Page 23 of Shadowed Whispers

I swear I went to bed dressed in my favorite nightgown with little rainbows and a smiling girl on the front with equally colorful hair. Shivering, I search for my gown, my teeth chattering because one of my foster siblings left the window open. A whisper of unease trickles through my mind—not just from the cold or the darkness, but from a sensation I’ve felt only in moments of deep solitude or distress. It’s as if the shadows themselves hold a comforting presence, a secret ally only I seem to know. I push the thought aside, attributing it to my overactive imagination.

My bare feet touch the floor, and a yawn cracks my jaw, making my eyes water. There, in the middle of the floor, lies my nightgown, inside out.

I must have taken it off in my sleep.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I don’t remember falling asleep, and I don’t really remember much of the night before.

Trying not to dwell on it, I redress and pad across the room to the bathroom.

The house is over a hundred years old. The second floor is more like one long hallway with open spaces for bedrooms. It’s supposed to have three bedrooms, but technically, there is only one with a door.

I flick the bathroom light on, and I’m blinded. Hissing, I quickly turn it off and use the toilet, then I wash my hands in silence, hoping not to wake anyone.

There are seven of us in this house. I’ve been here for a few weeks, and it’s okay. It’s new, and from experience, I know that everyone here won’t reveal their true selves for another few months.

Feeling thirsty, I make my way down the hall, passing the double bunk beds with all four of my foster brothers fast asleep. I creep down the stairs, making sure not to tread on any of the creaky steps. Identifying the creaky spots in a house is the first thing I learn in any new home—self-preservation won’t allow it any other way.

Darkness bathes the first floor, with only the streetlights outside shining in through the window, while shadows stretch across the floor almost as though they are trying to reach out to me.

I yawn again, making my eyes water. For a moment, the tears almost blind me, and maybe that’s why I don’t see him at first. That night, I didn’t see him either.

But this? This is a memory, and I know he’s there, lurking in the shadows, watching me.

Rubbing my eyes, I open the fridge, the light just as blinding as it was in the bathroom. There are a few drops left of the lemonade made at dinner the night before. If I drink it, I know I’ll have to make more.

I’m so thirsty that I’m willing to drink it and stay up a few more moments to make more. With the pitcher in my grip, I back away, closing the fridge.

“Why are you awake?” His voice startles me, and I squeak and drop the pitcher, spilling lemonade across the kitchen.

I slap a hand over my mouth, turning to look at the steps, hoping I didn’t wake anyone. When no footsteps cross the second floor, I turn around, blinking against the darkness. In a chair in the corner of the kitchen, my foster father sits with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“I asked you a question,” he says, taking a long draw of his cigarette.

My stomach flares with nerves as little butterflies take flight, and my head feels dizzy. Every inch of me screams to run, to get out of this situation. Every inch of me tells me I’m in danger, but I can’t figure out why.

Licking my lips, I reply, “I’m thirsty.”

He grunts, sitting back, and places one ankle over his knee. I can just make out his bare chest and the shorts he’s wearing.

Alarm bells still reverberate in my head like a gong, over and over.

“Looks like you made a mess of the lemonade,” he whispers, taking a longer drag before slowly blowing the smoke out. “Better clean it up.”

I had forgotten about the lemonade. I’m standing in a puddle of lemonade. Taking a cautious step back, I reach for the drawer of kitchen towels and toss two on the floor. Using my feet, I step on each one, beginning to walk them around while trying to sop up all the lemonade.

“Not like that,” he says.

“Excuse me?” I lift my gaze to him, fear dancing in my belly. The clock reads three in the morning. Why is he awake?

“Get on all fours and clean up the lemonade,” he commands.

“What?” My voice trembles, and my body shakes.

“You heard me,” he snaps, extinguishing his cigarette, his foot landing on the ground with a soft tap that, to me, sounds like a stomp.

Reluctantly, I sink to the floor. My nightgown will get wet, but there’s no helping it now. My knees touch the cracked linoleum, and although I dread looking away, I need to see what I’m doing, given the darkness.

---