What Else Happened in Whispering Acres?

Taking some time off of the force was meant to ultimately clear my head, but every time I shut my eyes, I would see that blood-soaked boy on the porch. I needed a distraction. The department told me to leave it alone. How could I? I had to do some digging.

I spent weeks tracking down old police archives, looking for anything that could possibly help. Wishful thinking, I know, but maybe this had happened before? I truly didn’t think I would find anything. Until I found a redacted file dated back almost twelve years ago.

The reasoning behind it getting redacted, I wasn’t sure. The case was listed as a drowning, and the first thing I noticed was a mention of a waterlogged notebook. Immediately I clicked on the attached file, which opened a series of images. They were mostly scanned images of that notebook, covered in poetry.

Past the rusted gates.
The aquarium stood dark.
Blue lights in the rain.

Empty ticket booth.
Maps soaked soft like dying fish.
Floating in the mud.

No voices inside.
Only water moving slow.
Breathing through the walls.

Glass tunnels stretched down.
Ocean shadows overhead.
Shapes moving above.

The tunnels bent deep.
Blue light dripping on the floor.
Cold against my feet.

Speakers crackled once.
Static bubbling like foam.
Then the singing came.

Soft and far away.
Like a mother humming low.
Somewhere underwater.

According to the case file, responding officers found a woman in her mid-thirties. She was completely catatonic, clutching onto the journal. Reading further into the officers’ notes, I came to a shocking conclusion. This had happened just down the street, not two houses down from where I found the boy. This happened right in Whispering Acres.

Children filled the halls.
Small reflections in the glass.
Watching silently.

Water covered tracks.
Tiny footprints disappeared.
Leading farther down.

I called out for help.
Only bubbles answered back.
Rising through the dark.

Found a massive tank.
Black water from floor to roof.
Nothing moved inside.

Then the glass fogged white.
Little handprints pressing through.
Dozens. Maybe more.

Something floated there.
Hair drifting like seaweed roots.
Smiling without eyes.

Children gathered close.
Pale and dripping by the tank.
Holding soaking dolls.

One looked just like Sam.
Same blue coat and missing tooth.
Skin bloated and gray.

I minimized the poem and clicked on the attached photos from the crime scene. The images were poor quality, but the horror was clear. The house had been completely flooded. One photo depicted a staircase with water cascading down the wooden steps like a waterfall.

I tried backing up.
But the water climbed my shoes.
Rising from nowhere.

The speakers grew loud.
Singing through the flooding halls.
Calling me below.

Water filled my lungs.
Heavy pressure in my chest.
Could not reach the air.

Children circled round.
Floating gently in the blue.
Eyes open too wide.

Mothers should not leave.
Every face inside the tank
Looked a little mine.

The water turned warm.
Dark clouds spreading through the blue.
Drifting from my hands.

The officers’ notes on the bottom stated a boy and a girl were found in the upstairs bathroom. The boy, identified as Sam, was floating in the overflowing bathtub. And the girl, identified as Mia, was face down on the floor. Both had passed from asphyxiation. They both were wearing their winter coats.

I woke in my house.
Bathtub water on the floor.
Hands shaking violently.

Sam was in my arms.
Mia sleeping by the sink.
Both completely still.

Water running cold.
Overflowing down the stairs.
I could not stop it.

I tried calling out.
But my voice came back distorted.
Like I was submerged.

Now I hear the waves.
Even when the pipes stay still.
Moving through the walls.

Every sink drips slow.
Every drain sounds like the sea.
Calling for my name.

They asked me to sink.
The tide has come in tonight.
Opening its mouth.

Hear the water breathe.
Hear the children singing low.
Come below with us.

I stared at my glowing screen, with that final stanza burning into my mind. According to the file, the mother had died in the state asylum only a few years into her sentence. She was completely silent until the end of her life.

I don’t really know what to make of all of this. I have now read poetry from someone in a psychosis, twice. And unfortunately, besides the poetry, there wasn’t anything I could find connecting them. I guess if I want answers, it’s in Whispering Acres.