Unheard Voice Chapter 5 and 6

Sue seeks to validate Miranda's claim and seeks proof in the school's yearbook.

Chapter 5

 

                I elected to arrive early to campus the next morning. It only required me to get up earlier than usual so I could go with my brother to morning practice. By the time that Joe’s new friend arrived to give him a lift, I was ready to go. Conning a ride was easy. While they ran across the fields, I slipped inside. I had grown familiar of the halls and it was easy to find the school’s library.

                The stench of books filled the air. It was a pleasant one. Computers lined the walls. Several people sat at tables in the middle of the room. Most were alien faces which I could not place, but one I recognized. Roger waved at me as I passed by. I lifted my hand, but held my course.

                It did not take long to find the yearbooks. They were neatly arranged along a single bookcase near the back. The years were boldly emblazoned upon the spine. Most of the recent ones were green, but the older ones were black with gold numerals. I traced them back through the years. Disappointment filled me as I found the book for 1956 was missing. My brow furled as none existed from the years before 1957. Finally, I pulled out one dating back over sixty years and flipped through the pages. Eagerly, I looked for Miranda Warren’s picture. Nowhere was there a girl listed by that name.

                Where were the books before 1957?

                My mind descended deep into thought. Now, what? Must I go to the library? Where were the yearbooks? My mind was so entrenched until a hand on my shoulder sent me leaping into the air. I spun, raising my hands in defense. Roger was standing there, fright on his face.

                Shaking my hands before me, I asked, “What?” That was stupid of me. He did not sign.

                He pulled his phone out and his thumb danced around before he offered me his phone. “You screamed. I didn’t know you could,” he had written in a text. Ignoring his line, I added my own and returned the phone. We traded the phone back and forth, each time we added more and more to the text.

                “What do you want?”

                “I came to see why you were checking out the yearbooks. No one looks at them. What’s up?”

                “What happened to the books before 1957?”

                “I think there was a fire in the old high school. They must have been lost. The public library should have copies still. They keep all sorts of newspapers and junk like that there.”

                His words lingered in my thought for a moment before I responded. “I heard that the library is built on a graveyard. That’s just a local legend. Right?”

                His answer surprised me, “Yes, it is. Three in fact. It’s common knowledge.”

                “Three graveyards?”

                “Yes, they moved the graves when they built the library.”

                “How can you have three graveyards in one place?”

                He racked his head as he thought. “One was for smallpox. Another were graves from when they were building the railroad, and the last one was an Indian burial ground.”

                I felt lightheaded for a moment. That was the same thing that Miranda claimed. Was the book true? The book shifted inside my bag as if sensing my thoughts. No, if this was a joke, then whoever wrote this would have known the town’s history. It would be easy to include in their works. But, when I touched the book, I could swear I could feel a pulse. Yes, there was something about that book, something alive in it. Someone’s soul rested inside. I could feel it.

                “Are you going to the bonfire?” I read the words, but my fingers remained still. “I could pick you up. It would give you a chance to meet people. I’ve seen you at lunch, eating alone. Usually, I see you reading.”

                “I like reading.”

                “Anything good?”

                “I have a few I like.” Seeing the time in the corner of his phone. “I added. Sorry, but class starts shortly.” I handed him his phone and escaped before he could respond. I made my way back through the halls, only detouring to my locker. Along a blank span of brick, I noticed something strange. A young man was drawing on the wall. It was not the work of graffiti, but this was something else. I slowly stepped over to it and examined the wall. Further along the wall were several similar images. The center of each mural was a number. After only a minute, I realized that they were years. On each one was countless signitures.

“What are those?” I pointed when Mrs. Farris arrived at my locker.

                “Those. They are memory walls. They are the signatures of every student that passed through these halls. They started doing these back in the forties.”

                “There aren’t that many here?” I noticed. “Just on that wall.”

                “They only moved into these building about a decade ago. Before that they were in the old school. Sadly, that burned down.”

                I struggled through classes as my mind wandered back to the library and the missing yearbooks. It distracted me and Mrs. Farris finally had to asked between classes, “What’s wrong? You seem distracted?”

                “Sorry,” I apologized, “Just my minds too full.”

                “What with?” she pressed.

                Lying, I gave her an answer, “Boy asked me about going to the bonfire.”

                “You going?”

                “No, those are my sort of place.”

                “You should,” she continued.

                “No,” I insisted. She eyed me, but added nothing more. I was thankful to escape her gaze at the end of the day and to return home.

                As I worked on my math homework, I found my eyes looking out the window. Failing to find the yearbooks at the school’s library, I had resigned myself to returning to the public one. The thought of trying to find Miranda’s picture in the library daunted me. How was I going to search for the books and then find Miranda while under the cold eyes of Harriet? The gleam in her eyes chilled me. I dreaded her presence every time I went in there. No, I had to know. And to do that, I had to go back…

                I snuck downstairs to find my mother finishing dinner. The strong smell of fish filled the kitchen. My mother paid no mind to the stench or me as she stirred a small pot. I slid to her side and clapped my hands together. “Hey. What’s up?” she asked with a single hand. M

                “Not much. I was going to walk to the library after dinner,” I informed her.

                “You were there last night? Did you finish the books already?” My mother waved to the side. I turned and followed as my father was trying to sneak in the door from work. A layer of dust coated his shirt and he motioned that he was going to change before dinner.

                “No, I wanted to look for something for a project in school,” I explained as I turned back to my mother.

                “Can’t find it online?”

                “No. I tried, but it isn’t there.”

                “Well, you’ll have to go later or this weekend. We have a dinner guest tonight.”

                “Is dad’s new boss coming to dinner?”

                “No, Mrs. Harriet is.” My heart stopped at that word. Harriet here? I could feel the librarian’s cold eyes upon me. The thought of sharing dinner with her creeped me out. “What’s wrong?” my mother asked upon seeing my distress.

                “Why is she coming?” I demanded to know.

                “I invited her.”

                “Why?” I asked.

                “While you were looking for books, we chatted. Her husband died a few years back and she has no other family in the area, so I thought it would be nice.”

                Again, I asked, “Why?”

                “Just being friendly. We don’t have many friends yet.” I just frowned at her. “Don’t give me that look. Go and set the table for the five of us.” Her movements were quick and large. It clearly dictated her message. I hung my head as I set the dishes out. I pressed my fingers firmly into the silverware until my pulse rebounded back to me. Dread filled me as I completed my work.

                “Anything else?” I asked my mother when the table was ready.

                “Set the fish on the table and then slice the bread,” she instructed before leaving me. I ground my teeth as I worked through the loaf. My jaw clenched tighter as my mother returned with the old witch in tow. The two were speaking together as my mother escorted her to the table. My mother fretted over here, offering drink and food. The old woman raised her hand and seemed to push her away. My mother seemed to shrink from the gesture and bowed her head. Her usual gracious and jovial expression faded from the old woman’s movement. Even her eyes seemed dulled.

                I took my place at the table as my mother called my brother and father down. Much to my detest, I found myself sandwiched between our guest and my mother. Her gaze kept shifting past me as she spoke with my parents. It was as if she was judging me every time she saw me, as if I was some repulsive thing. I had seen similar looks from people before; people how saw my deafness as a mark of the devil. I did my best to shove it aside. It was nothing new, but I could barely stomach the feel of her wrinkled fingers when they brushed against mine. It was just a moment, but my revulsion, caused me to drop the bowl of rice on the floor. The ceramic bowl fragmented and mixed in with the white grains.

                “What? Are you okay?”

                “Yeah, it slipped,” I said stupidly. “I’ll clean it up.” I jumped to my feet to escape the table, careful not to step into the mess. A moment later, I knelt on the floor with the dustpan in hand. It was hard scooping the rice into the bin. It stuck to the brush and the floor. I jerked back as a piece of the bowl bite into my finger. Crimson drops stained the rice.

                Seeing my face, my mom pulled me into the kitchen. She wrapped my hand in a paper towel. She tore through the cabinets. I grabbed her shoulder with my left hand and pointed to a particular cabinet. She nodded and reached inside for the bandages.

                With one hand, she worked to undo the wrapping; while signing with the other, “How did you remember where that was? I can’t find half my stuff.”

                “I put them there. We always had the bandages next to the cookbooks in our last home.”

                “Finished,” she waved her hands down.

                “Thanks.”

                Rather than head back into the dining room, my mom grabbed my arm. “What is with that look?” She gestured back towards Harriet as she signed.

                “What look?”

                “The look you’ve been giving Harriet.”

                “I don’t know. Something about her rubs me wrong.”

                “She’s a nice lady. You will sit there and be nice, understanding?”

                “Yes,” I accepted before returning to my spot. As I watched my mother converse with the old woman, I could not help but feel she was under a spell. The tone and pace of my mother’s hands was off. I sat and watched everyone throughout dinner. My father would attempt to interpret the conversation for me, but he could only sign so fast between. My mother seemed enthralled by the old woman’s voice.

                I was forced to sit through the dinner. Once, I worked up the courage to ask my mother under the table, “Mind if I leave?” Slapping me, she declared, “No. Don’t be rude.” Her movement was so crude, that even Harriet noticed. She asked and my mother made some excuse that I could not hear. It was an agonizingly dull event. To sit motionless was a personal hell for me. But that left me clear to watch Harriet. I was thankful, when the old woman finally left.

                The thought of her here made me shudder as I cleaned the table. I stacked the plates upon each other and set each come inside the next, save for the old woman’s. It was untouched. There was not a smudge from her fingerprints, not a drop of water inside. It looked like it had just gotten out of the dishwasher. I turned my attention to her plate. It was barely touched. Only the thinnest section had been pulled away. Looking back, I could only remember her taking the smallest of portions.

                “What’s wrong?” Joe asked me as he wiped the crumbs and dew away with a rag.

                “Nothing.”

                “Interesting lady.”

                “I guess. Hard to follow along when dad had to sign everything. He’s always slow.”

                “He is. He was the last of us to learn to sign. It was funny watching you get all-red-faced when trying to talk to him and he kept getting lost. He kept signing, ‘Again,’ over and over. And your hands would just zoom about.”

                “Are you going somewhere with this?”

                “Maybe,” he teased.

                “Stop it,” I chopped my hand.

                “Fine. I was going to tell you to go to the bonfire tomorrow night.”

                “Why?”

                “You can’t hide upstairs with your books. You need to mingle. Get out of the basement. You might meet more people.” I scowled at him.

                “They don’t sign,” I reminded him.

                “No, but they read. Text them, share your number. That is why you got a cell phone, right? Besides, you’ll be doing group projects eventually, you’ve got to figure it out now. Besides, you don’t want to be ‘That Girl’, Am I right?”

 

 

Chapter 6

 

                I was tied to a post in the middle of the camp. All about me the primitive local danced about. They waved their weapons and totems in the air. They have shrouded themselves in the furs of beasts. Their drums were pounded so harshly that the very earth beneath my feet quake. Smoke from the bonfire strangled my throat. My blood pounded in my ears as my heart raced in fear. What was to come I wondered? Where are my men? The shaman approached me, dancing about and waving his staff in the air. The ropes bit into my wrists as I struggled in my bindings. The shaman grabbed and raised his knife high overhead.

                I jumped up as something touched my shoulder. Turning around, I blindly punched at the source. Joe was standing there, his arms over his stomach.

                “You punched me,” he groaned.

                “Don’t creep up on me.”

                “Ready?”

                “No.”

                “Well, I told you, you’re coming. Rick, will be here. You ready to go?”

                “Okay.” I folded my book away and followed my brother down stairs.

                “You have fun,” my mom waved.

                “I’ll try.”

                “Grab a coat, it’s a little cold outside.”

                “Okay, mom,” I answer her. She gave me another foul look. She had had been doing that ever since our dinner last night. I ignored her look as I followed my brother through the door. I was quickly ushered into the backseat of a mud-covered truck alongside my brother. The two upfront were each a head taller than me. Judging by their builds, I would assume that they were on the football team with my brother.

                I barely had a chance to snap my seatbelt in place before we took off. We moved through new streets. Among the streetlights, I caught sight of a large building. It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but it showed the scars of flame. That I was sure of. Before I had time to ask, we had moved on and were on our way out of town. The city’s lights quickly faded as we moved onto a dirt road. Our driver took the road too fast, and I bounced in my seat.

In the distance, a brilliant orange light reflected off the hills. We finally came to a stop amidst several dozen haphazardly parted cars, trucks, and jeeps. The instant, I opened the door, I was struck with a wave of heat. I could smell my hairs burning. Someone had set a stereo up so loud that I could feel the beat. Dust rose with every step I took. People danced about the bonfire.

Alone, I meandered among the crowd. Here and there I could pick out a face of someone I knew, but none I had spoken with. A few waved at me, but most were already enraptured in their activities. After half an hour of walking the same tight circle, I turned up a hillside. I watched the others from my perch on the top. Behind me was the lights of the town and I could still make out that burnt building. In silence, I watched as two individuals were crowned. Neither of which I knew.

My mind wondered back towards the book in my room. Was Miranda real? Was she really stuck inside the book? Every nerve of my head said it was impossible, but my gut disagreed. That I was sure. She had asked me to check her name, but how? The school’s yearbooks were gone. The only course left was to go to the library.

A shadow broke from the masses. I shifted myself as it approached me. I waved my hands in front of me asking, “What?” It was stupid of me. Roger did not sign. Dropping to my side, he offered me, his phone.

“I saw you up here. You alright?” Before I typed a response, I noticed something... He had not yet assigned a receiving number. Taking my brother’s advice, I returned his phone to him and pulled out my own. A small icon at the top, told me of a new text.

“I was bored down there.”

“So, you came up here to be bored?” he texted back.

“I guess. Not here with anyone?”

“A few friends here. Most of mine aren’t the sort to come to stuff like this. What are you thinking about.”

“What’s that building down there?” I pointed to the massive darkened building.

“That’s the old high school.”

“What happened?” Mrs. Farris’s word of it burning down ignited in my mind.

“Some meth addict set it on fire. It still gets used for paintball tournaments. Police use it as a practice field too.”

“Did it have those murals with all the graduate’s names on the wall?”

“I guess. I haven’t checked. Why?”

“I’d like to see it,” I told him. I do not know what made me do it, but it was idiotic. It was moronic. But I said it. I know why too. If Miranda was real, she would have written her name on that wall. I had to find it. I dropped my phone into my pocket and ran towards the lights. It buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. Roger chased after me in vain. The hill was steep and I slid down it quickly. Rocks and dust scattering in my wake. Much of it found its way into my shoes and socks.

I skidded to a stop on the pavement outside a chain link fence. A cold wind whipped past my ears. I pulled my coat closer as I worked around the fence. My fingers rattled the wiring in my search. Where the fencing gave way, I was able to crawl under it. As I moved inside the fence, Roger moved to catch up with me. His mouth was flapping, but I could not hear.

I looked up at the building. The glass in the windows had been blown out. Much of the bricks were stained black with soot. Carved into the stucco over the front door was were the words: Green River High School, Home of the Wolves. The front doors were empty. Not even boards had been tacked into place. A mixture of dried leaves and ashes were knocked aside by my feet. The stench of rotten wood filled the air at the front doors, but quickly faded away. The ground was soft as I continued.

I pulled out my cell phone to light my way. My fingers felt the wall’s texture with each step. The wood beneath was cracked by fire and neglect. Graffiti had been laid over in the years since the fire. In my mind, I watched the ghosts of the previous attendants move through the halls. I could see the students repeating the same dance which I know performed in the new school.

My heart leapt as I found a patch of brick wall bearing different marks. It was a familiar mural signed by the graduates. I placed my hand on the wall and attempted to wipe the mess away. Instead, my hand only smeared the staining. Cursing myself, I leaned in close and read the names. None I recognized. None of them were Miranda Warren’s. Another such display lay to the side and another. One by one, I followed the displays through the halls. Much of the work had been destroyed by vandals and flame, but finally, I found a year: 1969. Moving further down the hall, I found another: 1965. Smiling, I counted the years back to 1956.

Most of the segment had been desecrated. Regardless, I set to reading the names. Many were only partial names. Many more were completely obscured, but a few were visible. Near the fringes, I found my goal. Miranda Warren’s name was scribbled on the wall. The signature was familiar. I yearned for Miranda’s book, to compare the handwriting. My thumb tapped my phone and snapped a photo. As I examined the image, my eye caught another partial name in the image. Partially covered by soot was a single name below Miranda’s: Harriet.

I stared at the two names written so close together. Was it happenstance that they were so close, or just luck? What was their relationship? Were they friends once? Divide over a man? That I could imagine. Miranda had said that herself.

I was intent on the script and I paid no notice to a change in the shadows. A hand lay touch my shoulder and I spun around. My back pressed into the wall. I found myself facing Roger. His face was red and mad. He grabbed my phone and opened my text messages before shoving it back. I read a string of unread messages.

“What are you doing? You crazy? Where are you?”

Grinding my teeth, I thought about an answer. “I had to find a name.”

“A name? Why? Are you an idiot?”

“I had to know.”

“I don’t care. We need to get out.” Before I could respond, he grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall. I did not protest. I had no need. My phone held what I wanted. Roger’s callous hand rubbed against my wrist. I winched at his grip. I stumbled on the soft flooring.

Until, my foot broke through. My arm was strained as Roger kept going. Splinters bit into my leg before Roger realized what happened. Tears stung my face while he knelt beside me leg. His fingers clawed at the rotten and charred flooring. I could feel damp air moving around my foot as I struggled. Roger wrapped his fingers around a particular board and tugged. But his weight and force broke the surrounding flooring and the two of us plunged into the abyss below.

We landed hard in the basement. My chin landed hard and I bit my tongue. I tasted blood. My phone clattered to the ground and went dark. The only light that remained was from Roger’s. I rolled to my side and pain radiated along my ribs. Roger lay to my side with his jaw clenched so tight, I feared his teeth would break. His hands were pressed against his calf.

I clawed about in the dim light for my phone, but it was concealed amidst the soot and the rubble. Instead, I grabbed Roger’s and typed in a quick message. It was a stupid one, that I already knew the answer to.

“Are you okay?” I passed the phone to Roger. Grimacing, he added another line.

“I think my leg is broken. Grab me two boards, about a foot each. Use my phone for light.” I took the small light source. It casted warped shadows over the scorched surfaces. I limped about, but the pain in my foot was manageable. It only took me a minute to find a pair of boards that fit Roger’s request. As I turned to give them to him, I found him, unfastening his belt. I stood back, aghast at what he was doing. Paying no mind to my expression, he took the boards and fastened them to his leg with several loops. In an instant, he had a crude splint. He then motioned for his phone back.

Rather than type a message for me, he switched over to the phone. He pressed only three numbers: a nine once and the number one twice. Before he could speak, he ended the call and wrote, “No signal. We need to walk back up. Please, let me lean on you.”

I nodded my head and helped him shift himself onto my shoulder. He was heavy and I struggled under his bulk. My foot ached as I tried to move forward, but I had to go on. We were here because of me. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. I repeated that chant to myself, over and over again. Step by step, I moved in agonizing progress. By the time, we found a staircase up I had to rest. I dropped Roger to the ground, harder than I intended.

I was breathing heavy from the work. Dread filled me as thought of ascending those stairs. Resigning myself to our plight, I helped Roger back into place. I grabbed hold of the old hand rail to pull on. Much to my relief, it held. I bit down each time I bore weight through my injured leg. Sweat ran down my brow before following the same path as my tears. Relief swept over me as I ascended the last step.

A second wind filled my lungs while we hobbled to through the front door. Roger fell to the broken concrete and I took my place beside him. He dialed his phone once more and for several minutes spoke before returning a message for me.

“Ambulance is coming. Do you want to call your family?”

Gripping his phone, my mind froze. I could not press the numbers, bound by fear. Finally, I could take it no longer and I collapsed to tears. Roger pulled me close. My tears mixing with the ashes on his shirt. It was in this position that the paramedics found us.

Author's Note

Opinion of story progress, plot, characters, etc...