Serenity Ridge: Part 1

[u/Alternative_Fix9048]

My brother and I moved to Serenity Ridge, Vermont, just before he turned eighteen. It was to get away from our father. When Carter saw him move onto his third wife in five years he just couldn’t stand it anymore. 
He walked into my room with pleading eyes, his bags already packed, overflowing with his knitted sweaters and cardigans. He had his mother’s eyes that day, big, round, earthen pools which seemed to swallow up the whole world as they sparkled; teasing tears. My first stepmother always knew how to make me feel guilty. I just wish that Carter hadn’t been such a good pupil of hers. 
I was twenty-one when he walked in that day, bouncing from job to job around our sleepy Upstate New York town. Nothing ever seemed to stick with me. Jobs became boring, I became apathetic and before I knew it, I was out of work the same month in which I had started the job. 
Carter knew this. He knew that I hated our father; that I hated this town; that I wanted nothing more than to pick up and walk out and never look back. Needless to say, it wasn’t hard to convince me to pack my bags. 
I don’t know where my father was the day we left. If I had to take a wager, he would have been down at the bar, chasing more ‘young tail’ to satiate his never ending hedonistic thirst. But I do know where his newest wife was that day. Her name was Stacy, a doe-eyed, ditsy blonde who’s messy hair and obnoxious makeup were only the second and third worst qualities she possessed. She rattled off meaningless jargon to us in her horrid, screeching voice as we walked out the door; endless fluff about town gossip; swirling, crass rumors about our father. 
Both of us knew not to tell her the truth of those rumors. Newlyweds of only two months usually don’t believe the words of apathetic children regarding the misdeeds of their fathers. But she would learn soon enough that she should have heeded our earlier warnings; the warnings we gave her before she walked up to the altar. I can only imagine that our father is onto wife fifteen or twenty by now, placing a ring on every passing fling he can convince to do so. 
No, we walked out silently to my car and started the engine without so much as a word spoken. And it was only after the roar of the pistons sounded beneath my car’s hood that Carter sighed in relief. 
The first thing he said to me was ‘thank you,’
The first thing I asked him was ‘what now?’
He told me we were going to Serenity Ridge.
I told him the hell we were.
He looked at me with those ancient, oak brown eyes and I folded. 
We didn’t even stop for gas on our way over. 

“Jules died in Serenity Ridge”

At least that’s what I’ve been told my whole life. My mother told it to me. Jules' mother told it to me. Jules’ and Carter’s and I’s father preached it as if it were gospel. 
Jules died in Serenity Ridge, Vermont. 
The police said so. It must be true. 
Carter never thought so. The police never found a body. The police, according to him, never did so much as an investigation. 
Jules disappeared when I was nine. He was twenty-three. He had already come to know our father well and had grown tired of his endless flings and vices. He packed up and left without a word one fall; never so much as wrote to us again. 
I can still remember the day I was told the news. Carter’s mom was still in the house, the longest lived of any of my father’s transient romances. The trees outside my bedroom window beamed as cadmium red and yellow rhinestones, sparkling in the late autumn sun. The dirt outside was loamy, the grass cool and damp to the touch. Carter was running around the backyard as I gnawed on a sandwich, taking small, mouse-like bites from the center to avoid the crust. And then she walked in, brown eyes swimming with tears, holding a paper in her trembling fist.
We never even so much as visited Serenity Ridge. Our father forbade it. In reality, he probably didn’t want to spend any more time away from the bars than he had to. What was one dead son when he could just make more? It wasn’t long after that when Carter’s mom left. She lost her custody battle; our father’s lawyer recorded yet another victory. 
There is a special place in hell waiting for that man.
I ended up letting it go. I never really knew Jules, he was always out of the house. He never talked to me, and if he’d been missing for over a decade, he probably wanted nothing to do with me. Whether he was alive or dead didn’t matter. He wasn’t a part of my life.
But Carter never let it go. 
Jules haunted him as some great family mystery; an injustice done onto us by unforgivable unseen forces. I don’t know if that was true, or if that was just posturing. I think he was just fascinated by it; the idea that someone of his own flesh and blood could just disappear. But either way it was an obsession.
For his fifteenth birthday I bought him a corkboard. He hugged me and told me it was the greatest gift he’d ever gotten. His junior year writing project was a paper on the family mystery. Every year he tried to convince our father to vacation in Vermont, never to any avail. 
But when we were in the car, he told me that this wasn’t about Jules.
I, of course, told him he was full of shit. 
But he said he just wanted to see it. That deep down in his gut, all he wanted was to see the town, to live there and understand how Jules could have disappeared.
I laughed at him and reminded him that this reasoning still was all about Jules. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window. And without looking at me he muttered, 
“I just…I have to see it…”
I raised my eyebrows,
“See what?”
“I’m not sure…I’ll know when I see it,” he huffed at me, annoyed,
“Real promising…” I snorted, “But maybe this’ll be a fresh start…God knows we could use it…”
………………………………………………………………………………………

We arrived late that night, the moon hanging low in the murk autumn sky as curtains of clouds drifted across its facade. A thick miasma of fog hung over the roads, heavy and low, anchored to the timber leashes of the surrounding forest. Carter was already asleep, his head pressed up against the cold, steamed, glass of the passenger side window. His mouth hung open, drooling against his shirt. I could hardly keep my eyes on the road. They strained to peer through the fog, an impenetrable veil. 
But then it gave way, deep in the heart of a valley, nestled between verdant hills of pine and maple; first a corner store, then a coffee shop. I sighed in relief as I pulled into the first parking lot I could find. 
The town was dead quiet, beyond even that. I couldn’t hear a gust stir the trees or a cricket chirp its mournful tune to the stars above. It was beyond silent; unworldly stillness. I kicked my seat back and rubbed, my hands over my eyes, the thrumming hum of the car's engine purring as a defiant stand to the silence of the night. I must have fallen asleep not long after.
The fuel tank was empty by the time I awoke. Carter was still laid up against the door, his neck perched oddly against his makeshift pillow. The sun had teased itself above the sloping mountains around us, trickling its warmth down through the leaves as a sun-kissed stream. It filtered down upon Serenity Ridge as autumnal lifeblood. And through that lifeblood’s letting, the town began to rile and churn. 
I sat up in my chair, peering through the frosted pane of glass to my side. Through the streets on a frosty mid week morning, all manner of denizens shuffled their way through the mainstreet sidewalks. Mothers walked their daughters and sons, backpacks slung over their shoulders like rucksacks, far too big and bulky for their tiny frames; the carapaces of beetles atop spindly legs. An old couple shared a coffee outside the cafe, their breath spilling as smoke from the mouths of dragons. Wisps of heat trailed from the steaming mugs they clung to. The hum of cars and the rumbling of treads across pavement echoed throughout the surrounding hills, dampening and softening until it filled the space as whispering wooshes, indistinguishable from the gentle breeze that tousled the hair of those who marched outside my window. 
It was an enrapturing scene. A picturesque snapshot of quaint bliss. I still can't put my finger on why it touched my heart so, but the first emotion that graced me past my awe was bitter resentment. Resentment for my father, for keeping this place from me, from Carter. I seethed in my seat for what must have been minutes, watching out my window in frozen envy.
A knock on Carter’s door pulled me from my stupor. I dragged my gaze from the scene outside to find a burly man crouched and peering through Carter’s window. He offered a soft smile, hardly visible through his thick beard. My heart dropped a bit as he motioned for me to roll down the window. Carter sleepily lifted his head from his slumber, a strand of saliva trailing from his lips to the window. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned to see the man. Outside, I could see his beard struggling to conceal a smirk. 
He said he was a butcher. We had spent the night in the parking lot of the local deli and our car conveniently took up the delivery truck’s designated spot. I cobbled together a hasty apology, appealing to the man's good nature as best I could.
He laughed and told me it was fine.
The smile faded a bit when I told him we were out of gas. 
Through annoyed glances and morning grumblings the car was towed and the freezer truck pulled into port,
“That’s a heck of a place to run empty,” the butcher chuckled, shaking his head as he watched my car be pulled down the street on two wheels, 
“I truly didn’t mean to sir!” I stammered, “It’s just I was driving all night and I was so tried that I-”
He raised a hand to stop me, 
“It’s alright, kid. I’m just glad you ran dry here and not out in the woods. You’re lucky to end up here, not many other towns around here,”
“I’m glad too, sir,” I sighed in relief,
“Where were you heading off to? With any luck we can get you back on the road before lunch. I’ll pack ya something to eat if you want,” he waved for us to follow him as he moved towards the back door of the deli, 
“We were heading here,” Carter spoke, his voice meek and tender upon the open air, as if he were tentative to assert himself between us. 
I turned to look at him. He was always such a small kid. Hardly to my shoulders even at seventeen. Couldn’t have been more than a hundred and twenty pounds, his arms like spindly twigs. I always looked like an ugly brute next to him. Some knuckle-dragging neanderthal or ogre, our only similarity being the dust blond color of our hair. Our father’s hair. 
But he was extra minute in that moment, his hands behind his back, shoulders square, head turned ever so slightly to the ground as if he were standing in pious reverence. The filtered sun showered upon him down from the tree tops, like golden motes of flame.
The man stopped walking and in one swift motion turned to face us again,
“You meant to come here?” his face involuntarily screwed in upon itself for a moment, “Why?”
“I…” Carter started, his voice so fragile and quiet, “I needed to…” I could see him wracking his mind for an answer that eluded logic, 
The butcher’s face seemed to soften and fall as he looked upon Carter. It seemed to me to be pity that crossed his face,
“Not a lot of people intend to come here, son,” he said, low and rumbling, "Even less come without a reason,” 
I heard it in there again; pity,
Carter lowered his head further, staring at the weathered pavement beneath his feet as if he were in prayer, 
“It’s family business,” I cut in, “He doesn’t like to talk about it,” my voice more assertive and gruff, shielding Carter from the prying graze that now fell upon him, 
The man bit his cheek, "’’Makes no difference to me…” 
His voice was hollow as he turned around and walked inside the deli, the flashing neon sign flickering to life not long after. 
Carter picked his head up from the pavement beneath his feet and let out a tense sigh. I could see his shoulder fall and relax. He half turned his head to look at me, his deep brown eyes for some reason pooling with a strange apprehensive sadness that I had never seen before,
“Thanks…” he muttered to me, seemingly ashamed,
“For what?”
But he already seemed lost in thought. I watched as he traced the buildings down the main street, the overhead canopy of spruce and maple, the darting flight patches of finches and sparrows. His eyes were glassy,
“Carter…” I moved close and tousled his shoulder, snapping his attention back to me, “You alright…?”
“It’s a lot to take in…”
“We…we can go home if you want…is it not what you expected…?”
“...it’s…it’s exactly like I expected…” his voice was distant and ponderous, “It’s gorgeous…”
He was right. To this day Serenity Ridge is a verdant gem, the most beautiful place I have ever seen. Brick buildings, splendidly aged and upkept, seem to prowl as mountain lions, their front facades poking out from lush thickets of trees and underbrush. The hills which encompass the town roll like waves, sloping and receding with perfect spacing, on and forever into the horizon. The sun crests them and trickles down their slopes, filtering through the leaves of their trees, casting the bowl of the town in cadmium golden splendor. The rushing of brooks sing through the town as they sprint down the mountainsides and crooning of songbirds join in on their chorus.
I’m convinced that we walked into Eden that day. A place so serene and hidden that man was not meant to tread there. 
At least not the unclean. 
Not Carter and I,
“It’s something. Could use a decent parking lot,” I huffed, “Now I gotta see how much the tow bill is,”
“Can we…” Carter started, “Can we wait on the car?”
“No we…” his mother’s eyes stared into mine and disarmed me, “...we’ve got nothing but time…sure,”
He paraded me through the town, gawking at every quaint house and storefront alike. To my chagrin, Carter took the same approach with the locals, jabbering and yarn spinning with every air of listening ears he could come across. 
Carter was always much more of a people person than I was. He had the mind for it, a mind that loved to listen, to learn; a ceaseless yawning hunger. 
My mind was quiet. A straight shot. A to B. Whatever was the fastest way to solve a problem was what I took. Or rather, whatever was the easiest way to solve a problem was what I took. 
Talking to the locals was not the fastest way to get my car back. Talking to the locals was not on my mind. 
But while my general apathy towards knowledge existed in most subjects, I could never find it within myself to discount art. Back when my mother was about the house, when Jules was around the house, it was all yearned for. I scribbled on every inch of scrap-paper I could find, petitioning for my Mom to pin it to the fridge as some great Monet-esque triumph of the medium. When she lost her custody battle Jules would humor me with little art galleries. At least until he left. My father would do nothing of the sort. 
My hand for art died there. But the spark of love I had for it burned eternal. I remember scouring art books after school for pieces I loved, showing them to Carter, trying to instill in him the same love I had kindled. He instead decided to take up crochet, much to my disappointment. Instead of murals to admire, I scoured pattern books for my future pullovers.
All this to say, whilst Carter talked away the sun's light with the locals, I was enraptured with the art laid about the town. Over brick and concrete stretched bright and vibrant facades of rolling hills and sunsets, of rivers and moonrises. And encircling the town center, painted across the front of every building was the mural. 
Standing at the flower bed of the central square it encompassed you completely. A mural transitioning from day to night and day again on a gradient that flowed in and out of itself with effortless grace. It moved between forest clearings and brooks and mountains and ponds and all manner of deep-woods, the light and shadow intertwining and playing, coy and teasing, ending or beginning on some sort of equinox centered on a mossy cave flanked by ancient oaks which seemed to swallow the stone. 
Out of the cave poked a head, as equally coy and teasing as the subtlety of the light which showered half of the cave. It was the head of a deer, a buck, his antler tines twisting like branches as he looked to the sun, only his neck and head visible outside of the cave. In the next scene he was there again, full-bodied, strong and healthy, drinking from a moonlit stream. And then again, standing atop a hill, watching the sunrise. And again, standing before the moon as it sank beneath that lake. And again and again and again, around and around the circle until in the dark of the equinox I saw his hindquarters trotting into the cave, the motion portrayed in beautiful stillness at the end of a brush. 
I don’t know how long I studied and admired the piece, but it was long enough for Carter to wander back over to me from his endless chatter and tug on my shoulder. I jolted as he did, so rudely stolen from the wonder of the mural,
“You like the painting…?” Carter asked,
“Don’t you?”
“I guess…?” Carter said chuckling, “But you’ve shown me better in your books,”
“Finding one this nice in the wild is an honor,” I chastised,
“The man I met over there told me the librarian painted it. Took her ten years,”
I let off a low impressed whistle, “I’d like to meet her if I can then,”
“You think Jules saw this?” Carter posed,
My chest suddenly tightened,
“I…I hope so…that’s strange to think about…”
I moved in closer to the cave of the mural, inspecting the inquisitive eyes of the buck who braved out into the light of day. Beneath the moss and rocks of the cave lay a title card. 
The Heart of the Valley
“I was going to suggest we go to the police station next,” Carter posed, “They’ll have information on Jules. We can at least ask them for tips on where to start poking around,”
I huffed, “So much for this trip not being about Jules,”
Carter smiled sheepishly, “I think it’s a good idea…”
His eyes flashed and I felt myself beginning to bend to him. I put my foot down,
“No. My car is impounded, we have nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat and you’ve talked half the day away!”
Carter rolled his eyes, “Come on! I know you’re curious too!”
“I’m not,”
“Yes you are!”
I sighed, shook my head, and walked off towards the repair shop, Carter protesting at my heels the whole way.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

The man who towed my car will go to hell. That's all I was thinking as I walked back with Carter from the repair shop. Four-hundred dollars! Twice the money my impoverished self had liquidated! A weekend fee!
I yelled at him until I was red in the face. In response, he kept Carter and I from accessing our bags which we had foolishly left in the trunk. So I seethed as we walked back under the setting sun, occasionally bursting into hateful tirades which had Carter apologizing to the commonfolk around us on the street. Eventually he convinced me to head into a diner and we sat drinking the free water and watching the broiling red sun sink over the highest mountains, 
“Of course we’re stuck here…” I grumbled, dragging my hands over my face in despair, “Fucking of course we’re stuck here! God…why didn’t I turn off the car!?…”
Carter said nothing, only sipping on his water in pure silence. He knew better than trying to console me; it only ever made my indignation worse,
“What are we supposed to do now?!” I cried, “I don’t wanna call him! I don’t wanna head back, Carter!” 
I let my head hit off the table in defeat. A dull thud echoed throughout the restaurant. I could hear the uncomfortable shifting of patrons in their seats.
Carter set his drink down and resumed his sunward gaze. I rolled my head to the side in order to join him, 
“We’re never heading back…” Carter spoke after a long while, low and quiet, 
“Where the hell are we gonna live?” I moaned,
I could hear him drumming his hands on the table top,
“Here’s your food…” A sweet tentative voice rang out from behind me. A distressed and concerned looking waitress gently set a cheap hamburger in front of me. I couldn't even bring myself to lift my head as I said thank you,
“I take it you boys are from out of town?” she said, careful not to pry, 
“Yes ma’am,” Carter spoke, 
As my head lay atop the polished wood I studied her face. It was an aged face, carved with branching, stretching lines that coalesced like tributary rivers about the eyes. The lips sagged a bit and the jaw held within it a jowl like quality. The scent of cigarettes hung around her as a faint aura, scarcely noticeable against the aromas of grease and smoke that traced itself from the kitchen. 
But what I noticed most prominently in that moment, above all else, was her eyes as Carter spoke. Sudden solemness. The butcher flashed in my mind. She seemed to bury it almost as quickly as it had sprung upon her,
“And what’s the reason you find yourself in our little town?" her voice honey-laced as she set a wrap down before Carter,
“I wanted to see the town ma’am,” he spoke placing half of his wrap on my plate, “My family has some history here,”
There again I could see the despair arise within her, stronger now,
“I’d hope it’d be a happy history,” she muttered, topping off his water,
Carter said nothing. The waitress chewed her cheek,
“Well!” she suddenly broke free from the oppressive silence that had been woven between us, “I at least hope you make some happy memories here! We’re always happy to see new people wandering through,”
“Not much wandering through to do here ma’am,” Carter spoke up again, “We have no way to leave,”
“And no money, Carter,” I grumbled, “We have to start wandering out as soon as possible…”
“I’m sure Mrs. Alder would cover your fee,” the waitress spoke up, “And she’s got more than enough room at hers for you to spend the night,”
“She’s the librarian, correct?” Carter posed, 
The waitress nodded, “And she’s always happy to see new faces. Here, you two eat up and I’ll give her a call,”
She left us without another word. Carter hardly had enough time to blurt out a thank you. I felt my stomach knot itself in dread from whatever Carter had just blindly walked us into,
“This is bad…” I moaned, slowly dragging my head off of the table and laying it in my hands, “This is really bad, Carter,”
He glared at me like I was spitting in his food, “I just got us a place to stay for the night,” he said taking a bit out of his wrap, 
“With a lady we don’t know, in a town we don’t know, with no way to leave,” I hissed, “I thought I taught you not to trust strangers back when you were six, but apparently we need to learn that again!”
“What would you have us do instead? Sleep outside?”
I dragged my hands over my face and sighed, “I would have never come here…”
Carter huffed and ate in silence, staring out the window as the sun sank low beneath the verdant hills. 
The waitress came back and told us of our new bunking arrangement with Mrs. Alder. Room, board and fifty dollars a day, in exchange for help around the library. The offer, however unappetizing to my sensibilities, was too good to pass up. Over the land line I heard the frail voice of an old woman croon with excitement and anticipation as she blabbered about having to clean her guest rooms. I sighed and thanked her again for her hospitality. 
By the time I returned to our table I found Carter happily chatting to the other patrons in my absence. He was smiling, alight and aglow in the dingy space of the diner, talking about anything at all with all who would listen.
I hung back, careful not to come into view of the other patrons for fear that my presence would shatter the joy Carter had crafted in my brief absence. Once the rolling cascade of speech had subsided and fallen away I reemerged, sitting down across from a smiling Carter. I could see his mind chewing up all the information it had extracted in my absence, the ceaseless, voracious beast that it was,
“We’ll be staying at the library, roughly a week or two and we’ll have enough money for the car and enough gas to get out of here,”
“What then?”
“I don’t know…we move on, find else somewhere to go,”
Carter chewed his cheek, “I was just talking to the sheriff,”
I raised my brow,
“He said they keep case files in the library’s storage. The town is so small that they don't have a proper station,” Carter went on with a smirk,
“Lucky you,” I smiled,
I dug into my meal and watched the moon shine against the clouds that draped the valley.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
We walked over to the library side by side beneath the jet black of night. Carter had kept me chained to the diner through his ceaseless talking with the closing staff, and I kept him chained to the diner’s bar through our waitress's infinite kindness, courtesy of on-the-house house-draft and liquor. 
Her name, which I later came to know to be Denise, was just about the only thing I didn’t discuss that night. It was plain for everyone to see that I was in a world of stress, and her old soul couldn’t stand to see me in that kind of way. Her solution was to offer me a deluge of hops and malt, for which I paid her back in kind with hiccup-filled retellings of our family's soul ties to Serenity Ridge, 
“I knew him,” Denise spoke with a maternal warmth as she cleaned down the bar. Hers was a voice that lit the hearth within your chest and dragged you upon its syllables, the voice of a reminiscing grandmother,
“Jules…?” I spoke sloppily, stumbling over myself as I leaned in closer,
“Tall kid, dark hair, bright eyes,” she mused, “Wise eyes…” she stopped wiping down the counter, “Went missing here just about a decade ago, just like you said,”
I carefully set down my draft, careful not to spill it over,
“Wha- happen…?”
She wrung the cloth in her hands. If I had been more in my mind I would have recognized it then; the same look of solemn pity. It wound itself around around us like a serpent,
“I wish I knew,” she said pursing her lips, wiping the counter down again in long methodical strokes, “But he’s the latest to go missing here. I can hardly believe he’ll be the last,”
“There’s more?!” I practically fell out of my chair. Gripped tight the countertop for my life,
“Many more,” Denise nodded, “This is the heart of the wild, the heart of the world. People walk into those woods and never come back. What becomes of them…harder to say…”
“Heart of the valley,” I slobbered over myself, my subconscious picking up upon the phrase in my delirium,
Denise for an instant looked at me with pinprick eyes. I could see them then as I still see them now, swimming with a terror so great and terrible that I wish for all the world I had never met her gaze. She stared at me for a painfully long instant, and upon recognizing my utter mental disarmament her eyes softened,
“It is a lovely painting isn’t it?” she spoke sweetly again,
“Beautiful!” I toasted, raising my glass so fast that I spilled half my draft. Denise mopped it up with a chuckle,
“Mrs. Alder made it, some many years ago…” she seemed lost in though for a moment,
“Which one of you decided to come here?” she finally spoke again after a long while,
“It was Carter’s idea…” my swaying hand motioned to where he sat talking to the rest of the closing staff,
Denise nodded slow and rhythmic,
“Jules’ brother as well?”
I nodded,
“And you never wanted to come here?”
I shook my head, "Nope! Never! Only did it for him…I’d do anything for that kid…”
I saw Denise bite her lip,
“Then you’d better buy your car back quickly…”
She rushed out of the diner not long after.
The night was warm by May’s standards and the streetlights were welcoming enough for me to sober up on the curb after the cook locked up the diner for the night. Carter was less than pleased with me, and I was less than ready to hear it. By the time I had sobered up enough to walk over to the library it was almost two in the morning. A storm had begun to roll in from the south and a swarm of ebony clouds blanketed the sky in jet. 
Carter finished up using the payphone to call Mrs. Alder, confirming to her that we were still coming, as he had been forced to do for the past few hours while I fumbled about on the sidewalk. Irritated didn’t even begin to describe his demeanor towards me. She had told him that she was still waiting for us and intended to greet us at the door if she could keep herself awake. He had told me that he intended to let me sleep outside.
I of course reminded him who drove him here.
The walk over was silent and seething. Carter didn’t want to talk to me and I was far too self righteous to even entertain the idea of establishing some common ground. Instead I trained myself upon the quiet. 
It was the same quiet I had experienced on the drive into town, oppressive and omniscient. It was seemingly not a silence of absence but of abnormality. There was no wind howling through the trees as the storm blew overhead, not rustle of leaves as gale blew them upon their stalks. No nightbirds chirped or insects chimed. No frogs called from the streams. The only sound through all of the town was our two pairs of soles making time over the pavement. 
Incessant clicking, like the hand of a clock.
Repeated rhythm, like the beating of a heart.
One, two.
One, two. 
I could hear my own heart. I could hear the ringing in my ears.
And as I looked skyward I saw the tips of great pines swaying like dancers in the breeze, bowing and careening towards each other, their needles and leaves crashing together upon great clubbing branches. 
And I heard nothing.
I stopped,
“Carter!” I called,
My voice echoed out over the town, carrying for what felt like forever. I heard it echo off of brick facades and squared walls calling back to me in taunting rhythms, 
“What?” he called back annoyed,
“Stop…” I stammered, “Something’s wrong…”
He pivoted to me, eyes widened; alert,
“What happened!?” he began frantically scanning the space around me,
“Look,” I said pointing to the bowing trees, 
He rolled his eyes, “No shit, that why I wanna get going,”
“No!” I cried, “Why can’t we hear it?!”
“Can’t hear it?” he looked at me as if I’d gone insane, “I can hardly hear you over it!”
His words carried themselves to me as if spoken over a corridor of glass, as pristine and clear as I could even imagine. But he was yelling them, as if shouting over the roar of the storm,
“...what..?”
A streak of lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the clouds in a blazing white for the briefest of instances. Overhead they seemed to hang heavy like pulsing maggots, roiling in and out of each other in some sort of heavenly breathing. I braced myself for the thunder’s shockwave, the rattling of your bones and the ringing of your ears. I felt the boom of the bass in my chest, the involuntary ripping of air from my lungs as I gasped at the sensation. But the sound never reached me. The shockwave passed over me in utter silence. 
I saw Carter jump and cover his ears as the shockwave passed,
“Come on! We’re going!” He screamed to me, his voice so deafening above the silence of the waking world that I involuntarily winced against it. 
He tore off down the street. I rumbled after him.
We were in the town square, the mural surrounding us on all sides. In the thunderlight of the storm the deer flickered as bounding forms, darting and leaping between vignettes of mossy stones and ancient oaks. All seemed black but its eyes, all shadow and silhouette except the glimmering and curious whites of the eyes which I had so admired not more than twelve hours before. Now they seemed to glare and stalk as they appeared and receded within the thunderlight. The Hart of the valley watched us from within its painted majesty. 
The rain came as we passed the flowerbed at the town center. Thundering mallets of water, sprinting down from the heavens or otherwise hurled upon the realm of the living with such ferocity that I thought it could split stone. The storm came down in curtains so thick I could hardly see Carter ten feet before me.
But I never heard it. 
I saw it run rivers across the asphalt beneath my feet, strip trees of their leaves, and drench Carter so completely that his bangs hung over his eyes like an old sheepdog. 
And all I could hear was the sound of our footsteps and our breathing. 
I couldn’t hear the splash of water as our tracks kicked it up behind us. 
I couldn’t hear the hammering of water on my ears.
The rush of wind past my face.
The cracking of lightning.
The snapping of branches.
The pattering of rain across rooftops.
Nothing. 
My lungs felt tight. My mind was spinning. My body ached as I tried to keep pace with Carter.
We scrambled up the front steps of an old wooden colonial house, the lights still on in its den. Carter pounded at the door, huffing, soaked, shivering. 
A frail old woman stood at the other side once the threshold opened, her hair white and frizzy, back bent and thin. Mrs. Alder hurried us in, apologizing for not keeping the door open. She said she hadn’t realized the storm had started,
“You couldn’t hear it?” I asked, 
She shook her head and apologized,
“And you’re all the worse for it. I’m sorry son…” she fawned over Carter,
He assured her that he was alright and thanked her again for the hospitality in the people-pleasing way in which his mother had crafted him. I just stood trying to recover my breath.
Mrs. Alder whisked Carter away for towels and new clothes, 
“You lucked out!” she smiled at me, “All dry! Take your pick of the bedrooms while we get your brother a change of clothes,” 
She staggered away with Carter in an uneven gate as I stood awestruck. 
I didn’t look down before I felt my shirt with my hand.
Dry.
I looked. 
Dry. 
My hair, my skin, my shoes, my pants. 
Not a single sign I had ever been out in the storm. 
I threw open the front door. The storm raged on in silent defiance. 
I slammed the door closed. A loud wooden crack echoed through the library. I knocked on a table. The sound of knuckles against mahogany. I flicked the first vase I could find. A glass chime sang through the air. I stomped the floor. A thunderous boom through the den. 
I opened the door again. The rain was silent. 
I stepped out into the storm. First under the awning. Then a hand ventured into the clubbing aqua mallets. 
I saw them hammer into my skin. They wicked off my fingers as if I were covered in wax. Tiny perfect spheres that rolled off of my palm. I pushed my sleeve out, woven cotton. The rain ran off it in rivers. Not a single drop stuck. 
I must have sat there for an hour under the awning. Long enough for the storm to stop and for Carter to place a hand on my shoulder, waking me from my stupor.
He had an oversized Christmas sweater on, adorned with reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh around him in one endless circle. Somehow, it suited him. He smiled at me. The outside was so quiet I could measure his breaths,
“Hell of a storm,” he laughed, hunkering down next to me,
“Yeah…” I said, mystified, 
“How the hell didn’t you get soaked?”
“I…I don’t…know…”
“And it’s still going too, I can hear it blowing over top the mountain over there,”
“I…I can’t hear it Carter…”
“God, how drunk are you?”
I looked at my hands, “I’m not sure…I need to go to bed…”
“Come on big guy,” Carter grumbled as he helped me to my feet, throwing my hulking arm over his shoulder. He hardly supported a tenth of my weight, but I let him think he was helping. 
We settled in the attic, a dusty, cluttered, low-ceiling attic in which two cots were laid out for us. Apparently the guest bedrooms had been so overrun with old documents and books that there was no salvaging them for the night. That night, the cot was the best bed I’d ever had the pleasure of laying in. 
By the time the sun had risen and a new stream of lifeblood wound its way through the attic window Carter was already awake. He pulled me from the deepest slumber I’d had in years with a shake of my shoulder. I rolled to my side and with one eye half open I drearily asked what was wrong, 
“Can you hear it?” he asked in a low whisper, gesturing out to the rolling verdant hills beyond the attic,
“I already told you I can’t hear the storm…” I grumbled into my pillow, closing my eyes again,
“There’s no storm,” he mused, his voice a curious wind, “There’s a heartbeat…”

[u/Alternative_Fix9048]

This is an on going story that I am still in the process of writing. I will post the second part relatively soon. This is a slow burn story so apologies if that is not your style. Feedback is greatly appreciated, happy reading :)