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Copyright © 2010 Todd VanHooser
It’s been twenty years since I last heard the Whisper. Twenty long years...and still my hand trembles as I recall those terrible days. As with any story, the retelling is a tricky thing, and I would ask anyone reading my tale to bear with my wandering mind. I assure you there is indeed a thread that weaves this patchwork quilt of memory together. Bear with me if you can, but I’ll give fair warning right up front—you’re not likely to believe a word of this. So be it. My work, perhaps in more ways than one, will be finished just by the telling.
I suppose it all started long before October 17th, but that seems like the right place for me to begin. It was the night of the big storm. The same night the church burned to the ground. The night my uncle confronted the ghost in the bell tower.
While most people spent the morning after the storm sifting through the rubble of their homes or shops, I found myself at the corner of Maple and Dearborn, staring in disbelief at the blackened bell tower still standing among the charred remains.
The rain had quenched the smoldering embers, leaving only a gritty black skeleton silhouetted against the storm-ravaged town of Adam’s Hope. Despite having grown up in the church, I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as I stood there looking up at the wreckage. Few, including myself, believed the story about our haunted bell tower to be little more than local legend. That quiet morning, though, I knew my uncle had confronted something more frightening than a figment of small town myth.
There was darkness lurking in that ruined structure—shadows among the remains that hinted at an awful truth. I couldn’t bring myself to gaze into those shadows long, and I wondered if indeed my uncle had found something gazing back the night before.
Late that afternoon I visited him at the hospital. Along with the cuts and bruises, he was also being treated for a mild heart attack he suffered in the wake of the fire that destroyed the church. His eyes found mine as I leaned over the bed, and the haunted look I saw startled me. He looked frail lying there, tubes running into his arms and nose. He looked old.
“It was justice she wanted,” he whispered hoarsely. The effort to speak was obvious in his strained features. “But she’ll never have it, I’m afraid.”
“It’s okay,” I said stupidly. Those words seem to come naturally when standing at a hospital bed. Meaningless, like so many other wasted words in a lifetime. I heard what he said, but I didn’t understand. I was afraid to understand.
“I couldn’t silence her, so I burned it. I burned it all,” he said after a long moment’s pause. “Now it must end with me.”
If only it had, I’d not have this story to tell. But, unlike what some may believe, fire doesn’t burn away the sin from long memory.
I suppose it all started long before October 17th, but that seems like the right place for me to begin. It was the night of the big storm. The same night the church burned to the ground. The night my uncle confronted the ghost in the bell tower.
While most people spent the morning after the storm sifting through the rubble of their homes or shops, I found myself at the corner of Maple and Dearborn, staring in disbelief at the blackened bell tower still standing among the charred remains.
The rain had quenched the smoldering embers, leaving only a gritty black skeleton silhouetted against the storm-ravaged town of Adam’s Hope. Despite having grown up in the church, I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as I stood there looking up at the wreckage. Few, including myself, believed the story about our haunted bell tower to be little more than local legend. That quiet morning, though, I knew my uncle had confronted something more frightening than a figment of small town myth.
There was darkness lurking in that ruined structure—shadows among the remains that hinted at an awful truth. I couldn’t bring myself to gaze into those shadows long, and I wondered if indeed my uncle had found something gazing back the night before.
Late that afternoon I visited him at the hospital. Along with the cuts and bruises, he was also being treated for a mild heart attack he suffered in the wake of the fire that destroyed the church. His eyes found mine as I leaned over the bed, and the haunted look I saw startled me. He looked frail lying there, tubes running into his arms and nose. He looked old.
“It was justice she wanted,” he whispered hoarsely. The effort to speak was obvious in his strained features. “But she’ll never have it, I’m afraid.”
“It’s okay,” I said stupidly. Those words seem to come naturally when standing at a hospital bed. Meaningless, like so many other wasted words in a lifetime. I heard what he said, but I didn’t understand. I was afraid to understand.
“I couldn’t silence her, so I burned it. I burned it all,” he said after a long moment’s pause. “Now it must end with me.”
If only it had, I’d not have this story to tell. But, unlike what some may believe, fire doesn’t burn away the sin from long memory.
The Long Whisper
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