Whisper Down the Lane Clay Chapman (i read a book txt) 📖

rather draw it than talk about it. He used a lot of the black crayon. And the red.

CRENSHAW: Because it was dark?

KINDERMAN: That’s what Jason said! That it was dark. Why was it dark, Sean?

CRENSHAW: Because…Because it was at nighttime?

KINDERMAN: Jason told me the same thing! How do you think Mr. Woodhouse was able to take you on a field trip at night?

CRENSHAW: Because he waited until Mommy was asleep.

KINDERMAN: Where did he take you? Was it outside? Like, in a field? Or a cemetery? Where they bury people who have died? Was it near a church?

CRENSHAW: (…)

KINDERMAN: What if I said you were helping me, Sean? Helping a whole lot of people. By telling me what happened to you, you’re helping to make sure nothing bad ever happens to you or any of your friends. But to do that, we need to know everything that happened. We need you to explain it to us. To show us. It can be with words, if you want. Or with pictures. Whatever feels better to you, okay? But you have to show me, Sean. You have to tell the truth.

CRENSHAW: Okay.

KINDERMAN: So. Where did Mr. Woodhouse take you? Do you want to draw it? Draw a picture for me. Show me. Can you show me what you did on these field trips?

CRENSHAW: (Draws.)

KINDERMAN: That’s a great picture, Sean. Can I ask…Who is that?

CRENSHAW: Jason.

KINDERMAN: And that must be Mr. Woodhouse, then.

CRENSHAW: (Shakes head.)

KINDERMAN: No? Who is it then?

CRENSHAW: That’s the gray boy.

KINDERMAN: Gray boy?

CRENSHAW: (Nods.)

KINDERMAN: Does the gray boy have a name? Is he a classmate? It’s okay to tell me. You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you…Do you know him?

CRENSHAW: (…)

KINDERMAN: Do you know who the gray boy is, Sean? Is the gray boy another student? Is he a teacher? Sean? Who is he?

CRENSHAW: He doesn’t live here anymore.

KINDERMAN: Why not? Where is he now?

CRENSHAW: He’s with Jesus.

(END OF INTERVIEW.)

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

Screaming doesn’t need sound, I realize. There is so much screaming in the car right now. Even though the drive home is in complete silence, Tamara shrieks with her entire body.

Elijah’s body wails in the back seat. Their emotions echo noiselessly through the car.

I try to play peacekeeper and turn on the radio to block out this howling that has no sound. I find a song that I sort-of-but-not-really know the lyrics to, doing my best to lighten the mood. “Oh—here we go. Who wants to sing along?”

Nobody responds so I dive in with my best reinterpretation of Taylor Swift. “Everything will be all right if we keep dancing on like we’re a hundred and two.”

“That’s not how the song goes,” Eli says.

“Who cares what the real lyrics are? We can make up our own—”

Tamara turns the radio off, forcing us to sit in this thick stillness.

I peer over my shoulder and see that Elijah is asleep.

“He’s out.”

Tamara keeps her focus on the road, driving in ear-splitting quiet. She doesn’t look at me. Her foot presses on the accelerator, gaining speed.

Everything blurs outside. The cornfields zipping past the passenger-side window blend into a sea of roiling green, barely illuminated by our headlights, churning in the dark.

“Everything’s okay,” I offer. “Eli’s fine.”

The speedometer keeps climbing. “What if we didn’t find him?” I get the sense she’s been having this internal conversation with herself the whole ride. All the what ifs have been building up and now that Elijah’s asleep, there’s no holding her back from going volcanic.

“But we did find him,” I say. “I found him.” A little white lie on my part, but still. The gist is essentially true. I brought him back to her. An offering.

“What if it had been somebody else?” Tamara persists, playing out the darkest possibilities in her head. Once she starts imagining the worst, it’s hard to pull her back. I can see the shadow play of child abduction flittering across her mind. “What if they took him? Kidnapped him? What if we were still looking for him now? What if…?”

What if…? I know those gnawing thoughts. I’ve had my own. Chewing on my ear.

Whispering.

“Tamara,” I say, as evenly as possible. “Slow down.”

“What if…” Either her imagination peters out, or the grim finale of her fantasy is too much to say out loud. Best not to let Tamara stew too long in these morbid thoughts. She needs to get out of her head, away from the gruesome worst-case scenarios.

“At least we don’t have to tell him he can’t ride Satan’s Taint this year.”

“Don’t.” The arrow on the speedometer starts to lower, the miles winding back down.

“The Devil’s Dickcheese.”

“It’s not funny…”

“Lucifer’s Scrote.”

“Don’t try to make me laugh. I don’t want to.” I swear I see her smile but she still wants to role-play Panicked Parent.

Fine. I give up. Let her have it. That leaves me with the corn outside my window.

Drifting.

I’m in the station wagon on the interstate. I remember the car’s wood siding. The flip bench seats in the rear cargo. I’d crawl back there and fall asleep on the longer drives. It’s raining. My window is rolled down just a crack. Water drips along the lip of the door and soaks into my sleeve. Mom hasn’t said much these last few hours. Her hands grip the steering wheel as if it’s the only thing holding her up. Every time a pair of headlights reach into the car, her eyes immediately shoot up to the rearview mirror, taking in the encroaching vehicle behind us.

I remember finding the reflection of her eyes. That look of panic illuminated by high beams, framed in the rearview mirror. Every passing car held the possibility of someone following us. Of being whatever we were running from. That’s what we were doing, yes?

Running away?

What did we pack? Barely any clothes. Not one toy. We’d been on the road since Saturday, crossing state lines. Eating McDonald’s in the car all the time. It used to be a treat, eating fast food. But now