The Whisper Man

“What—inside a locked garage?”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but no.” He shook his head sadly. “I see this has been a regrettable mistake. What a shame, indeed. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

He turned and began walking away up the path.

I followed him out, remembering the letters I’d received.

“Mr. Barnett?”

He hesitated at that, then turned around and looked at me. I stopped where I was. His expression was entirely different now. His eyes had gone completely blank, and despite the difference in our sizes, I thought that if he took a step toward me right now, I would back away.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Goodbye.”

And then he walked away, reaching the street, then heading away without another word. I followed him again, then stood on the pavement, unsure whether to pursue him down the road or not. Despite the warmth of the sun, I was shivering slightly.

I’d been so preoccupied with the inside of the house that I hadn’t gotten around to looking in the garage yet. Certainly it was not the most desirable part of the property: two blue, corrugated metal doors that barely met in the middle; gray walls with a cracked window on the side. Overgrown grass wavered at the base. It seemed to be squatting at the back of the house like an old drunk, unsteady on its feet and trying not to teeter over to one side.

The doors were secured by a padlock, but the real estate agent had given me the key. The metal scraped and scratched against the driveway as I unlocked it and pulled one door open, and then I ducked slightly and stepped inside.

I looked around in disbelief. It was full of junk.

I’d assumed that when Mrs. Shearing had emptied the house after that first viewing, she’d hired a removal firm to empty out the old furniture. It was clear now that she’d saved herself that particular expense, and that it was all in here instead, smelling of mold and dust. There were piles of cardboard boxes in the center, crumpling damply under the weight of the ones above, and old tables and chairs stacked and intermingled like wooden puzzles down one side. An old mattress was leaning against the back wall, the tea-colored stains on the fabric so extensive that it resembled a landscape map of some foreign world. I could smell the blackened barbecue to one side of the door.

There were piles of crisp brown leaves around the walls. I gingerly moved a can of paint in the corner with my foot, and found the largest spider I’d ever seen. The thing just bounced gently where it sat, apparently unperturbed by my presence.

Well, I thought, looking around.

Thank you very much, Mrs. Shearing.

There wasn’t much room to move about, but I stepped forward to the piles of boxes and opened the one on top, the cardboard moist beneath my fingers. I peered in to find old Christmas decorations. Faded coils of tinsel, dull baubles, and what looked like jewels on the surface.

One of the jewels flew straight out into my face—

“Jesus Christ!”

—and I nearly lost my balance, one foot skidding on the leaves behind me, my arm waving at the air in front of my face. The thing fluttered up to the roof, then bounced down and whirled around, before hitting the gray window and smacking itself repetitively against it.

Tap, tap, tap. The gentlest of collisions.

A butterfly, I realized. Not one I recognized, although admittedly my knowledge extended about as far as cabbage whites and tortoiseshells.

I edged carefully over to the window, where the butterfly was still fluttering against the glass, and watched for a few seconds until it finally got the message and settled down on the grubby sill, its wings splayed flat. The thing was as large as the spider behind me, but where that had been an ugly shade of gray, the butterfly had astonishing coloring. Yellow and green swirls played across its wings, with hints of purple at the tips. It was beautiful.

Moving back over to the box, I looked in again and saw three more, resting on the surface of the tinsel. These ones weren’t moving, so perhaps they were dead, but glancing down I saw another on the side of the lowest box in the pile, its wings moving as slowly and gently as breath.

I had no idea how long they had been in here, or what their life cycle might be, but there didn’t seem to be much hope for them, except perhaps as meals for that spider. I felt an urge to disrupt that particular ecosystem. Tearing off a damp square of cardboard from the top box, I made an effort at wafting one of the butterflies on the pile toward the door. The butterfly was having none of it, though. I tried the one by the window instead, but it was equally stubborn. And despite the size of them, they appeared very delicate close up, as though they might crumble to dust at the faintest touch. I didn’t want to risk brushing them.

So that was that.

“Well, guys.” I threw the cardboard to one side and rubbed my hand against my jeans. “I did my best.”

There didn’t seem any point in staying in the garage any longer. It was what it was. Clearing it out could now be added to my long list of tasks, but at least it wasn’t an urgent one. What was it in here that had interested my visitor so much? It was obviously just junk. But now that the encounter had faded a little, I wondered if he might even have been telling the truth and I’d simply misunderstood what I had seen.

Outside, I clicked the padlock back in place, sealing the butterflies within. It seemed remarkable that they’d survived in there for so long in such fruitless and insubstantial conditions. But as I walked back up the drive to the front of the house, I thought about Jake and me, and I realized that was just what happens. The butterflies didn’t have a choice, after all. That’s what things do. Even in the toughest of circumstances, they keep living.

Fifteen

The room was small, but because every surface was painted white it had the sensation of infinite space. A place without walls. Or perhaps somewhere out of space and time altogether. To anyone watching on CCTV, Pete always imagined it must look like a scene from a science fiction film, with one person sitting in an endless, empty environment in which the virtual surroundings had yet to be built around them.

He ran his fingertip over the surface of a desk that completely divided the room. It squeaked slightly. Everything here was clean, polished, sterile.

And then the room was silent again.

He waited.

When there was something awful that had to be faced, it was better to face it immediately; as bad as the event might be, it would occur regardless, and at least that way you wouldn’t have to endure the anticipation as well. Frank Carter understood that. Pete had visited him at least once a year since his incarceration, and the man always made him wait. There would be some petty delay back in the cell block—some manufactured incident. It was a statement of control, making it clear which of the two men was in charge of proceedings. The fact that Pete was the one who could leave afterward should have been reassuring, but it never was. He had nothing to offer Carter but diversion and entertainment. Only one of them had anything the other wanted, and they both knew it.

So he waited, like a good boy.

A few minutes later, the door on the far side of the desk was unlocked, and two prison guards entered, moving to either side of it. The doorway itself remained empty. The monster, as always, was taking his time to arrive.