Read Online The Seven Whistlers by Amber Benson Christopher Golden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amber Benson Christopher Golden
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come. Fresh grief blossomed in her. For the first few minutes
after waking, in the space between bad dreams and real life, she’d managed not
to think about his death at all. But that couldn’t last.
A deep sigh shuddered through her and she turned and carried
the newspaper back to the kitchen. When she threw it on the table, face-down,
she got a look at the headlines under the fold. One of them caught her eye.
THE WILD COMES TO TOWN
She reached for the paper again and picked it up, a chill
passing through her. Rose read the story and the dread of her nightmares
returned, settling into her bones. The story concerned a recent rash of reports
coming into the newspaper and the police department from locals and tourists
alike who’d reported seeing large, black-furred animals in the woods, around
the lake, and even in town. Some had claimed to see wild dogs.
The police chief chalked it up to a long, hot summer making
some food scarce, forcing bears, wolves, and even moose to forage closer to
town than they would normally venture. “We’ve had animals in town before, and
we’ll have them again. That’s part of the beauty of living in Kingsbury,” the
chief had said. “We just have to do our best to live in harmony with the wild,
without anyone getting hurt.”
Rose snickered. “Yeah. ‘Cause it’s that simple.”
Then the humor drained from her. Large, black-furred
animals. It was such a general description and its implications troubled her
deeply. Locals would sure as hell know how to spot a wolf or a moose or a bear,
but it had been the police chief to make that leap. The only animals mentioned
specifically by people who’d reported sightings to the paper were wild dogs.
The memory of her Internet surfing from the night before
came back full force. The legend of the Seven Whistlers had given her the
creeps, but she’d told herself it was only a legend, no matter what she’d seen.
Wild dogs were wild dogs. Nothing supernatural about any of it. The very idea
seemed ridiculous.
But it didn’t feel ridiculous.
She didn’t have to work today, and it occurred to Rose that
there might be a better way to spend the time than wallowing in her grief over
her grandfather’s death. Jenny had said there might be a local version of the
legend, and that if there was, her Aunt Arlene would know it. Rose had brushed
off the idea of going to talk to the woman yesterday.
The newspaper trembled in her hand and she dropped it,
staring a moment at the way the newsprint had blackened her fingertips. She
told herself that she wasn’t just trying to sublimate her grief, burying it by
finding something to occupy her mind. She needed to talk to Arlene Murphy, if only
to remind herself that the Seven Whistlers were only a story, nothing more.
But, now that Rose had slept so late, she’d probably missed
Arlene at her studio, which meant if she wanted to see the woman, she’d have to
chase her down in the woods where Jenny said she did much of her painting. The
idea of traipsing out in the woods troubled her. After all of the strange
things she’d witnessed in the forest lately, she was leery about leaving the
town center at all.
Like that’s gonna work, she thought. Spend the
rest of your life hiding out in town, never going into the woods again.
She wondered why the little voice in the back of her head
always had to be so sarcastic.
Rose went to the bathroom and turned the shower on, waiting
for steam to start clouding the glass before she stepped inside. She arched her
back, working out the kinks of the night, grateful for the hot sting of the
spray as the water poured over her aching body.
Most days she could be in and out of the bathroom in less
than twenty minutes. Today, she could not pull herself away from the hot water
and the way it released so much tension from her muscles. It was almost ten
thirty by the time she finished drying her hair and put on a touch of eyeliner,
mascara, and lip gloss.
Better turn in
after waking, in the space between bad dreams and real life, she’d managed not
to think about his death at all. But that couldn’t last.
A deep sigh shuddered through her and she turned and carried
the newspaper back to the kitchen. When she threw it on the table, face-down,
she got a look at the headlines under the fold. One of them caught her eye.
THE WILD COMES TO TOWN
She reached for the paper again and picked it up, a chill
passing through her. Rose read the story and the dread of her nightmares
returned, settling into her bones. The story concerned a recent rash of reports
coming into the newspaper and the police department from locals and tourists
alike who’d reported seeing large, black-furred animals in the woods, around
the lake, and even in town. Some had claimed to see wild dogs.
The police chief chalked it up to a long, hot summer making
some food scarce, forcing bears, wolves, and even moose to forage closer to
town than they would normally venture. “We’ve had animals in town before, and
we’ll have them again. That’s part of the beauty of living in Kingsbury,” the
chief had said. “We just have to do our best to live in harmony with the wild,
without anyone getting hurt.”
Rose snickered. “Yeah. ‘Cause it’s that simple.”
Then the humor drained from her. Large, black-furred
animals. It was such a general description and its implications troubled her
deeply. Locals would sure as hell know how to spot a wolf or a moose or a bear,
but it had been the police chief to make that leap. The only animals mentioned
specifically by people who’d reported sightings to the paper were wild dogs.
The memory of her Internet surfing from the night before
came back full force. The legend of the Seven Whistlers had given her the
creeps, but she’d told herself it was only a legend, no matter what she’d seen.
Wild dogs were wild dogs. Nothing supernatural about any of it. The very idea
seemed ridiculous.
But it didn’t feel ridiculous.
She didn’t have to work today, and it occurred to Rose that
there might be a better way to spend the time than wallowing in her grief over
her grandfather’s death. Jenny had said there might be a local version of the
legend, and that if there was, her Aunt Arlene would know it. Rose had brushed
off the idea of going to talk to the woman yesterday.
The newspaper trembled in her hand and she dropped it,
staring a moment at the way the newsprint had blackened her fingertips. She
told herself that she wasn’t just trying to sublimate her grief, burying it by
finding something to occupy her mind. She needed to talk to Arlene Murphy, if only
to remind herself that the Seven Whistlers were only a story, nothing more.
But, now that Rose had slept so late, she’d probably missed
Arlene at her studio, which meant if she wanted to see the woman, she’d have to
chase her down in the woods where Jenny said she did much of her painting. The
idea of traipsing out in the woods troubled her. After all of the strange
things she’d witnessed in the forest lately, she was leery about leaving the
town center at all.
Like that’s gonna work, she thought. Spend the
rest of your life hiding out in town, never going into the woods again.
She wondered why the little voice in the back of her head
always had to be so sarcastic.
Rose went to the bathroom and turned the shower on, waiting
for steam to start clouding the glass before she stepped inside. She arched her
back, working out the kinks of the night, grateful for the hot sting of the
spray as the water poured over her aching body.
Most days she could be in and out of the bathroom in less
than twenty minutes. Today, she could not pull herself away from the hot water
and the way it released so much tension from her muscles. It was almost ten
thirty by the time she finished drying her hair and put on a touch of eyeliner,
mascara, and lip gloss.
Better turn in
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