in the family comes from,” Whisper’s mother explained, some of the tenseness leaving her voice. “He’s got all sorts of sketchbooks and paintings around the house, and a lot of them are of fantastical creatures. I did love them when I was a little girl.”

“Oh, look, Whisper, we're in the redwoods now!” Mr. Spring said suddenly. “I was so tied up in the conversation, I didn't even notice!”

Whisper hadn't either—she hadn't even glanced out of either window for quite a while. She turned her head and felt her jaw drop, her green eyes widening with shock. She placed her hands against the door and craned her neck to see better, heart pounding with sudden exhilaration.

She had never even imagined such a mystical forest. It truly looked like it was home to many different Faeries, both benign and frightening. Trees towered above them, so wide that it would take ten people to get their arms around a trunk. They grew straight and tall and were shrouded in silver mist, turning everything to a deep, muted blue-green. She could glimpse bits of the dark forest through the outer tree trunks, and something about those tantalizing hits of what lay beyond made the anticipation almost unbearable. Every needle on every tree seemed to call to her, and she spotted strange, beckoning shapes and shadows in the mist. Once or twice she actually thought she saw someone, although each time it was too tall and oddly shaped to really be human.

“Roll down your window, Whisper. The air is wonderful here,” Mr. Spring said, sounding just as breath-taken as Whisper felt, although Mrs. Spring's eyes seemed unable to look out the window. Whisper, however, felt her hands wander until one long, sender finger found the button, and then the window was slipping smoothly into the door—it was amazing. Cold, fresh air blasted against her face, fresher than anything she'd ever felt, smelled, or tasted before. It was so thick she could taste it, too. It was damp from the ocean with the faintest tang of seaweed, but that was mostly cloaked by the musty smell of decaying trees and the sharp, clear perfume of pine and juniper. Surprisingly, however, it wasn't unpleasant at all. It just felt…familiar. Despite how cold the air was, Whisper placed her hands on the windowsill and stuck her head entirely out of the car, her eyes growing wider by the second. The forest rushed by her in stately grandeur, murmuring of secrets contained within. Whisper's mouth gaped open, her braid whipping behind her, as hundreds of furtive whispers, sighs, and brief snatches of angelic singing met her ears, seeming to emanate from the empty forest.

“Whisper, get back inside this instant,” Mrs. Spring barked, seeming alarmed by her daughter's odd actions.

“Stop the car!” Whisper demanded, swinging herself back inside. “Dad, please—just find a place to pull over!”

“What's up, Whisp? Why do we need to pull over?”

Whisper didn't reply, her heart thudding ominously against her chest. Now she wasn't just awed, she was scared. Had she imagined it? No—she could still hear distant singing. “Please!”

“Don't, sweetheart, we're behind schedule—” Mrs. Spring began, but Mr. Spring had already pulled onto the shoulder.

“Don't worry, Anne, there's no reason not to be behind schedule. What's your rush? Whisper deserves a chance to get out into the forest—give her a moment to adjust! It's pretty amazing here, after all.”

Before the car was to a full stop, Whisper had opened the door and launched herself out—there was a trailhead a little off to the left. She jogged just far enough in that she was enveloped by the trees, then stood in the sea of lush ferns and listened. There they were—whispers, murmurs, sighs, and singing, even some strange laughter. It seemed to come from all around her, but there wasn't a being in sight. Her head swiveled around, trying to see a plausible source, but there was nothing, not even birds or bugs....

“I hear you,” she whispered, staring into the forest. Instantly, all the voices ceased, but only briefly, and then a clamor broke out like nothing Whisper had ever heard before, crying and calling and shouting in her head, even screaming. She clapped her hands over her ears, but the noise only grew louder, like it was truly in her head. “Okay, now I just think I'm going crazy,” she whispered, squeezing her head with her hands. “Shut up! Please, don't be so loud!”

“Who are you talking to?”

Whisper spun around, dropping her hands and feeling her cheeks flame. There was a boy standing in the path—not the kind of boy Whisper would usually talk to, either. He was dressed all in black, with a long sleeved shirt and somewhat ratted jeans. There was a bruise on his cheekbone and smudges of dirt on his skin and clothes, and he had a longish, tangled orange hair. His face seemed caught up in a scowl with a faint haughty light, and his eyes were a piercing silver. He was glaring at her as though she'd just done something stupid and dangerous. Whisper stepped backwards suddenly.

“I'm not talking to anyone!” she snapped defensively. She had been badly startled by his silent arrival and didn't take too kindly to it. Her green eyes flashed, unafraid, and something faltered in the boy's face, almost like he was surprised by her reaction. She crossed her arms. “Don't sneak up on someone like that!”

“Well, you're the one who was standing there like a lunatic,” he growled back. There was a strange look on him, though, like he was confused or unsure. Whisper stared at him a moment.

“Whisper, where'd you get off to—” Mrs. Spring's voice began as she walked into view, and then she broke off, her eyes fixing on the boy. “Whisper, get away from him now!” She sounded urgent. The boy was staring at Mrs. Spring now, a deep hate in his eyes that scared Whisper more than his ferociousness had. When his eyes turned back to Whisper, however, there was a faint, distant glimmer of softness...recognition? “Whisper, come here this second!” Mrs. Spring cried again, more desperate than ever.

Whisper turned slowly, still staring at the boy, who was glowering again, the softness gone. “Don't pretend you didn't hear them too...” she said slowly, quietly enough that her mother didn't hear, and then took off jogging towards Mrs. Spring. She seized Whisper's wrist and marched away, pulling her along. Whisper tugged against her. “Mom, you don’t need to drag me around—!”

“What’s going on?” Mr. Spring’s amiable voice asked, as cheerful as ever. He came around the corner and Mrs. Spring stopped, sullen and quivering. His eyes lighted on the boy and his eyebrows quirked up. “Oh,” he said.

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Whisper asked, extremely annoyed and finally managing to pull out of her mother’s grip. She glanced back at the boy, who was now staring at his feet as though scared to look her father in the eye. “Mom, are you scared of him?”

Mr. Spring rolled his eyes, looking exasperated. “Come on, let’s all just go to the car and leave the poor guy in peace, shall we?”

“What is going on?” Whisper asked, angry. She looked at the boy. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“You’re Carpenters,” he spat. Whisper raised an eyebrow and turned back to her mother, the anger being replaced by cool understanding.

“Is there also a traditional family feud to go along with the old house?” she queried testily. She yanked her arm away from her mother and marched up to the boy, sticking out her hand. “I’m Whisper Spring. What’s your name?”

He glared at her.

“Whisper, get away from him now,” Mrs. Spring, said, absolutely fuming. “There’s nothing ridiculous about this situation, get over here—!”

“Anne, let her be. You judge too quickly,” Mr. Spring interrupted in a soft voice, his hand on her shoulder. Whisper and the boy had resumed their silent staring. What was he, eighteen? Nearly so, anyway, she’d guess.

“You look familiar,” she finally said. “Have we met before?” Her voice was curious and light, but he flinched backwards as though she’d struck him.

“Of course we haven’t,” he snarled. “Out of my way, little girl!” He shoved past her, gave the Spring’s one last dagger glare, and marched off towards the street. Whisper dropped her hand, huffing.

“Well, that was nice!” she said. Catching her mother’s look, she rolled her eyes, looking momentarily just like her father. “Oh, come on, Mom. I can’t hate the guy just because you seem to. Besides, shouldn’t I know what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to—” Mrs. Spring tried.

“She has a point, dear,” Mr. Spring cut over her. “Whisper can be quite wise, you know. You should listen to her. Let’s move on, though; we can discuss that later. I want to see what kind of condition our house is in. The cleaning crew only got as far as the living room before quitting! Seemed to think the place is haunted.”

That caught Whisper’s attention. “Haunted? Oh my gosh, really, haunted?” She seemed to bounce up and down. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Come on, let’s go! You guys are so slow!” she called as she jogged back down the path.

“That girl,” Mrs. Spring said disapprovingly, fear tightening her face. “Why did you tell her that? The last thing we need to do is put silly ideas into her head.”

Mr. Spring shrugged. “You need to relax, Anne,” he said gently. “I doubt things will be for Whisper like they were…before. She’s a brave girl.”

“That boy…” Mrs. Spring growled, choosing to ignore that comment. “I don’t want him near Whisper, that’s for sure….”

“Whisper was right, you know. You shouldn’t condemn him just because of his family. A person can’t help who they’re born to, and if I remember right, his parents weren’t all that bad.” Mr. Spring had a soft, reminiscent look around him. “I just hope he keeps his promise,” he finished so softly that Mrs. Spring, who was heading back to the car, didn’t hear him.