The Whispering Hollows by Lisa Unger Page A

anniversary of Alfie’s and Emily’s passings. She’d been inundated with requests after she led The Hollows PD to Tommy Delano in her first high-profile case. She had no idea how to manage any of it. Amanda had been acting out, doing poorly in school. And Eloise’s visions were coming hard and furious, but she had no way to make sense of them. She was frazzled, confused, not dealing with things very well at all. She would get Amanda off to school in the mornings, come home, and then get into bed with the blinds drawn, the phone unplugged. She had stopped answering the door altogether. It was Eloise’s first bout with depression. She had no energy reserves to fight off the darkness. Would it swallow her whole?
    Eloise hadn’t answered right away when Agatha rang her doorbell, hoping the woman would just leave. But then she began to knock, gently but insistent.
    â€œMs. Montgomery,” Agatha called through the door finally. “I know you’re in there. I can feel your despair. I’m here to help you, dear.”
    Eloise had leaned against the other side of the door and was overcome by a powerful wave of relief, that same blessed feeling that comes when a migraine disappears. She’d opened the door a crack, and the older woman smiled at her.
    â€œI don’t want anything from you,” said Agatha. “I promise I just want to help you find your way.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Eloise. She was suspicious now of everyone. She’d never been that way before. “Why do you want to help me?”
    â€œWhy do you do the things you do?” Agatha had asked. “This is our calling, to help the people who need us. For better or worse, this is our thing. You know that, I think. You can feel me, can’t you?”
    Eloise could feel her. Agatha’s power was enormous. It swept in with her as she entered and filled the house. She jingled, smelled of flowers. Her clothes flowed around her when she walked. Eloise showed her into the living room and offered her a drink, which Agatha declined.
    â€œSo where does it come from?” Agatha had asked that day. “Your mother’s side or your father’s side?”
    The question took Eloise aback.
    â€œNeither,” she said. “This happened to me in the accident.”
    â€œNo,” said Agatha with a smile and a gentle shake of her head. “That’s not how it works. These abilities are not acquired . They are inborn.”
    Eloise had objected. But Agatha was immovable.
    â€œYou may not have had access to your gifts before the accident,” she said. “But trust me, they were there, lying dormant. If you went back into your genealogy, I’ll bet that one of your female ancestors was burned at the stake as a witch. Or she was some weird recluse, or a palm reader, or whatever.”
    Eloise had experienced her usual desire to shut down when she talked about her origins. Her upbringing had been harsh and joyless. Her mother had died shortly after Eloise’s birth, and the truth was that Eloise knew almost nothing about her. Eloise had one photo, her wedding dress (which Eloise had worn at her own wedding), and an old stuffed bear that Eloise had carried around until it became embarrassing and slept with it long after that. She still had it; Bear sat on a shelf in Emily’s old room.
    And her father had been a silent, unaffectionate man. He’d provided for Eloise, never abused her. On the other hand, he never even seemed to notice her. It was her aunt Beth, her father’s sister, who cared for her mostly.
    But Eloise learned early, as all motherless children must, to take care of herself—she learned to cook and do the laundry, clean the house. Once she learned to read, she spent her life in books—reading of places better and lives more interesting than her own.
    She was lonely in a deep and total way. But it wasn’t the kind of loneliness one noticed. She simply