Preface
It was about 3:30 in the afternoon, because I had just checked the wall clock. I had an appointment at a nearby portrait studio to get headshots done at 4:00 sharp (I wanted to be an actress so bad…) and I was in the bathroom doing my hair. The warm afternoon sun was peeking through the blinds and left yellow bars on the cold blue bathroom floor. Contrast. I was especially fond of things that contrasted: black and white pictures, fried bananas with ice cream on the side, red berries laying against newly-fallen snow…The year was 1999, I was 13 years old, and the month was November. I don't know why I remember the weather so vividly, but I remember it was an unnaturally warm day for November in Vermont. I remember that my 16-year old brother was upstairs, sleeping off last night's hangover from a party of some friend of his. My mom and dad were in the basement, carrying boxes of Christmas decorations up and down the stairs. My dog, Mona, was outside in the backyard. And for some reason, though oddly enough I don't remember what, the basement door in my backyard was left standing open. It could have been just an ordinary day. It could have been your life. It could have been you. And yet…it was my life, and it was me.
I didn't sense that anything was terribly wrong when I heard Mona barking outside. She barked quite often, usually at squirrels and cars and falling leaves. Once, she even barked at the microwave. Then she was oddly quiet. I guess I must've found that normal. A car may have passed by in the alley behind my house. But then I heard a horrible crash in the basement. Normally, Mom and Dad would have been screaming at each other for dropping something important (probably a box of glass ornaments) but they hadn't said anything. And then I heard the shots: four loud cracks breaking the silent image of that wonderful warm winter day. It was a miracle that I had enough sense to hide underneath the bathroom sink. I was 5' 2", a bit small for my age, and I thank my lucky stars today that I was able to fit in the small space between the heavy wooden doors and the pipes. I heard heavy clunking of boots of some sort coming up the stairs, and I put my hand in front of my mouth to quiet my frightened breathing. Then I heard the boots going up another set of stairs. My brother! I was so frightened. Maybe the four shots had woken him up and he had called the police. Maybe he had escaped by jumping out the window. Maybe he had found his own weapon and was waiting in the shadows to strike the intruder. Or maybe, sadly, he had been slightly roused by the shots, but not in enough time to save himself from being killed.
Unfortunately, my last assumption had been the correct one. I heard shouting and grunting upstairs, and a few things falling and breaking. And then two shots, a familiar sound, now. Perhaps my brother had gotten the gun away from the intruder and had killed him? Perhaps he was about to come downstairs and call the police and the ambulance, and my parents would be saved. Perhaps all of this had been a horrifying reverie that I had conjured up in my mind from my once elated mood. None of it was the truth. For some reason, I had climbed out from underneath the bathroom sink and was heading as quietly as I could for the back door when I heard the heavy boots coming back down the stairs. Forget quiet, I thought to myself, I have to get out of here. But it was too late. The intruder saw me and fired a warning shot, hitting me in the side. It hurt. I felt a stinging sensation and a wave of heat pass over me. Blood was pouring out of my wound like a calm brook. I kept on running, hoping that my legs would not give out. Then I heard two more shots. This was the end, I told myself. It was bad enough that I was about to die, but I was going to die in pain and in fear, too. What a horrible way to die. I squeezed my eyes shut, anticipating the sting of the two bullets to hit me, one in my back and one in my neck…But I didn't feel anything. Is this how it feels to die? I asked myself. It wasn't too bad. I hadn't felt any pain. Yet, I was running for the kitchen door. I was out the door and in my backyard. Mona was there, a piece of rope around her neck. The intruder had strangled my dog! And it was then, when I had finally found my voice that I had thought I had lost. Thanks to my incredibly loud, bloodcurdling screams (Thank you, acting school), a neighbor noticed me lying in the grass, bleeding, and dialed 911.
The paramedics arrived shortly and I was taken to the hospital. The same neighbor that had notified 911 had the task of telling me the fate of my family. Mona was dead, I knew, but what had become of the others? It was something I both didn't want to know but I knew I must be told. My mother had died from two shots to the temple, and my dad, in a blind rage had charged towards the intruder and was shot twice in the chest, hitting him in the lung, and in the heart. My brother had sat up in bed, responding to the four shots, and was taken by surprise as the intruder shot him in the neck and the chest. He lived for 12 hours, a feat that amazed the doctors. I had been shot clean through the side, the bullet missing my spleen by millimeters. I was very lucky, said a nurse. But not really, I told myself. I had lost everyone. The intruder himself, Robert Nicholson, had shot himself twice in the temple. He was an escaped mental patient from Montpelier Institution, who had managed to make it to Northfield, Vermont, without being reported or caught. There, he had wandered the streets with a concealed weapon. Making his choice, he had broken into my backyard, strangled my dog, and snuck into my house through the open door.
People wonder why I am so calm when I tell this story. Maybe it's because all of my tears and rage left me when I was in the hospital. Maybe it's because I was finally able to leave the town that caused me so much pain. Maybe it's because there was nothing I could do. But probably it's because I went to the Whisper House. The Whisper House is a large, white house in a small town in the Midwest. The Whisper House is not the actual name of the house. It's actually a special house for children who have survived tormenting experiences: The Hampton Home for Emotionally Traumatized Youth. But to the local people, it's known as the Whisper House. A seemingly normal children's home on the outside, the Whisper House has a warm, hospitable air to it. But inside…inside is why the house got its name. And to know how it got its name, you'll have to hear my story. Because the Whisper House is not as hospitable as it seems.
Author's Note:
Hey guys! It's me, Katie! This is just a little teaser of a story I'm currently writing. But my school play is coming up soon (we're doing The Crucible and I'm Mary Warren!!) so I might not have to time write some more... I plan on continuing with this story, though, because it has a lot of potential. And yes, this is a non-anime story. I really hope you like it and keep looking out for updates! Thanks a million, guys!
Love,
KT