A Season of Whispers
By Jackson Kuhl
A SEASON OF WHISPERS
© 2020 Jackson Kuhl
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews, and so on. This is a work of fiction. Any semblance to persons, names, characters, organizations, places, events or incidents is the product of imagination. Any resemblance to the aforementioned is otherwise purely subliminal influence from the voice whispering inside of Jackson Kuhl’s mind.
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Kuhl, Jackson.
A SEASON OF WHISPERS / by Jackson Kuhl 1st. ed.
ISBN-13: 978-1-946024-82-4 (ebook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-946024-83-1 (paperback)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020932004
Editing by Lesley Sabga
Cover design by The Cover Collection
Book design by Samuel Marzioli | marzioli.blogspot.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition:
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For James
PRAISE
"With a heart of mystery, a temperament of horror, and a persuasion of literary splendor, Jackson Kuhl’s A Season of Whispers will lead you though slowly darkening twists until you’ve sunk inescapably into the sinister depths of Bonaventure Farm."
— Eric J. Guignard, award-winning author and editor, including That Which Grows Wild and Doorways to the Deadeye
"Channeling past masters of the Gothic—namely Hawthorne, Lovecraft, and Poe—Jackson Kuhl has fashioned a pitch-perfect narrative for which those scriveners would be proud."
— C.M. Muller, editor and publisher of Nightscript
"The monstrous forces that manipulate the Bonaventure commune are surpassed only by the evil that lingers at the heart of humanity: greed, power, and madness. By reaching into America’s transcendentalist history, Kuhl has authored a novel that is strangely reflective of our modern world."
— Marc E. Fitch, author of Boy in the Box and Paradise Burns
"A Season of Whispers is as much a fascinating tour of an obscure Emersonian outpost in New England as it is a chilling tale of the darkness of a man’s soul."
— Daniel Altiere, screenwriter of Scooby-Doo! The Mystery Begins and Scooby-Doo! Curse of the Lake Monster
“In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature”
ONE
There is an indescribable sense of satisfaction, known only to a few, in committing a murder and escaping its punishment. We nod in thankfulness as the newspaper tells us about the arrest of some strangler or alleyway knife-man; we mutter to ourselves that justice has been served when we learn how the malefactor was marched up to the platform or thrown into a penitentiary cell. This is easier than the alternative, which is to consider in the recesses of our imaginations the number of villains who have not been arrested, who have not been executed or imprisoned. We assure ourselves they are fictitious or at least number a small minority simply because we assume a criminal can be identified by marks and tells. Yet nobody is truly familiar with his neighbor, nor can he account for every minute in a beloved spouse’s day; and while we suppose we know the life stories of our fathers and grandfathers, we can place no reliance in what transpired during the years before we departed our mothers. No, it is better to recognize that outlaws’ whirl around us in the streets and parlors. By definition the murder is perfect because everyone adjacent to the killer is blind and deaf to it.
Tom Lyman had no sooner hopped from the wagon’s seat and grabbed hold of his pair of bags than the driver, a taciturn farmer who had granted Lyman a ride from town, flicked the reins and wobbled on without good-bye or acknowledgment. For a moment Lyman stood dejected, bag in each hand, by turns watching the wagon recede and staring up at the old farmhouse. It loomed over him, a commitment made solid in whitewash and cedar shake, and Lyman’s gaze rotated between the two, between going forward or back. Once the wagon vanished and only a single course remained to him, Lyman stepped toward the stairs to knock at the front door.
Just then a man walked around the corner of the wide porch. He was dressed in shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, with a linen handkerchief tied around his bald scalp to catch an abundance of sweat. When he saw Lyman, his eyes lit up and a smile ruptured his thick beard.
“Mr. Lyman!” he said. “You’ve made it by hook and crook all the way from Norwalk.” He approached and offered a grubby hand. “I am David Grosvenor, your correspondent.”
Lyman regarded the extended palm, dirt caked beneath the nails and shading every line and whorl. Or at least he hoped it was dirt; though Lyman knew him to be a lawyer by profession, Grosvenor smelled of manure. But there and then Lyman acknowledged the lack of retreat from the road selected, for had he wanted a diversion from robust living there were countless byways and highways he could have chosen in the weeks prior, before his epistolary exchange with the other man.
He dropped a bag and grasped Grosvenor’s hand. “I’m so thankful for your generosity, sir, in having me.”
His host laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “There are no sirs or madams at Bonaventure Farm, Mr. Lyman—only brothers and sisters. Come inside and we’ll get you settled.”
For all his resolve, as Grosvenor turned away toward the door Lyman could not help glance in disgust at the dust and grime deposited on the shoulder of his coat by Grosvenor’s free hand.
They did not loiter long inside; instead passing through the kitchen where labored several women, including Mrs. Grosvenor, to her husband’s small office. There Grosvenor produced a ledger and Lyman, as per their agreed arrangement, laid down five twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. Grosvenor recorded the transaction in his book.
“You now own a full share in our enterprise,” said Grosvenor, congratulating the newest member of the co-operative. “Rest assured the money will be put to
