The Whisper Man

And he was terrified.

Because Francis remembered the expression on his father’s face only too well. It was the look he had always worn when he would come to Francis’s bedroom at night and order him to get up, to get downstairs, because there was something he needed to see. Back then, the hatred he saw had been constrained by necessity and directed at others in his place. But here and now, finally, there was no longer any need for constraint.

Help me, Francis thought.

But there was nobody to help him here. No more than there had been anyone all those years ago. There was nobody to call to who would come.

There never had been.

The Whisper Man walked slowly toward him. With his hands trembling, Francis reached down and took hold of the bottom of his T-shirt.

And then he pulled it up to cover his face.