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

yer pitchforks, parents. I thought we were better than this. We couldn’t fall for this type of hysteria now. But here it is. History repeating itself.

Full circle.

“People, please.” Condrey has to fight hard to keep things on track. Conversations break off. Separate pockets of upset parents speak among themselves, whispering around me. “Let me assure you, this school, our school, is a safe space. Your children are safe here at Danvers.”

“How?” another parent asks. I couldn’t see who. All I have is their voice, brimming with indignation. “How could you let something like this happen?” More shouts of self-righteous consent sound off. The anger is rising. An anger that echoes through history.

The circle completing itself.

Circle time, the birthday card read, nestled within Professor Howdy’s open chest cavity. Written just for me—for Sean—on our birthday.

Mr. Woodhouse was thirty-six when the trial started. When he killed himself.

Happy birthday, Sean, I think, since nobody else will say it. Just like Woodhouse.

After the interview with Merrin, I looked up Kinderman and found out she’s still alive—no surprise there—and has a listed number. She’s been waiting for me to find her. To give her a call. I programmed her number into my cell but I couldn’t muster the courage to dial. Not yet. What would she even say to me? Hello, Sean, I’ve been waiting for you…She followed me to Danvers. She entered my new life and now she’s exacting some sort of—I don’t know, some sort of twisted counternarrative that replicates my testimony from when I was a child? To what end?

Another woman in the auditorium is staring at me. Who is she?

Others. I hear Mom’s voice in the back of my head. What if…What if there really is a cult? What if I accidentally tapped into something as a boy? That’s what Mr. Cassavetes claimed on his TV special. What if my stories were true? What if there is a secret organization of devil worshippers? It sounds absurd. I should be laughing my ass off for even thinking it. But…

What if…? What if they’re here? What if they’re sitting around me right now? What if they’re in this auditorium, hiding among all the mothers and fathers? What if they’re parents?

The faculty. The admin. Jesus, even the police. Who knows how far this network goes?

An image of my mother comes back to me. Her face. Her paranoia. Her delusions. That’s what they were. The people she passed on the street. The strangers she saw wandering outside our window. At the peak of her paranoia, Mom believed, actually believed. She never realized her own son, her angel, her own flesh and blood, had lied to her. To the press. To everyone.

Miss Levin stands up from her seat. I can see she’s clearly working up the nerve to speak.

“My daughter,” she starts, waiting for the room to quiet down. Nobody hears her.

Nobody but me. I’m all ears. I am bearing witness.

“My daughter was in that art class,” she calls out. She’s scanning the room, looking for a sympathetic face. “My daughter told me that he—”

My entire body tenses.

Miss Levin starts again, “My daughter told me that Mr. Bellamy—”

I can’t breathe.

“He…” Miss Levin continues, her voice filling the vast expanse of the auditorium. “He told their class how to play these games. To do these things to each other. While he watched.”

I turn to Tamara. Even if she’s sitting right next to me, I can’t see her. The distance feels too far, as if the space between us is expanding. Her eyes widen, and I feel her slipping away.

She looks frightened. Of me.

I try to say something. I know I try. But the words aren’t there. The air isn’t there.

Sandy stands next to her mother, like she’s being presented. With her mother’s encouragement, Sandy looks around and finds me in the audience. When she does, she lifts her arm and points at me. “Mr. Bellamy did it.”

INTERVIEW: October 27, 2013

MERRIN: The time is…nine thirty-four p.m. Interview with Richard Bellamy is now commencing. Detective Merrin and Detective Burstyn are present.

BURSTYN: Thanks for coming in.

MERRIN: For the record, you are here of your own volition. Is that correct?

BELLAMY: Yes.

MERRIN: To be clear, you are not under arrest. No charges have been filed. You can stop this interview at any time. Is that understood?

BELLAMY: I understand.

MERRIN: Anything you say can be used later. It’s not a confession, but it is still admissible in court. Is that understood?

BELLAMY: Yes.

BURSTYN: You sure you don’t want a lawyer present?

BELLAMY: No. Do I—do I need one?

BURSTYN: Not if you’ve got nothing to hide…

BELLAMY: Then yes—I mean, no, I do not want a lawyer present.

BURSTYN: You mind if we get down to brass tacks? Why come in?

BELLAMY: Because it’s not true.

BURSTYN: What’s not true?

BELLAMY: What Sandy’s mom—what—what Miss Levin said. It’s not true.

BURSTYN: Why do you think she’d say something like that?

BELLAMY: I—I have no fucking clue. I don’t know her. I’ve only seen her twice. At school functions. She’s always struck me as, I don’t know…a little intense.

BURSTYN: Intense?

BELLAMY: High-strung.

BURSTYN: I’ve known a few high-strung ladies in my day.

BELLAMY: It’s not like that. Don’t—please don’t bend my words.

BURSTYN: Sorry. I take it back. She’s not high-strung. She’s…“intense.”

BELLAMY: All these parents are anxious. The only time they ever come to talk to me is when they want to get their kids into an expensive school and they want proof that their son or daughter is the next Picasso or something.

MERRIN: My kid’s enrolled in this school. Fucking tuition kills me. Every month, I wanna shoot myself. One year’s enough to send me to the poorhouse.

BURSTYN: It’s public school for my boys all the way. Worked just fine for me.

MERRIN: Miss Levin wanted to enroll her daughter into another school?

BELLAMY: No. The other night when we had parent-teacher conferences—

MERRIN: Which night?

BELLAMY: Thursday. Miss Levin came in. To speak to me about Sandy.

MERRIN: She came to you?

BELLAMY: Yes.

MERRIN: To talk about how her daughter was doing in your class?

BELLAMY: Correct.

BURSTYN: How’s she doing?

BELLAMY: Excuse me?

BURSTYN: Sandy. How’s