The quiet

Greene was an island located off the coast. Not counting the ferry ride – which came only on good weather days – it was a good ninety minutes away from the nearest inland city. The shore was rocky and unforgiving. Some left, few ever came in.

Noah and Mary Ellen Shepherd moved on the island during July when the weather was good. They had few things. Noah carried his typewriter beneath an arm. Mary Ellen was a beauty. She reminded the townsfolk of what a woman ought to look like. What was most striking was her laugh. It was clear and ringing like the church bell. Not that the Shepherds went to church.

When Mary Ellen had first come to Greene, she had tried to start conversations with some of the women in town. They were all faded, callow girls. When she complimented them on their dresses, they had stared at her as if she spoke another language. Requests for help and recipe advice had likewise gone unacknowledged. Mary Ellen was alone. Noah was no help either. He was busy with his new novel. Fifteen, twenty hours of the day were spent at the typewriter.

It was the quiet that disturbed Mary Ellen. She could already feel what would be an endless winter settle. It crept up in and became real. It was bitter and blue, hungry for warmth. It became her companion. It spoke to her in the voice of a little girl, soft and sweet. It giggled.

“It gets lonely up here,” Mary Ellen said as she hugged her elbows. August brought in endless gray days and cold nights again. “Don’t know how you can stand all this quiet.”

She looked down to see the lost girl, but there was nothing to see. She heard footsteps. Mary Ellen turned and began to follow the sound. She stepped into a puddle of water. It soaked through her heel. Water pooled up from the floor in small, kidney-shaped piles. Footprints. They were clear up the stairs.

The pipes groaned in the ceiling. She could hear water running.

Noah didn’t know how long the water had been running. It could have been hours from the stiffness of his joints as he stood up from the desk chair. It could have been five minutes. Why he was compelled to check on his wife was unknown. He grunted with irritation as feet hit the tiny puddles of water that littered the ground. When he hit the second floor, that was when he saw it. Water rolled from the space between door and floor. It continued to spill over the floorboards and itched towards him. His feet splashed as he opened the bathroom door.

Mary Ellen, wide eyed and mouthed, lay in the bathtub. She was a fish beneath the water. Her hands strangled the lip of the tub. He reached into the water to pull her up. She was lifeless.

That was when he heard it – the sound of the little voice, that girlish cackle.