Page 22 of Shadowed Whispers

As I fumble with the keys, I let my senses stretch out into the night, feeling for the familiar pull of the shadows. It’s a technique I’ve honed over the years, learning to differentiate between mere darkness and the sentient shadows that respond to my call. Tonight, they seem restless, a reflection of my own unease. The soft murmur of the sea clashes with my racing thoughts, enhancing the tension that tightens my chest.

The absence of the Jeep’s top, because I ran late, suddenly feels like an ominous oversight—one I know better than to make. Settling into the driver’s seat, I try to draw a comforting veil of darkness around the Jeep, a simple trick that makes the interior shadows obey my whim, creating a makeshift barrier, but the shadows are sluggish tonight, their reaction time slower, a reminder of my own limits. My control over them isn’t absolute. Fatigue, emotions, and the natural balance of night itself influence our connection. The ignition roars to life, cutting through my concentration, and the headlights scatter the shadows, reminding me of their aversion to light, another rule in the complex relationship between my powers and the world.

Amidst the interplay of light and dark, a solitary figure emerges, leaning nonchalantly against a building as if awaiting a clandestine rendezvous. My heart stutters as adrenaline surges through my veins—not just at the sight, but at the implications of recognition in this unexpected tableau.

“Matteo?” His name escapes my lips in a whisper. Remarkably, he acknowledges my hushed call with a simple nod before disappearing into the alley’s embrace. A rush of questions cascades through my mind, each more perplexing than the last.

What the fuck?

Fear spikes in my chest at the thought that he saw my shadows and he knows there’s something off about me. Maybe that’s why they tried to tug me back toward the bar. No, I’m being ridiculous. Laughing at myself, I pull away from the driveway, thinking of all the places where I can sleep off the island. That is a bigger issue.

I know exactly where to go though. It’s on the island, which I should be able to access if Tori is out and about. Even though she has a key to the boom, her mom won’t lock it down until everyone is over the bridge, safe and sound. Destination in mind, I let my thoughts wander.

Two years. That’s how long I’ve been here, and I have almost ten thousand in cash hidden in the safe in my new dorm room. That’s the other reason I wanted to get on campus as early as I can. Most of the students come from money, rich peons with their futures planned out for them before they were even a thought to their parents.

Me? I have a name. That’s all. Just a name and a birth certificate that I don’t even have access to—locked away in a vault I didn’t even know existed until I received an acceptance letter to a school I didn’t even apply for. I can’t access it until I graduate. If I access it at all. The only thing I know is that after graduation, I’ll have even more nothing than I have right now. Sure, I’ll have a diploma, but that’s it. I’ll be homeless again.

I save every penny I make at the Grotto and shove it into my safe. I can’t even get a bank account without my birth certificate, so cash it is, and luckily, Andy doesn’t mind paying under the table.

The bridge to the island stretches before me, and as luck would have it, the boom is up. Breathing a sigh of relief, I cross the bridge and head for the opposite side of the island, where there is a small cove.

It’s my favorite place. Sometimes the students head there, but for the most part, they leave it alone, save for nights when they want to party on the island. The administrators let it happen because they are on the island, as safe as they can be, but the waves outside the cove are rough, and the cave that opens up is off-limits.

The Jeep’s tires crunch against the sand, stirring a gentle echo in the quiet cove. Here, the ambient sound of the ocean’s incessant roar is both a lullaby and a wild call. The salty air fills my lungs, mingling with the subtle tang of seaweed and brine. It’s refreshing, a sharp contrast to the stuffy, confined spaces back in town.

Parking beside a large rock, a natural sentinel of this secluded spot, I kill the engine, and sudden silence envelops me like a thick blanket. Shadows immediately wrap around the Jeep, drawn to the absence of light, their presence both comforting and foreboding.

Stepping out, I feel the cool sand beneath my boots, the grains sticking to the damp leather. The shadows stretch toward the surf, twisting and turning in a dance with the moonlight that bathes the beach in a silvery glow. The waves crash against the shore in rhythmic beats, a constant, pulsing reminder of the island’s isolation and my own.

The path to the cave is familiar, each rock and incline a testament to the countless times I’ve sought its sanctuary. As I navigate the terrain, a mix of anticipation and relief courses through me. The cave, with its stoic entrance and the promise of darkness within, beckons like an old friend. It’s in this shadowed beauty, this blend of nature’s starkness and grace, that I feel most at home.

Descending into the cave, I brush my hands against the cool, damp stone, a tactile anchor in the growing darkness. Each step takes me farther from the world outside and deeper into a realm where I am not defined by my struggles or my differences. Here, in the soft embrace of darkness, the moon’s glow a distant memory, I am free from the gazes of those who can’t see beyond the surface.

When I was little, I used to be terrified of the dark. Hell, any little girl would be terrified of the dark if they didn’t have a caring parent to show them otherwise. All I had were shitty foster dads who never really kept me safe, but then, one night, that all changed. Now, I feel safe. Everything changed the night I stopped fighting the dark and embraced it.

The sound of the waves fades until a slight trickle of water begins to drift to me. I know the cave will turn sharply to the left in three feet, and there’s a small opening. I continue to another turn, and then everything opens before me, and my secret spot reveals itself. There’s a reason I love this island so damn much, and this is one of those reasons.

A small, heated body of water calls to me, and I begin stripping down, craving the warmth. I have no idea why the water is heated. All I know is that it is. As I sink below the surface, tension leaves my shoulders, and as I sink even further, it’s almost as though the water has healing properties, healing my cuts and bruises from the summer.

My lungs strain, but I hold my breath as long as I can before kicking to the surface and making my way to the towels I have folded on the side. They smell awful from sitting all summer, but it’s what I have. True exhaustion wraps around me, the kind one only feels when they are safe, and they know they can finally rest and everything will be alright.

Ever so slowly, I make my way to the pallet I set up freshman year. My legs feel heavy, and I crash onto the pallet, barely managing to pull the mildewy blanket over me before I fall asleep. As I drift off, the soft drip of water echoes like a lullaby, and the cave’s cool breath whispers secrets only the darkness knows.

Chapter 8

Frankie

Nine Years Ago

It always begins the same way, no matter how I fall asleep, when I awake, or when I run—a creak in the darkness, a whisper of wind, or the unsettling silence of the house. It all leads back to this moment. I’m alone in bed, and my heart races as a familiar sense of dread washes over me. It isn’t just the eerie silence or the way shadows seem to move in the corners of my eyes. It’s the feeling of being watched, hunted by something unseen, and each time I awaken, gasping into the chill of the night, knowing somewhere deep inside that my past—or perhaps something far worse—is catching up to me.

My eyes open. Blinking, I try to focus on the darkness, straining to find the reason I’m awake.

Across the room, my foster sisters are fast asleep, the darkness outside the window indicating it’s still late. The door to my foster parents’ room is shut tight, not a thing out of place.

Except, the world feels wrong. Ever so slowly, I sit up, blinking against the darkness. As the blanket slips off me, cold air crashes against my sensitive skin.

Why am I naked?

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