“Those are her boot tracks,” said Finley, a rush of fear making her hands shake.
“What would she be doing up here with him?” asked Jones, sounding in equal parts mystified and annoyed. “Your grandmother has to be more careful with herself.” There was a note in his voice, the deep concern of friendship. And something else.
“Why did you say it like that?” Finley asked.
His glance told her that he knew something that Finley didn’t—or rather hadn’t wanted to know.
“She’s an old woman,” he said. “She should be at home knitting blankets.”
“Oh, please,” said Finley, picking up her pace, following the tracks.
Another voice. Another flashlight beam. “Where are you two going?”
Detective Chuck Ferrigno trailed up behind them, panting. He was not sure-footed in the woods, looked out of place even in his parka and heavy boots. Finley had a new jacket too, given to her from the trunk of a prowler. Thick and navy blue, hanging down to her thighs. Jones told them what they saw, and Chuck Ferrigno took out his walkie.
“It looks like they’re headed for the north entrance to the mine,” said Jones. “Have your guys block the head we already discovered.”
“We have Arthur Crawley,” said Chuck. “He turned himself in. But he was looking for you, Jones. He said: ‘Eloise said Jones would take care of me. That he’d make them understand.’ Freaky-looking kid, covered with blood, blank in the eyes.”
“He asked for me?” said Jones.
“He said ‘Eloise’?” asked Finley.
Finley didn’t wait for Detective Ferrigno to answer; she just burst into a run, following her grandmother’s tracks, calling after her.
For the first time as she ran, she heard The Whispers, as Eloise referred to them. It’s the sound of all the voices of this place and others, telling their stories to anyone who will listen, Eloise had explained to her. Some of them are sad, some joyful, some horrifying, some uplifting. It’s the full rainbow of human experience. Finley had been glad to never hear them; she had enough unwanted visitors.
Do they ever stop? Finley had asked Eloise.
No, said Eloise, as if considering for the first time. I don’t suppose they do. Sometimes they’re quiet, sometimes loud. But, no, I don’t believe they’re ever completely silent.
What do they want? Finley had asked.
Eloise regarded Finley with a bemused squint. They just want to be heard. They just want us to listen to their stories.
Are you sure that’s all they want? Finley had asked. Why would you be able to hear them if they didn’t want something from you?
If they want more, she told Finley, I have no idea what it is.
Hearing them now, Finley knew that Eloise had been wrong. It wasn’t just a radio broadcast for those few who were able and willing to tune in. There was something more, something selfish and grasping.
The mouth of the tunnel was up ahead, Jones and Chuck lagging behind.
“Finley,” she heard Jones say faintly. “Don’t go in there alone.”
But she did, she had to. There was no time, no time at all. Even though she was blind heading into the dark, she heard sounds. Movement, breath, a distant calling, her own heartbeat banging out the uneven rhythm of exertion and fear.
“Mimi,” she called, reverting to the name she used as a child. “Mimi!”
The darkness, the tunnel seemed to grow and expand. Her hands touched the hard walls, the crown of her head skimming the ceiling, the wetness, the closeness all around her. Her breathing was labored and jagged. She felt the world wobble and tip, and it dropped her to her knees. And then she wasn’t in the tunnel anymore; she was back in the graveyard.
*
It was a beautiful day, Finley’s favorite kind. When the air was newly warm, and the sky was bright blue with high white clouds. The trees were lush with green, and the wildflowers a chaos all around. Eloise sat on the steps of the church, looking as Finley had never seen her. Once in an old photo album, Finley had found images of a beautiful woman with a dark pixie haircut and glittering black eyes. She had heavy lashes and high cheekbones, and she glowed. Her tiny frame was poured into a white lace shift, her tiny veil like a halo, pearl slippers, a bouquet of white roses.
“Mimi,” little Finley had asked. “Is that a princess?”
“No, sweetie,” Eloise had said with a laugh. “That’s your Mimi and your grandpa Alfie.”
“That’s you?” she said with childish carelessness. “But you’re so—”
“Young? Pretty? Not old and wrinkly,” said Eloise, laughing. Her grandmother was never a vain woman, never quick to be insulted.
“You’re still beautiful,” said Finley. She’d been raised by a very vain mother, so she knew how to dole out a compliment—quickly when need be.
“I was very young,” said Eloise. “In my twenties.”
“That’s not young!” said Finley. “That’s old!”
“You think so?” said Eloise, pretending surprise. “Well, I suppose it must seem that way to an eight-year-old.”