Page 12 of One Last Whisper

I decide to leave the mystery of the screaming woman alone. I have a young boy who needs my attention. I can’t be chasing ghosts. Thejibakureican solve its own problems.

Still, I worry. Another hour has passed with no Sarah. I am still convinced that she's overslept, but what if I'm wrong? What if those screams were the last cries she made alive? What if somewhere inside these cold stone walls, her spirit now wanders, forever cursed to repeat her final terrifying moments?

CHAPTER SIX

We finish breakfast with no sign of Sarah. Theresa places another phone call, this time to the home of the young man Sarah dated last night, and again receives no answer. The thread of hope I cling to is thinner than ever now.

But I can't dwell on Sarah. Today, I begin tutoring Oliver. It is the middle of the school year, and while his records indicate that he is a bright child somewhat ahead of his grade in all subjects, I must be instructing him now to keep him there.

Besides, I do not wish to be involved in any mysteries here. I’ve done with that. I’ve helped many people, but I’ve risked my own life too many times. I’ve done my part. It’s unfortunate if something happened to Sarah, but I’ll let the police handle that. I am not a detective; I am a governess.

Today is a light day of instruction. I will test Oliver to get a sense of exactly where he's at in his studies, and I'll use that information to create goals and a study plan for him. When that's finished, I think I will take tea with him on the back porch. His Lordship prefers Oliver to remain indoors, but I believe I can get away with some fresh air on the porch. If he is upset by it, I'll just thank him for his work improving roadways in the county or something else to stroke his ego. Besides, I could use some fresh air myself.

As I review his lessons, he asks out of nowhere, “Mary, do you think we’ll hear her again tonight?”

I sigh. There is just no way to escape this mystery. “What did you hear exactly?”

"A woman crying for help."

“And you’re absolutely sure that’s what you heard?”

He nods. “It was quiet, but it’s the same thing she always says.”

I flinch and drop my notebook. As I pick it up, I ask, “Always?”

“Yes. Whenever I hear her cry, she always asks for help.”

I place my notebook back on my desk and ask, “How… how often do you hear her?”

“Every now and then,” he says. “Sometimes it’s for days on end. Sometimes it’s only for a night and then she’s quiet for months before screaming again.”

I take a moment to gather myself. “When did you first hear her?”

“Oh, years ago,” he says. “As long as I can remember, we’ve had ghosts here.”

I take a seat so he won’t see the trembling in my legs. “You know ghosts aren’t real, right, Oliver?”

“But they are. Otherwise, what else could I be hearing? I know they can’t hurt me. They’re just poor lost souls who haven’t found their way to heaven yet. But they must be real. You heard her too, so I know I’m not batty.”

He speaks of this subject with the calm acceptance of youth. He speaks of his own safety with the same firm belief. To him this is a curiosity, but to me this is a sobering revelation.

If this isn’t the first time a woman’s cries have been heard in this house, then I truly have stumbled on a mystery. Could it be that Sarah really has gone missing? Could something or someone in this castle have caused her to make those cries for help? And how many women before her have made the same plea?

But where, though? Where could Sarah have been?

“Oliver,” I ask. “Have… have you ever…seenanything?”

He shakes his head. “Just noises. Cries for help, moans, weeping. Just normal ghost noises. Most of the time, you don’t see ghosts anyway. It’s only when they’re really powerful spirits that you see them. I’ve never seen anything.”

“And has anyone else gone missing here?”

His face falls. He lowers his head and says softly. “My mother. She didn’t go missing here, but she went missing.”

I feel a stab of guilt. I’ve carried this too far. He’s a child. If there’s something nefarious going on in this house, it’s not poor Oliver’s business to worry about it.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” I tell him. “You must miss her terribly.”

He shrugs. “I never knew her. I mean, I’m sure I knew her for a little while, but Uncle Edmund has been taking care of me for as long as I can remember. I ask him about mother sometimes, but I don’t think he likes to talk about her. I think he misses her too, but it’s hard for him to miss her. He knew her.”

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