07 Feb Whispers
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π Top-Ranked Stories π Recently Published π Category β Length π Author π Title π Published on February 7, 2014"Whispers"
Written by Mike MacDeeEstimated reading time β 11 minutes
Iβm posting this tonight in the hope that it will clear up the misunderstandings surrounding the disappearance of Debra Lindsay Caine, at the risk of my personal ridicule. Sticks and stones and all that. None of it will matter after tonight. Consider this my one pathetic attempt at an apology, if nothing else. Itβs sort of my fault what happened.
Even in her heyday, internet blogger Sugarcaine was just another web comedian. She was funnier than average and certainly skilled with a pen, but otherwise no more remarkable than the rest. For years the circumstances surrounding her disappearance were only occasionally mentioned, and only in the most obscure threads on a couple of forums. She wouldβve been forgotten forever if those city workers hadnβt found the tape recorder last Monday.
Sugarcaineβs true identity was a boyishly cute redhead named Debra Lindsay Caine. Her sister Payton described her as, ββ¦a bag fulla fists, nails, and opinions just looking for an excuse to burst open on somebody, nourished by beer and spite since our Papa died in β91.β
Debra unintentionally began her career as a humor blogger when she let her friends talk her into setting up a MySpace account. She thought blogs were self-absorbed, whiny, and without substance, and thus used her MySpace page to parody the asinine ramblings of her peers. After a while she graduated to belittling popular culture and occasionally reviewing books, comics, movies, and whatever hate mail she received from her growing reader base.
She quickly realized people enjoyed her writing, and by mid-2005 sheβd ditched her MySpace account and set up her own humor site, Sugarcaine Junction. Despite Debraβs more-than-decent writing the site was mediocre at best. Most βnet junkies likely never knew she existed, much less that sheβd vanished and possibly been murdered.
Until the city workers found the tape.
Sugarcaine Junction never failed to celebrate whatever holidays and festivals came its way, and its seasonal articles were usually the most eagerly anticipated. Debra composed surprisingly witty drinking songs for her Oktoberfest review, and a touching poem for Fatherβs Day that she refused to talk about afterward. For her 2005 Christmas rant she wrote a series of parodied Bible passages that broke her weekly hate mail record overnight.
Back then I was known as DeadAtFifty and counted among Sugarcaineβs regular readers. During the first week of October 2006 I suggested that she spend the night in the Daley familyβs haunted house and write about the experience for her Halloween article. She announced to her readers that I was a child and a moron. I added a one-thousand-dollar prize to the mix. She eagerly accepted.
On the last week of October Debra announced she would make the hour-long drive to the Daley house for a βspooky sleepoverβ. She embarked on the evening of the 29th, encouraging her readers to βStay tuned for the details of my thousand-dollar journey through the haunted Daley house!β I had every intention of awarding her the money, and I never wouldβve mentioned the Daleys if I had known what would happen.
Debra always researched her subject before or after her βjourneysβ (as she called any experience she blogged about β βStay tuned for the dirt on my journey through the latest Scorsese flickβ), if only to make her praise/mockery of it all the more complete. In her apartment the police found stacks of newspaper clippings about the Daley family as far back as 1960: praise for Kevin Daley and the lives he saved as a firefighter; his marriage to sweetheart Naomi Welch in 1970; the birth of their son, Jeff in 1971; Jeffβs growing fame as an abstract artist at only twelve months of age; the rumors that Naomi deliberately dropped her son down the stairs and caused his borderline autism; and of course, the fruitless search for the bodies when the family vanished in 1982.
The bulk of the articles were testimonies from neighbors and friends about the last they saw of the Daleys. Jeffβs performance at school dwindled, but the work he produced in art class was as detailed as ever, depicting macabre realms of twisted abstract shapes and looming shadows β imagery he hadnβt produced since he was a toddler. He claimed that the βwhisperersβ made him draw these things. His only explanation for a βwhispererβ was, βthey follow me around my house β I canβt see them, but I know theyβre there.β
I donβt think Jeff Daley was dreaming: I think his subconscious was a doorway to other worlds, and maybe his mother knew it and tried to kill him. If thatβs the case, I wish sheβd been just a little more persistent.
Kevinβs coworkers described him as βnervous, constantly on edge, like he was being followed by a lunatic and couldnβt shake him.β Naomi, normally known to greet her tavernβs patrons with bright smiles and warm hellos, seemed to have crawled into a shell and refused to come out. She took frequent bathroom breaks, only to curl up inside a toilet cubicle and cry with her hands over her ears. And then one day Jeff never showed at school, and his parents never showed at work. Theyβd vanished into thin air; and according to their neighbors, they didnβt go quietly.
Other articles described strange but seemingly unremarkable sights and sounds on the abandoned Daley property from 1989 to 2004. A few of those articles were so strange they were considered hoaxes or gross exaggerations.
A neighborβs dog ran barking under the Daley porch. When it returned it spent the next two days whining and cowering and howling miserably for no reason. One morning the owners woke up and found the dog missing. It was never seen again.
A young couple claimed a silhouette in the shadows of the front yard whispered something at them as they walked past the house late one night. They couldnβt tell if there was someone there or not, and when they continued their walk the shape stalked them for several blocks before vanishing altogether.
Several mailmen gave identical accounts of hearing movement and gibbering voices inside the house while on their routes. One assumed it was the local pranksters and alerted the police. They never found anyone inside.
Earlier this week the city workers were preparing the house for demolition when they discovered the recorder under an old desk. Remembering the houseβs history of missing persons, they turned it over to the police. The officer who received it β a friend of mine whose name will go unmentioned β had at one time been a Sugarcaine fan. I spent an entire evening listening to the tape at his place. To help spread this story around the web Iβve prepared a transcript of the recording for my own site, which you can read below.
*
[Tape begins with fifteen seconds of silence. Broken by husky female voice.]
βDonβt think Iβve ever been to this side of town before. Had to stop at a diner and get directions βcos I managed to get my stupid ass lost. Supposed to be an hour long drive, but itβll be close to midnight by the time I find this dump.
βOh, I told the lady I was coming to visit an old friend who lived in the Daleysβ neighborhood and she was happy to help me find my way. Imagine I wonβt be well received if I go around telling everybody Iβm spending my weekend breaking into other peopleβs houses. Even if the Daleys are too dead to give a shit.β
[Silence for eight seconds. A sigh.]
βI feel silly going through with this. On the plus side Iβll get to pay my rent for the next month.β
*
βIt is nowβ¦eleven p.m. on the dot. Took me forever to find the stupid house. Kept turning down the wrong streets. Hard to miss it once you find the right one. The front yard is a jungle of wiry vines and three-foot grass infested with species of insects never before seen by man. You canβt even see the front door from the street this late at night βcos the shadows gulped it up.
βParked two blocks away and walked. Gonna find a window to climb through. Hopefully wonβt need to pick the back door βcos thatβll take forever. More as it develops.β
*
[Hollow footsteps on old wooden boards. A series of distorted thuds as the recorder rattles violently. Silence for sixteen seconds.]
βTripped. Owβ¦Itβs pitch black in here. Whereβs my damnβ?β
[Quiet shuffling for the next minute, and more footsteps. Debra releases an exhausted breath. Tape rattles slightly.]
βOkay, Iβm in. My camp is set up in theβ¦I guess this was the office. Thereβs a dusty old desk next to the window I just climbed through and a bookcase to the right of the door. Both are bare. Iβm about to take my tour of the house. Camera ready, although this place isnβt much to look at. Keeping the flash off, so the pics might need to be tweaked when I get back. I ought to keep the flashlight off and just let my eyes adjust, butβ¦yeah, Iβm not gonna do that.β
[Two minutes of silence apart from footsteps and the occasional electronic shutter sound of a digital camera taking pictures. A cough.]
βThe house is a really roomy two-story deal. Oh, there you are, you elusive stairsβ¦The carpetβs been all torn up except for one corner of the living room, so the floorβs all crusty wooden boards.β
[Footsteps. Loud, human-like shriek of pain from the rusty hinges of a door. Debra lets out a startled gasp, curses.]
ββ¦a moldy bathroom untouched since nineteen eighty-twoβ¦β
[Several coughs as the camera clicks. More squeaking hinges, significantly quieter. More camera clicks.]
βUgh, goddamn wolf spiders everywhere!β
[Seven minutes pass with footsteps, camera clicks, and Debraβs coughs the only sounds; halfway through, hollow thunks of boots on wooden stairs, and footsteps change to loud, unhealthy creaks. Now and then Debra makes various comments on the houseβs layout.]
β[unintelligible muttering] βdust in this place is murdering me. Second floor is rickety as hell. Hereβs hoping the building doesnβt collapse on me in the night.β
[Hollow thunks again as she returns to the first floor. At the ten minute mark, dead silence for approximately twenty seconds. Debra exhales.]
βI think thatβs it for the tour. Iβm off to sleep with the spiders.β
[Silence for two minutes. Debra whispers to herself inquisitively. Wooden clunking.]
βFound a loose board in the office floor. βPreviously-pried-upβ loose. Iβll have to check that out tomorrow morning.β
[Clomp of steel-toe boots carelessly tossed onto wooden floor. Rustling of thick cloth. Coughing.]
βAh, god, I canβt breathe in this placeβ¦Awright, time for bed. Weβll finish up our notes tomorrow. Gβnight!β
*
[Recorder rattles. Debra begins to say something, only gets the first syllable before going quiet again. Silence for another minute.]
βThereβs something in hereβ¦β
[Pit-pat of bare feet. Silence. Door creaks shut. Rustling.]
βFuckinβ rats. I knew it. I hear βem scuttling in the living room walls. I shoulda brought a cot.β
*
[Exasperated sigh.]
βOkay, well, I wonβt be sleeping tonight after all, so Iβm pryinβ that board up to pass the time. More as it develops.β
[Recorder rattles as it is set aside. For the next five minutes thereβs nothing but fingernails and something metallic β possibly a Swiss army knife β scratching into wood, and occasionally a clunk. A gasp, and the clatter of a small object. Debraβs bare footsteps move out of range. Another minute of silence. Debra says something too far away to make out and seems to wait for a response. She repeats herself, louder.]
βWhoβs there?β
[Nothing for a minute and a half. Creak of the office door closing. Pit-pat of bare feet returns. The tape rattles.]
βIβm losing my mind. I could swear I heardββ
[Silence. The scratching and clunking returns, and moments later thereβs a wooden clatter like a board being tossed aside.]
βGotcha!β
[Paper rustling.]
βUmβ¦β
[More paper rustling. Silence.]
βUm, thereβsβ¦drawings. Wadded drawings stuffed into this little space beneath the loose board. I think theyβre Jeff Daleyβs pictures. When he was five he used to draw his bad dreams toβ¦No, these canβt be real. The detail isβ?β
[Crumpling: wadded paper being unraveled and then flattened out. Debra speaks quietly, almost inaudibly, as if reading something aloud to herself.]
βDonβt listen. Itβs not Daddy. Itβs not Daddy. Itβs notβ¦β
[Silence. A deep, trembling breath.]
βOkay, umβ¦Okay, this isnβt funny anymore.β
[A distant sound, possibly out in the hall, and a shrill gasp. Two minutes and forty seconds of silence.]
β[incoherent mumbling] βnot funny.β
[The sound again, within five feet of the recorder: a human voice speaking almost above a whisper. It says a single word difficult to make out, but sounds like Debraβs name. The recorder rattles violently as it hits the floor.]
βItβs not funny! Stop it!β
[Silence. Pit-pat of bare feet leaving the room. Three minutes pass with no sounds except a periodic thump deep within the house and Debra shouting angrily. The footsteps return. Heavy slam of the office door. Quiet sobbing within three feet of the recorder, and nothing else for another minute.]
β[speaking too quietly to register on the recorder: her throat has tightened up]β
[The sobbing stops abruptly as Debra holds her breath. The voice speaks again as quietly as before, from inside the room. Feet scrambling across the floor. The office window shrieks as it is torn open. The rest of the tape is silence.]
*
Debra posted an update the same night. There was no trace of her usual snide narrative, and she exchanged punchy one-liners for razor-edged curses. She wanted someone (me) to apologize to her for what she believed to be a perverse Halloween prank. Sheβd managed to keep one of the drawings she found under the loose floorboard and included a hi-res scan in her rant, condemning it as an obvious attempt by a barely capable adult artist to reproduce the work of an eight-year-old retard.
Drawn entirely in black crayon, it resembled a caricature of someoneβs living room as done by Salvador Dali. At the center stood a dark shape with a grayish head misshapen like in a funhouse mirror, making it impossible to tell if it was supposed to be human or not. The thing stared right at the viewer over its shoulder with two empty black holes for eyes. Three more of the things stood beyond it, also staring at the viewer β it was as if the act of drawing the scene had grabbed their attention. Although their faces were amorphous mushes of white and gray, the three in the background seemed to be smiling. And it really did suggest a level of artistic finesse beyond that of an eight-year-old boy, but the style matched Jeff Daleyβs other drawings.
Debra and I both got our share of hate mail after that blog. Half her readers thought I was an asshole for setting her up for such a nasty trick. The other half thought Debra was pulling a hammed-up Halloween prank of her own, and when her next two updates erratically described how the sounds in the Daley house had followed her home, everyone became all the more certain of this. They still believed it was a joke when she failed to make a single update for two weeks afterward.
On November 4th in the middle of the afternoon, Debra had called her sister, Payton. She was blubbering so much Payton couldnβt understand a word she said at first.
βShe let loose with the heartbroke drunk routine. Said she was sorry for missing my wedding, sorry for always being a spiteful bitch when we were growing up, sorry for kicking our dog when she was twelve β apologizing for all kinds of silly stuff like a desperate sinner at confession.
βShe stopped to catch her breath, and I heard somebody else in the room with her talking quiet like they didnβt want me to hear. I asked if she wanted me to come over. She started sobbing again and said, βI hear Daddy, but it isnβt Daddy.β Then she hung up and I called the police. They didnβt find anybody when they got there. I was talking to her only minutes before.β
Most folks still think Debraβs abduction by the whispering stalkers of Jeff Daleyβs nightmares is a hoax orchestrated by Debra or by some other sick individual. The tape has been βprovenβ a fake by one ignorant skeptic after another, and it wonβt be long before Sugarcaine Junction fades into obscurity once again. I hope to prevent this, not because I feel pity for Debra Lindsay Caine, though I really do pity her; but because I hope to prevent others from vanishing like she vanished, and like the city workers who found the tape vanished, and like my friend vanished. They mark their territory β like they marked the Daley house and the tape β and they can smell anything that comes in contact with it. Once they smell you, they hunt you like bloodhounds until theyβve marked you, too.
They call to you softly like theyβre afraid to talk too loud β sometimes two rooms away, sometimes right next to you. They imitate people youβre closest to. Maybe they think itβs funny. But you canβt listen to them. You have to shut them out, otherwise youβll be too scared to open your eyes or move a muscle. You wonβt have the chance to kill yourself before they drag you to whatever unholy hell Debra Lindsay Caine was taken to.
I have to go take a bath with my toaster now. Mother has been calling to me for the last hour, even though sheβs been dead for five years.
Credit: Mike MacDee (Official Website β’Β Facebook β’ SmashWords β’ Amazon)
Publisher’s Note: The author requests that anyone who desires to narrate, perform, or adapt this story to any other format, or feature it on a YouTube channel, podcast, or other platform, contact them for permission before doing so. Use of the author’s work without this permission is strictly prohibited. You may reach the author here. Thank you!
π More stories from author: Mike MacDee
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