The Murmurings (10 page)

Bold black letters at the top of the page read:

These facilities are NOT what they seem. They purport to heal the sick and counsel the mentally disturbed, but their REAL intentions are far from pure.
This is by no means a definitive list.

It seems that every month, a new institution is featured, each given a snazzy nickname like “Haven Hill—House of Horrors” or “Juniper Springs—A Bouquet of Lies.” A list to the right is archived in chronological order. Somewhere toward the middle is “Oakside—Phoenix’s Mad Science Lab,” a website owned and operated by the Insider.

“Adam,” I whisper.

Evan nods. “Guess so.”

He moves the mouse over the link.

“Wait, Evan,” I say, but it’s too late.

He’s clicked the link, which opens an entirely new page—a blog just as Evan described. Even though I haven’t really begun to read, there’s urgency to the text. There are lots of exclamation points, phrases in all capital letters, and italicized, bolded, and underlined words.

Evan looks up at me from his desk chair. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

I take a deep breath, my eyes reading even though I’m not sure I want them to. I release the air from my lungs in one push. “Yeah, okay.”

He stands up and gestures toward the chair. “I’ll go grab us something to eat.”

But I don’t answer him. I’m already too engrossed. I scroll to the first blog post and stop.

April 20th.

Exactly one week after Nell’s body was found in Jerome.

The Insider
has
to be Adam.

Well, nothing left to do but . . .

Read.

April 20th

I never asked for
any
of this. I never wanted it. I know a lot of you out there are going to dismiss what I say. You’re going to shake your head at your computer screen in doubt. Imagine it’s my eyes you’re looking into while you refuse to believe. You might pity me for what you call my delusions, or
laugh
at me when I share the horrors that I’ve witnessed firsthand. The horrors that I might have had a part in, unwilling or otherwise. Or you might believe me. And to be honest, if even one person believes me, what I’ve done could have all been worth it.

No, not
all
of it.

Because once you’ve lost someone, nothing can convince you that their sacrifice was for a greater good.

NOTHING was greater than her.

Warm tears well in my eyes, and I wipe them absently and keep reading.

April 29th

I’ll start at my beginning, but that’s not
the
beginning. This thing—this horror, this pain—has been around longer than me or anyone reading this. It’s been around for as long as people have been living and dying. But I can only share my story with you. I will tell you the place where real evil is being cultivated. Years of therapy tells me it’s worth the risk I’m taking to post this online—that it will be therapeutic. Maybe afterward . . .
long
afterward, I won’t be so fucked up. Or maybe I don’t even know what’s normal anymore, so trying to be that way is pointless.

I started exhibiting “symptoms” when I was six or seven. I was hearing things, seeing things that my parents didn’t think could be real. I would swear they were real, and my parents would whisper between themselves that I needed help—that I wasn’t normal. The doctor they brought me to see really
listened
to me. He believed everything I said was happening to me. I know it sounds stupid, but that meant a lot. Pretty soon, I was going to see him so often that he suggested my parents let me stay at a residential facility so he could treat me full-time. They were probably thrilled to have me off their hands. I never saw them again.

At the hospital, the visions started to get worse. A shadow just out of reach, a distorted reflection, like a motion from behind the mirror. I asked the doctor why this was happening to me. Why ME? He told me it was because I was special.

I’m not certain why this doctor believed what I was experiencing was more than just my imagination. I think maybe he
wanted
to believe me. It wasn’t until I told him what I heard—THAT’S when he knew I was telling the truth.

Up until I was seventeen or so, I only ever heard mumbling. It was as though something was trying to get me to hear, but I could never quite understand. And then one day, I
DID
hear—it was the only time the mumbling actually became clear. The day had been a bad one. I was thinking about my parents. I’ll never forget what the voice said: “You promised me you would come back. Is that bracelet for me?”

That’s all you get for tonight. If this is entertaining, then you’re more messed up than I am. If you believe me, you’ll know why I can’t say any more just now.

May 27th

It took me a month to find a new place. I started hearing things again. I used to think I could get away from the murmurings. Now I realize I’ll be running for the rest of my life. If not from
THEM
, then from the police. I’ve been lucky so far. I don’t know how long that luck will last.

I told you I’d continue my story, but I also need to tell you someone else’s. Otherwise, mine won’t make any sense. This assumes, of course, there’s anyone even reading this. I DON’T want comments. I’ve disabled that feature. You can’t help me,
and I don’t want to read anyone else’s bullshit. I know the truth. My only motive is to share that with other people.

I’ve told you about the doctor I was sent to live with. If you met him, you might even think he’s a pretty decent guy. I did for a long time. But you have to know that he’s different now.
AND HE’S DANGEROUS.
Several years ago, he took over as head of psychiatry at Oakside Behavioral Institute in Phoenix, Arizona. That’s where he runs his operation. And with his title, he holds nearly infinite and unquestioned power over the patients who reside there.

This place doesn’t treat anyone. It’s a place that
fosters
things—not people,
things
. Brothers and aunts and ailing mothers are sent there because nobody wants to deal with them, let alone the voices in their heads. This place is storage for people who really need psychiatric help, and prison for those they’re actually interested in “treating.”

Again, the name is Oakside Behavioral Institute. Phoenix, Arizona.
And the doctor’s name—Dr. Jeremy Keller. STAY AWAY FROM THIS PLACE!!!

Stopping for tonight, but now I can sleep knowing that I got that message out to you . . . whoever might be reading.

I wipe my hands on my legs. I’m not sure I can read any more of this. If even a fraction of this is true, it’s too much. And it almost doesn’t matter because I know at least one part
is true—we left Nell there. She was experiencing something my mom couldn’t fathom—or acknowledge—and I was in too much denial to believe her. I pretended Nell didn’t need me. I made myself think she was still stronger than me.

“Hungry?”

I jump at the sound of Evan’s voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were so engrossed.” He sets half the contents of his fridge on the desk.

“Your Gatorade, madam,” he hands me a bottle with a little bow, but his face falls. “You doing okay?”

I push myself away from the laptop and cover my eyes, speaking through the split between my hands.

“Evan, I can’t do this. I can’t read anymore.”

“Hey, hey,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t. I know you want to find out what happened to your cousin—and trust me, I want to understand what happened to Nell—but this is all just too . . . close.” I shake my head in an effort to block the information that screams through my brain at warp speed, bumping over question after question on the way.

“Just take your time. I know it’s a lot right now, but it gets easier, I swear.”

I can’t tell where he is anymore. I feel dizzy in the dark I’ve created for myself.

“No, Evan, you don’t know!” I blurt, and before I can stop
them, hot tears are streaking my cheeks, followed by words I can’t catch before they shoot from my mouth.

“These people he’s talking about in these posts, they’re just like Nell. She was basically sacrificed to all of this. I know that’s just one Oakside statistic to you, but . . . ”

And then a memory blinks into view like a slide show clicking to its next image.

“That night we went to Oakside together. You knew I’d missed that turn. You’d been there before, hadn’t you? After you found out what Dr. Keller was doing, you went there yourself, didn’t you?”

My tone is accusatory, but I can’t quite figure out why.

“I should have told you that before,” Evan says, flustered, then ashamed. “I wanted to see if Dr. Keller would see me, if he would be straight with me. I wanted to know if he might be able to tell me something that might, I don’t know, lead me to Deb. But when I tried to talk to him, he wouldn’t see me.”

And then I realize why I’m accusing him.

“So I was your ticket into Oakside—to Dr. Keller. That’s why you didn’t tell me you knew about that place.”

Evan’s face crumples. “What? No! Of course not!”

“Really, so that was all just coincidence?” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

“Yes, it was. You don’t really think—God, Sophie. I’ve
never been able to talk to anyone about this before. I didn’t know how to tell you, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

But he stops there. Now we’re both staring at each other with fire and defeat and hurt.

“Hey,” Evan says again, and this time his face relaxes into actual concern. The fire seems to have died out. Then he moves a little closer to me. Then very close. And soon, I can feel his hands on the sides of my face, and without thinking about it, I stand up from the desk into his reach. His palms are warm and calloused, but they feel so good against my skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. His eyes are the color of honey. I feel like I could stare at them forever and never find the center of him. “I should have told you everything. I should have known I could trust you, that you wouldn’t think I was crazy.”

“I know what it’s like,” I say. “To finally find out that someone else has been where you’ve been.”

“We’re going to figure this out. Whatever happened to your sister, none of it was your fault.”

My heart continues to thrum in my chest, my cheeks heating in response to Evan’s touch.

“I should have listened to her. I should have—”

“Shhh,” he says, moving closer, so now all I can see are
his lips, full and puckered into a loose O. And then they’re touching mine, lightly at first, but then my body relaxes into his, and his hands fall from my face and lightly press the small of my back, pulling me closer to him. He moves his lips against my mouth, and it feels like we’re talking to each other in a whole new language. I’m positive he can feel my heart slamming against my chest, but I don’t care. For just this second, I don’t care about anything.

•  •  •

By the time Evan pulls into my driveway, the house is dark except for the porch light, and that’s only because I forgot to switch if off last night.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” I say back. We stare at each other in the dark of his car, the radio no longer keeping me from having to fill the silence.

“Guess I’d better go in,” I say.
Seriously? That’s the best I can come up with?

“Yeah, guess you’d better,” he says, but now I know he isn’t just hanging out to see what a freak’s sister is like up close—or using me to get closer to his own freak past.

And besides, after everything that happened tonight, I can’t muster the strength to be self-conscious anymore, which is why I get out of the car before he can try to kiss me
again. The first one was incredible. I don’t want to doubt the second one. I hear him drive away and know too late that I really did want him to kiss me again, but the minute I step through the front door, the usual exhaustion consumes me. All I can remember is what I read on Evan’s computer screen, the frantic, italicized, underlined, and bolded words of the Insider—Adam.

I pull the refrigerator door open with robotic movement, knowing that I should be hungry but unable to locate even the slightest craving. I stare at the clock on the microwave and watch as two minutes click by before I register that it’s 9:23. I was over there for practically six hours, and Mom never once wondered where I might be.

I pick up the phone—another automatic habit—and I’m greeted by an interrupted dial tone telling me we have a message. I punch the code.

The saccharine tone of a familiar voice fills my ear, practically dripping through the receiver.

Yes, hello, this is Dr. Jeremy Keller from the Oakside Behavioral Institute. I’m leaving this message for Sophie. I would very much like to continue our conversation from the other day. I believe you know what it’s regarding. I’m confident that I can be of assistance to you and trust you feel the same way. Don’t worry about making an appointment. Stop by any time you want to talk. I’ll make myself
available. I hope you’ll agree that this should be soon. Your situation is . . . well, I’m afraid you know your situation all too well, having seen it play out before. Come see me any time.

I hold the phone to my ear for so long it’s as though I’ve forgotten how to hang up. Finally, I key in the command to delete the message.

How can such a kind voice from such a handsome mouth be so . . . wrong? It’s as though he’s threatening me. He knows something about me that I’ve never told anyone, not even Evan, which after tonight feels strangely like a betrayal of trust. And yet Dr. Keller knows.

What if he really is the only one who can actually help me? If he knows Nell was hearing the murmurings, and that she was seeing what was lurking just out of her sight, won’t he be able to help me make it stop? Would it be worth the risk to find out what he wants from me?

I’m so trapped in my thoughts, it takes me a moment to notice the breathing on the other end of the line.

It starts quietly enough, inhaling and exhaling in synch with my own breathing. Then the breathing turns raspy. It struggles for air, loses its pace, gasping on the other end of the line.