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“I mowed it a couple of days ago, so it should be okay until I’m back on my feet.”
I was still trying to figure out if I was talking to a man or woman. It really didn’t matter except that I was trying to picture them. “What’s your name?”
“Kelly Brown.”
That didn’t help.
Kelly sneezed again, then blew their nose loudly and said they’d come by soon. I wished them well, then ended the call, more confused than before I’d called. I walked to the window and looked down the road running past the house. The broken, crumbling asphalt petered out into a weedy gravel lane. I thought I saw the glimmer of white stones.
I recalled seeing a pair of binoculars in the desk, so I retrieved them. Sure enough, gravestones of different heights came into view, and a tall ornate metal gate.
I lowered the binoculars and winced. The graveyard was a stone’s throw from the house.
I might never sleep again.
I dressed in my only pair of jeans—dark wash Victoria Beard—and my sturdiest shoes—white platform Keds—then located the key and left the house.
When I stepped off the porch I kept my eyes on the road, scanning for snakes, and other creepy-crawlies. Within thirty seconds my shirt was sticking to my back, and I had three mosquito bites.
I walked a few yards and suddenly was standing in front of the tall metal gate I’d seen from the window. The words “Whisper Graveyard” were hand-lettered in gold Victorian-style font. Through the gate I saw a collection of maybe thirty gravestones in a picturesque field dotted with towering oak trees. The key I’d brought fit into a chained padlock on the gate. I was so intent on unlocking it, I didn’t hear the vehicle arriving until it was almost upon me. I turned to see an old black pickup truck pulling up to the gate.
A man with cropped bronze-colored hair stuck his head out the window. “Hi, there.”
I gave him a tentative smile. “Hello.”
“You must be the new tenant.”
Word traveled fast in a small town. “That’s right.”
“Sawyer King,” he offered with a smile. “Welcome to Irving.”
“Thank you,” I said, purposely not sharing my name. I had no intention of getting to know the locals. I needed privacy to finish my book. “I have to get back.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks for unlocking the gate.”
I instantly felt remorseful for my standoffishness. “Do you have family buried here?”
“No.” He jerked his thumb toward a box in the back of his pickup. “I’m putting flags on the graves of the veterans for the Fourth. I shouldn’t be long.”
Oh, brother… he looked like a Boy Scout and he was a do-gooder. I conjured up a little smile. “That’s nice.”
Silence stretched between us awkwardly. I broke it by turning and striding back toward the house.
“I didn’t get your name,” he called after me.
I kept walking, still scanning for snakes.
July 4, Thursday
WHEN I went to unlock the graveyard gate the next morning, I spotted a handful of miniature American flags waving from graves in the rear of the cemetery that I hadn’t noticed in the dusk of the previous evening when I’d gone to lock up. Although to be honest, I’d been so spooked at the idea of being in a cemetery as the sun was setting, I was singularly focused on the gate and getting the heck out of there.
But in the soft early morning light, the dew-dappled cemetery looked less menacing. My curiosity won out and I stepped inside the gate. A wide path of moss-covered stones led down the center of the graveyard and, upon closer inspection, acted as a divider between what appeared to be graves of the “haves” and the “have nots.” On one side, headstones were tall and intricate; on the other, headstones were scarce and humble. Four of the five flags were on the “have nots” side. I was drawn to a grave where a flag waved in front of a short headstone with a shield cut into the discolored stone. The letters were worn and difficult to read, but I deciphered that twenty-year-old Cyrus Watt had lost his life in the Civil War, dying two months before the conflict ended. I felt a pang of sympathy for a life unlived, and it struck me if not for the humble headstone, Cyrus would’ve been forgotten. And from the eroding condition of the stone, it appeared it wouldn’t be long before that happened.
I really needed to get some supplies—food, sturdy shoes, and an enormous flashlight for starters, so I decided to venture into the town of Irving. According to the map on my phone, despite its seemingly remote location, the Whisper House sat less than a mile from the town center.
In the barn I’d found a really decent pale blue cruising bicycle with two flat tires. But since I’d lived in Manhattan most of my life, I knew a thing or two about bikes. I’d reinflated the tires and lubed the chain. I found the brown basket in front of the handlebars charming. Inside was a dried bouquet of some kind of flower with lavender petals and a seedy cone-shaped center. When I touched the bouquet, the flowers shattered, a small thing that bothered me more than it should have.
I set off on the bicycle down the road I’d arrived on, noting that thankfully the farther away from the house I pedaled, the better the condition of the road. Still, the road was so narrow that if I were to encounter a car, I would probably stop and wait on the shoulder until it went by.
