If someone had been asked to characterize Gerald Flemming, one possible term used would most likely have been ordinary or average. Truth be told, that was probably an overly generous assessment. Gerald was actually below average in almost most aspects – intelligence, looks, ambition, social skills, skills…
Despite all that, he would eventually become quite wealthy and powerful. And it would be all thanks to the whispers.
* * * * *
Gerald, in his mid-thirties, was living in his uncle’s old farmhouse that he’d left him when he died, and was surviving off the inheritance of several other dead relatives. He was in the basement laundry room, separating his whites when he’d first heard it - a noise just barely perceptible. He froze and strained his hearing. A rustling sound maybe… very low and inconspicuous, but somehow jarringly foreign.
Walking slow and steadily around the basement, he eventually determined its source – a large drain in the middle of the concrete floor, about the size of a man’s fist. It was covered by a surprisingly well made and ornate drain cap, seemingly impossible to remove.
Getting down to his knees, Gerald tried to look down the drain, through the darkness to the source of the noise, but to no avail. He could hear it much more clearly now. For some reason, it sounded like whispers, echoing slightly from afar.
“It’s most likely some sort of infestation… rats probably.” He rationalized, more than slightly unnerved. He’d buy some rat poison and lay down some traps. There – all taken care of.
Of course it wasn’t really.
Over the coming weeks he’d heard the whisper from down the drain at random times, but with a noticeable increase in frequency. After a month it had become audible through the kitchen sink, even though it clearly hadn’t increased in volume. In fact, a person would find it hard to notice if he didn’t already know it was there. Unfortunately, Gerald couldn’t help but notice it. He had reached the point where he decided to hire someone to come over and investigate it when the situation changed profoundly.
He was washing the dishes after dinner one night, actively blocking the whispering from his mind, when he abruptly froze in shock, dropping a plate to the floor. He stood there for some time, ignoring the ceramic shards at his feet, staring down the sink’s drain and listening intently.
“What did you just say?” Gerald eventually rasped out softly.
And, as if responding to his request, he once again heard it. “Behind the old Wilson farmhouse. Ten paces east from the oak tree. Two feet under.”
The whispering had always been very low and indistinct, making it impossible to make out any of the words. It continued to be genderless and monotone, but now it sounded as clear as someone speaking beside him, yet at the same time, it seemed to come from a great distance.
It didn’t just confuse Gerald… it scared him to the core.
He left the house as quickly as possible, though extremely careful not to trip and fall over any of the rugs or furniture, least some unknown threat pounce on him. He paced the outside of the building for hours, chain smoking.
He finally broke down some time after midnight. After grabbing a shovel from the back shed, he jumped into his secondhand pickup and drove off toward the old Wilson farm.
* * * * *
The Wilson farm had burned down to a husk before even Gerald’s parents had been born, though in all that time no one had bothered to clean up the charred ruins and the property remained unused and isolated.
Gerald found the oak tree behind where the house once stood and counted out ten paces to the east. Upon reaching the spot, he began to dig.
Not for the first time, he asked himself what the hell he was doing. He was digging a hole in the middle of a field, during the middle of the night, all because a mysterious whisper from down the sink told him to. He wondered idly if he had lost his mind… at least that would have been a reasonable explanation.
It didn’t take long before his shovel hit something hard and metallic. Gerald froze in surprise and confusion – a big part of him hadn’t believed that he was going to find anything. In truth, he had deeply hoped that he wouldn’t.
Reaching down into the hole, he pulled out what appeared to be a very old cookie tin. With slightly trembling hands he lifted its lid and cautiously peered inside. Shockingly, all he found inside were baseball cards.
Around fifty very old and valuable baseball cards, he would find out some days later, upon going into town to a sports memorabilia vendor. He eventually left the store 50 grand richer.
Gerald’s fear and confusion about the whispers were instantaneously overshadowed by good, old-fashioned greed.
* * * * *
He waited for weeks after finding the baseball cards for the whispers to speak to him again. They were present of course, as before, but there were no messages or instructions. On his knees over the drain in his basement, Gerald pleaded, bargained, and even threatened his unknown benefactors to no avail.
In due time, he gradually came to accept the possibility that it was a one time event - simply a mysterious fluke. Until one day, out of the blue, the whispers once again spoke to him.
“The debt must be repaid.” Gerald heard it, clear as day one afternoon.
He ran as fast as he could into the kitchen, nearly knocking downs a couple of chairs on the way. “What? What did you say?”
“Lifeblood is the currency.” The whisper continued.
“What the hell does that mean?” He couldn’t help the high pitch tone that had entered his voice due to excitement and a healthy dose of desperation. Unfortunately, the whisper didn’t answer.
A knock at his front door broke his concentration, as he stared down into the drain. He wondered irritably who it could be - he didn’t have many neighbors out there just beyond where the suburbs ended and “the country” started.
He stomped over to the door and practically flung it open. There, on his front porch was little Cindy Spears. Besides his mailman, little Cindy was the only person who passed by with any regularity on her way to and from school… only it was Sunday.
“Cindy… how can I help you?” He forced as much patience and cordiality into his voice as possible, while plastering a smile on his face.
“Hi mister Flemming!” She said cheerfully. “Sorry to bother you on the weekend, but I was wondering if you happened to have anything for my school’s charity drive. We’re collecting canned and dried food and second hand clothing. We’d gladly take anything you can spare.”
Though only twelve years old, Cindy was quite active in afterschool and charitable activities and organizations. Gerald had already bought cookies and chocolate bars, donated food, books and money to the cute and precocious blond girl for her school, church and girl scouts.
“Sure Cindy, come on in and I’ll see what you can have.”
“Thanks mister Flemming.” She said as he closed the door behind her.
“The debt must be repaid. Lifeblood is the currency.” Gerald froze, listening intently. Apparently, Cindy hadn’t, or couldn’t hear the whispers.
“I was on my way home from Jane’s house, when I thought about stopping by.” She continued in a pleasant and friendly manner. “Not many kids live out this way, so I thought you probably hadn’t donated yet.”
“The debt must be repaid. Lifeblood is the currency.” The whispers repeated.
Gerald suddenly understood what the whispers wanted. Vomit swelled up into his throat and he struggled to swallow it and stay calm and composed.
“So… nobody knows you’re here?” Gerald asked, dreading the answer.
“Nope.” She shook her head and smiled, showing off her dimples. “Just a spur of the moment decision. I have to get home in an hour.”
Gerald just barely kept himself from groaning in despair. The whispers were still there talking to him, and he knew what he was going to do… what he had to do. That didn’t stop him from vehemently cursing the whispers for their evil demands and himself for his weakness.
“I think I have a box filled of old clothing down in the basement. Why don’t you come on down and help me.”
She agreed enthusiastically.
In the basement, Gerald pointed to the far corner and said, “Right there honey under those boxes.” He almost couldn’t bring himself to finish saying it.
When she turned her back to make her way toward the pile of boxes full of junk, Gerald grabbed a hammer off the nearby workbench, raised it high and brought it down hard on the back of Cindy’s head, killing her instantly.
As her body hit the floor, he doubled over and heaved his lunch into a trash bin. He stayed there for some time on his hands and knees, not able to summon the will to move.
Cindy’s blood slowly flowed toward and eventually down the drain. Gerald would swear that the whispers changed to a murmur of satisfaction and even amusement.
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