The River Whispers

I followed David up the small trail that led from the creek bed to Art Carter’s house. My heart began to beat wildly. I felt it pounding beneath my chest, as if it were thumping against my chest bone. My face and hands felt hot and clammy at the same time. I couldn’t recall a time I’d ever felt more nervous or frightened. The path from the creek was overgrown and just as creepy as the front driveway.

Standing outside the house I heard some sort of power tool or saw roaring from somewhere inside. I realized how crazy it was to approach a grieving man who owned power tools!

I knocked on the door, although not very loudly, I must admit. “Well,” I said, turning to David, “sounds like he can’t hear me knocking over the saw. … Maybe we should try again later.”

“Oh no you don’t!” David barked. “Knock again … louder.”

This time I banged harder. While still knocking I heard the saw turn off, then heavy footsteps approaching. I would have run away, but I was so scared, my feet wouldn’t move. It was as if they had been cemented there. The door opened with a quick, aggressive swoosh that practically knocked me off balance.

In the doorway stood a huge man. He was well over six feet. He had broad shoulders and dirty blond hair. He held a piece of wood in his hands that looked like it could be a leg to a chair. His hands were large and rough, as though they would have felt like sandpaper. I stood there for a moment and stared. I was frightened down to the bone; my gaze was fixated on the piece of wood he held. I thought about how it could be used to knock me out.

When I didn’t say anything, Art Carter’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Uh … uh … Well … Mr. Carter, my name is Evie, and my mom and I just moved in down the street, and I now go to school at Turnville School and I’m in the eighth grade just like David would have been and”—I knew I was babbling a mile a minute, but I couldn’t seem to stop—“and, well … my first day, which was yesterday, I saw David and he wanted to write you a letter, only he couldn’t because, well, he’s a ghost, you see, so I wrote this letter … well, HE wrote the letter, I mean to say it’s my writing, but he told me what to write.” I held the letter out in front of me, the paper rattling in my shaking hand. Art Carter didn’t take it at first. Then after an agonizing minute of silence that seemed to last forever, he snatched the paper from my hand and crumpled it into a wad without even reading it.

“I don’t know what kind of joke you’re trying to pull here.” He raised his voice. “Maybe some of the local kids put you up to this or something, but you’d better get out of here before I call the police.” He threw the crumpled paper on the ground; I stood in a state of shock for a moment. When I didn’t move, he exploded, “Go on. I said GET!” My heart was racing and I could hardly breathe. I took off and ran down the driveway.

I looked back over my shoulder and saw David standing right in front of Art Carter, stunned. Then David began to chase after me and yelled for me to come back.

“Evie,” David yelled desperately. “He didn’t read the note. … You have to go back, you have to tell him about the boat.”

Was he crazy? There was NO way I was going back there!