July 3, Wednesday

I'D DISCOVERED the best cell phone reception (two bars) was in the corner bedroom on the front of the house, so I'd claimed that room to sleep in. When I'd uncovered all the furniture, I was pleasantly surprised to find a bed with an ornate white metal headboard and footboard covered with a colorful block quilt. A whitewashed wood dresser supplemented a tiny closet. The simple oak desk and chair was a bonus.

But I was still scared of the Whisper House. I'd jammed the wood chair under the doorknob, but on the second floor, the noises were unceasing—creaks and groans that I prayed was the house settling… although you'd think a house this old would've already settled long ago. Needless to say, I'd had nightmares again.

When I woke up, I had a headache from a loud, alien sound I couldn't identify at first.

Birdsong.

These weren't the sweet little chirpy birds in beloved cartoons. These were cawing, screeching, shrieking bird gangs and it sounded as if they were rumbling on the roof. I wanted to put the pillow over my head, but I needed caffeine and food. So I dragged myself up, then removed the chair from the doorknob and gingerly opened the door. When I was sure the rooster wasn't lying in wait, I went downstairs to make coffee. The coffeemaker was old-school so while it was brewing, I cracked some eggs to scramble.

"What the—?"

The yolks were deep orange. I sniffed them to see if they were spoiled, but they smelled okay. I decided to chance it and they were the best eggs I'd ever tasted. Fortified, I retraced my steps back to the bedroom where I consulted the information about the house and punched in a phone number.

A deep, hoarse voice answered. "Hello?"

"Um, hi, my name is Josephine Vanguard and I'm staying at the Whisper House. I was given your number as the groundskeeper."

"Right," the person said, then sneezed twice and continued in a congested tone. "Sorry I haven't been out to say hello. I'm flat on my back with the crud. I'll come around to tend to the chickens and the mowing as soon as I can."

"Okay."

"Have you gathered the eggs?"

I blinked. "No."

"Hm. You probably should do that. They're gonna be backed up."

"O… kay."

"And you'll need to unlock the gate to the graveyard every morning and lock it again at dark."

I squinted. "And why is that?"

"It's a private graveyard, but the Whisper family let other people have plots there, so it has to be open to the public. The key is hanging in the kitchen closet."

I swallowed hard. "And where is this graveyard?"

The person had a coughing fit. "A few hundred yards past the house on the road you came in on."

"Okay."

"I mowed it a couple of days ago, so it should be okay until I'm back on my feet."

I was still trying to figure out if I was talking to a man or woman. It really didn't matter except that I was trying to picture them. "What's your name?"

"Kelly Brown."

That didn't help.

Kelly sneezed again, then blew their nose loudly and said they'd come by soon. I wished them well, then ended the call, more confused than before I'd called. I walked to the window and looked down the road running past the house. The broken, crumbling asphalt petered out into a weedy gravel lane. I thought I saw the glimmer of white stones.

I recalled seeing a pair of binoculars in the desk, so I retrieved them. Sure enough, gravestones of different heights came into view, and a tall ornate metal gate.

I lowered the binoculars and winced. The graveyard was a stone's throw from the house.

I might never sleep again.

I dressed in my only pair of jeans—dark wash Victoria Beard—and my sturdiest shoes—white platform Keds—then located the key and left the house.

When I stepped off the porch I kept my eyes on the road, scanning for snakes, and other creepy-crawlies. Within thirty seconds my shirt was sticking to my back, and I had three mosquito bites.

I walked a few yards and suddenly was standing in front of the tall metal gate I'd seen from the window. The words "Whisper Graveyard" were hand-lettered in gold Victorian-style font. Through the gate I saw a collection of maybe thirty gravestones in a picturesque field dotted with towering oak trees. The key I'd brought fit into a chained padlock on the gate. I was so intent on unlocking it, I didn't hear the vehicle arriving until it was almost upon me. I turned to see an old black pickup truck pulling up to the gate.

A man with cropped bronze-colored hair stuck his head out the window. "Hi, there."

I gave him a tentative smile. "Hello."

"You must be the new tenant."

Word traveled fast in a small town. "That's right."

"Sawyer King," he offered with a smile. "Welcome to Irving."

"Thank you," I said, purposely not sharing my name. I had no intention of getting to know the locals. I needed privacy to finish my book. "I have to get back."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks for unlocking the gate."

I instantly felt remorseful for my standoffishness. "Do you have family buried here?"

"No." He jerked his thumb toward a box in the back of his pickup. "I'm putting flags on the graves of the veterans for the Fourth. I shouldn't be long."

Oh, brother… he looked like a Boy Scout and he was a do-gooder. I conjured up a little smile. "That's nice."

Silence stretched between us awkwardly. I broke it by turning and striding back toward the house.

"I didn't get your name," he called after me.

I kept walking, still scanning for snakes.