Hear No Evil: 10-Year Anniversary Edition

By Sara M. Garringer

Death seems to follow Simon wherever he goes, beginning with his parents' accident, his uncle's heart attack and his aunt's suicide, earning him the unfortunate nickname of "The Grim Reaper". So when the most popular girl in school disappears the same day he gives her a ride home then turns up dead a few days later, he's everyone's prime suspect.

But Simon does have something to hide: he can see ghosts and on a few horrifying occasions, can even become possessed by them. So when the spirit of the dead girl appears before him begging him to help save her little sister from suffering the same fate as her, Simon finds himself being tested like never before. Does he have the strength to overcome his fears in order to save an innocent life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara M. Garringer
• Release date: Oct 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985368616

Sara M. Garringer

Indie AuthorOccasional doodlerProud bearer of the Nerd BadgeTrekkie by MarriageLiving embodiment of irony—love Spider-Man, terrified of spidersI've been writing since the 3rd grade and it's the only thing I've ever wanted to do with my life. I'm happily married with one son.Twitter: @saragarringerInstagram: @saragarringer

Book preview

Hear No Evil

10 Year Anniversary Edition

By Sara M. Garringer

Copyright 2022 Garringer Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Speak No Evil

Fear No Evil

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Additional Works

Contact the Author

Disclaimer

The following contains references and depictions of subject matter that some may find disturbing including child abuse, sexual abuse, and suicide. Discretion is advised.

Introduction

Ten years ago, I was reading this really bizarre manga about ghosts and people that can see and interact with them and the shenanigans that ensue. Volume three introduces a new character that’s a medium—basically rich people pay him to let their loved ones possess his body so they can talk to them. There was this panel that showed this character as a child getting kicked out of his own body by the ghost of his father so his father and mother could spend time together. The panel itself was meant to be funny, but all I could think about was just how supremely messed up that situation could potentially be.

And that’s how chapter four was born.

I know you’re not supposed to pick favorites, but HNE is my favorite story. It took me seventeen days to write which still blows my mind to this day—Close Your Eyes is a quarter of the length and took me three times as long. Now, while I am extremely proud with how well this story came out, I do know seventeen days was nowhere near enough time to give this story the appropriate care it rightly deserves. Hence why I decided for the ten year anniversary, I would finally give it the proper attention this story deserves.

Please note, I did not change anything having to do with the story itself. All I did was flesh out certain parts that felt a little lacking and maybe rewrite some of the more cringy parts (one of the perks of being an Indy author). Less Final Fantasy VII Remake and more Resident Evil 2 Remake—a glorified face lift, if you will.

Also included in this Ten-Year Anniversary Edition are two never before seen short stories: Speak No Evil and Feel No Evil. The first is one that way too many folks asked me for and one that I never really wanted to write but it kinda stuck in my brain like an ear worm until I finally just wrote it out. Major Trigger Warnings for this story so please keep that mind.

The second short story takes place after the events of HNE and is sort of my goodbye letter to these characters/this world. Over the years, I’ve tried writing a sequel—tried many, many times actually—but nothing ever came out right. I finally realized I wasn’t writing it because the characters had more to say, I was writing it because I didn’t want to let them go. And that, my friends, is how you end up with a never-ending book series that steadily gets worse and worse with each new book that comes out (not gonna put anyone on blast here, but I guarantee somebody’s name just popped in your head right now). And I don’t wanna be that guy, you know? Maybe someday I’ll pop out another short story or two, but ultimately, there aren’t anymore stories to tell.

Anyway, that’s enough outta me. Those of you coming back after getting the notification of this file being updated, welcome back; hope ya like what I’ve done with the place. For any of you that are new, you’ve come at the right time—this is the story at its very best.

Until the twentieth anniversary when forty-seven-year-old me decides it’s total garbage and rewrites it again.

SMG

Hear No Evil

You’re dead, Melanie. I can’t help you.

I know. I know it’s too late for me. That’s not why I’m here. It’s my sister, Courtney. She’s going to die next.

Chapter One

Melanie Grace was talking to me.

At first, I assumed she'd mistaken me for someone else. But then I dismissed the theory immediately. After all, nobody would ever mistake The Grim Reaper.

Melanie Grace was the complete opposite of me in every way. Her hair was the color of golden honey and shined wherever the sunlight touched it. Her eyes were large and very round, twin bright hazel jewels. She was one of those girls that looked beautiful without having to try.

I, on the other hand, with my deathly pale skin and pitch-black hair looked very much like the nickname entailed. Even my eyes freaked people out—a deep ocean blue color that nobody could believe was real. Everyone assumed I wore contacts.

Even our clothes contrasted. Her lacy pink sleeveless top made my black turtle neck stand out even more than usual.

Her full, ruby-colored lips were moving at me, but I couldn't hear a word she said. Pressing pause on my player, I reluctantly pulled an earbud free and waited for her to repeat what she'd said.

You're Simon, right? Simon Cain? I'm Melanie.

She held out a hand and I cringed back. I couldn't stand being touched; even something as innocent as a handshake was enough to send my pulse racing. It was one of the reasons I always wore long sleeves even in the scorching summer. This was the reason why the students at this school dubbed me The Grim Reaper.

Because anyone Simon Cain touches eventually dies.

Melanie stood there awkwardly with her hand out before retracting it, adjusting the strap of her bag as if that's what she'd intended all along. My eyes automatically began to drift away and it took great effort to refocus them back on her. I wished she'd leave and let me get back to my music. Even though there was plenty of ambient sound from everyone rushing to get anywhere but here, I was starting to feel anxious.

Um, listen, I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if you'd mind giving me a ride home today. My car won't start.

Don't you have friends?

I hadn't meant for it to come out like that—I wasn't used to interacting with people one on one like this. Usually the only time I opened my mouth was when I was called on in class. When you answer a question, you don't have to worry about phrasing or hurt feelings. You just say the information that pops in your head verbatim.

But Melanie didn't seem perturbed by my bluntness. You mean why am I asking you?

That's exactly what I meant. I was a pariah, the one even the kid that got his head dunked in the toilet every day avoided at all costs. The fact that Melanie Grace was the most popular girl in school might not be enough to protect her. Especially since I could see plenty of people in the parking lot staring openly at us.

Melanie said, We both live on the same street, right, so it makes the most sense that I'd ask you.

It did but it didn't. Any guy here would foam at the mouth at the chance to drive Melanie Grace home even if it was grossly out of their way. She could take her pick.

You don't even have to take me to my house; just drop me off at your place and I'll walk. You're going there anyway, right?

We both lived on Mariner Street which was shaped like a giant U with only one way in or out. My house was third down on the left from the turn off and hers was toward the center of the curve. I'd seen her drive by almost every morning on her way to school. It's at least a ten minute walk.

I could give you gas money if you need it. Please, she added, biting her lip a little nervously.

I did the math in my head. Fifteen minutes from here to my house without traffic. And unless this was some cruel joke on the school freak, the worst thing I'd have to worry about was small talk. That wasn't the end of the world—I managed that every day with my foster parents.

Besides, I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that was thrilled with the idea that Melanie Grace chose me to drive her home. Guess I really wasn't that much different from the other guys here after all.

Okay.

"Really? Oh thank you so, so much! You're a life savior, Simon!"

She was bouncing up and down like I just told her she'd won the lottery. Once or twice she bounced closer to me and I flinched.

Sorry, she said, embarrassed, calming down. It's just, if you hadn't said 'yes' I would've had to ask Trisha Tumbler for a ride and her driving scares the living hell out of me. She's had, like, three fender-benders in the last month already.

I had nothing to say so that's what I said.

Gathering up my backpack, I got off the bench and headed into the parking lot. Melanie followed a step beside me, a grin stretching her lips. Did she notice every single pair of eyes was locked onto us like crosshairs in a scope? I kept waiting for a shot to ring out and drop me where I stood.

I made the mistake of looking up from the ground and meeting some of those eyes. Disgust, anger, bewilderment. Clearly I had done something horrible to Melanie in order to get her to come along with me, hypnotized or blackmailed her in some way. After all, there was no possibility of her ever voluntarily choosing to be anywhere near me.

I thought about just giving her the keys to my car and bussing it home.

We reached my grey Hyundai located at the far end of the parking lot. Still feeling the weight of everyone's glare, I unlocked her door first then circled around and unlocked mine, trying very hard not to run.

Once inside, I breathed a little easier, happy to be free from all the stares, until Melanie slid into the seat beside me. I'd forgotten just how small my car was—her proximity was so profound I thought I'd choke on her perfume.

Buckling my seatbelt, I waited for her to do the same then turned the car on. Harsh, loud drumming and screeching electric guitar blasted through the speakers. Melanie jumped and cried out in surprise, gripping the door as if to escape the sound.

Quickly, I flipped the dial all the way down, muting the stereo. Plugging in my player was so second-nature to me I completely forgot about the volume. Sorry.

No, it's okay, she said, not sounding okay at all—her chest was moving up and down rapidly. I just wasn't expecting it. Do you always listen to music so loud?

Yes.

Aren't you worried you'll go deaf?

Going deaf would be a blessing, but I didn’t tell her that. That might lead to more questions, more talking.

Popping the brake, I put the car in reverse and began to back out of the spot. I wasn't used to driving around with the lot still so full—most days I didn't leave until the teachers were making their way to their cars—so I had to concentrate a lot more than normal on my driving. Not having the usual cacophony of sound was putting me on edge despite the plethora of background noise effectively staving off the silence—engines revving, horns blaring, voices shouting. Being forced to focus on navigating through the chaos was almost a welcomed distraction.

I made a right turn out of the school then pulled all the way over to the left lane and waited at the light.

So, what song was that anyway? Melanie asked when the light turned green.

Right. Small talk. I don't know.

Oh, I thought we were listening to your iPod—I didn't know it was the radio.

It is my iPod. I just don't know the song.

She frowned her confusion at me. How does that work?

My foster parents gave me a gift card for fifty bucks for iTunes for my birthday. I knew they wanted me to use it so I picked some albums. I didn't pay attention to what I got.

Another red light stopped us. That was going to add another minute or two to the total driving time.

Don't you… like music?

I like sound. It doesn't matter what it is as long as it's loud.

She nodded like that made sense to her which of course it didn’t. A normal person would have had an appropriate answer or probably would have been able to come up with a plausible explanation that made some sort of sense.

Times like this made me wish I knew how to lie—or at least how to be better at it. I'd even settle for not saying the first thing that popped in my head whenever somebody asked me a question.

Green light. I moved forward slowly, allowing a few cars to merge ahead of me when the right lane ended. There's another thirty seconds.

You live with the Consuelas, right?

Everyone knew Mr. and Mrs. Consuela. After they got married and found out they couldn't have children of their own, they started to collect orphans, always picking the older kids nobody else wanted. I was number eleven.

Yes.

There was a long pause—I realized too late she was waiting for me to fill it—before she commented, I hear they're really nice.

I stopped again. A red light on Green Light Street. Ironic.

Melanie shifted in her seat, reaching a hand to fiddle with her sandals. The action brought her a few inches closer to me and I stiffened, moving my hand away from the gear shift and onto the wheel to take back those inches.

I glanced over at her and found her staring at me. My eyes quickly moved back to the Buick in front of me.

You know, you remind me of this cat I had a few years ago.

Confused, my eyes flickered over to her again. She was sitting up straight again, but this time her body was moved all way to the right in her seat—as far away from me as the tiny vehicle allowed.

I named her Bootsie 'cause she had these white paws that looked like little boots. My dad brought her home from the shelter. Her last owner had abused her really bad—starved her, hit her, kicked her, and stuff like that. She didn't like to be touched either.

My shoulders pitched up to my ears. I kept my eyes on the road, bouncing from one car to the next. Focused on all the surrounding sounds filtering in from the outside.

I know the last thing you probably wanna do is talk about it, but I'm a volunteer at the Teen Help Center and I'd never be able to live with myself if I didn't at least ask. Is it happening now with the Consuelas or is it something that happened before you started living with them?

Never would I have ever imagined I'd be sitting in my car with a girl talking about this—let alone Melanie Grace.

A volunteer at the Teen Help Center. Was that the reason she'd asked me to drive her home? Helping the school weirdo become more normal was probably good padding for a college application.

But looking into her eyes, those big round earnest eyes, made me think she was legitimately concerned for my safety.

Before, I whispered, my chest tightening. Please don't ask anymore.

She nodded as if she'd heard my silent plea. Still keeping her distance, she reached for the volume dial and turned it back to the right. Slowly, music filled the car—not as loud as I normally listened. Still, I felt myself relax a little as I let the pounding beat fill my ears and erase everything else.

I turned left at Apache Street and took the first right at Flower Road. When I turned onto Mariner, I drove past my house and followed the bend until I spotted a familiar red Toyota I'd seen her drive a few times. I pulled over against the curb and turned the music down again.

Thanks for the ride, Simon, Melanie said, pulling her bag from the floor onto her lap. I really appreciate it.

You're welcome.

Her fingers closed around the handle but she didn't pull it. Her teeth were pressing into her bottom lip again.

Can I see your phone?

I didn't see a problem with it. I plucked it from the cup holder and held it out to her. She took it carefully from me, making sure our fingers never touched.

I'm giving you my number, she explained while her thumbs rapid-fired against the keypad. If you ever wanna talk or anything, call me.

I'm not suicidal, I told her. Couldn't blame her for thinking it. I'm sure I fit the profile.

Melanie smiled kindly at me. I didn't think you were. That's why I'm giving you my number and not the number for the Center.

A girl was giving me her number. And not just any girl, Melanie Grace. I had Melanie Grace's number in my phone.

When she was done, she set the phone on the dash so I wouldn't worry about fingers brushing. Giving me a sweet smile, she opened the door and stepped out. Before she closed it, she leaned down and poked her head in.

You know Wright Field out by Route 12?

Yes.

Every Saturday they have this little festival thing with live bands—strictly amateurs. Have you heard about it?

I had. There wasn't much else to do here in Dante's Cove so everyone at school wound up at the Field Saturday nights. Well, almost everyone.

Little known fact: you can hear the bands all the way up to the water tower on the hill. She lifted a shoulder. Maybe if you don't have anything else planned, I'll see you up there this weekend.

I didn't realize my mouth was hanging open until I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.

Melanie tossed me another smile then pushed the door closed and walked up the drive. I watched her swaying hips for a few seconds then quickly averted my gaze and stared down at the steering wheel.

Not only had I gotten Melanie Grace's phone number—a shock in and of itself—but it seemed like I had a potential date with her for this Saturday.

As I maneuvered the car into a perfect three-point-turn, I allowed myself to fantasize. I pictured showing up at the water tower, bringing her flowers or something. Her face breaks into a wide smile—she's actually happy to see me.

We sit together, listening to the horrible music wafting up from the bands below. My dream-self is not afraid of being touched. He snakes an arm around her slender shoulders and she leans against his chest, closing her eyes, content.

What would it be like to kiss her? To mold my thin, pale lips to her full pouty ones? The thought horrified and intrigued me. I couldn't figure out which emotion dominated.

I drove back down Mariner and parked in front of the Consuelas’ house. Sticking my buds back in my ears, I headed up the walkway and entered the two-story. For the first time since I could remember, I hadn't had a completely miserable day.

The next morning there were three police cruisers parked up the street down the U bend.

Melanie Grace was missing.

Chapter Two

The first thing I wanted to do when I found out about Melanie Grace's disappearance was shut myself up in my room with my stereo blasting as loud as it could be. I didn't, of course. That would've looked guilty—like I'd done something to her.

Which was exactly what everyone at school thought.

I pulled the Hyundai into my usual spot as far from the building as possible. Earbuds in place, I stepped out.

Everyone was staring at me.

I was used to people staring, whispering little secrets about me. They did it in elementary school when I was The Kid Whose Parents Died. And again in middle school when I was The Kid Whose Aunt Went Nuts After Her Husband Died. Now in high school I was The Grim Reaper and they still stared.

But this was different. Their precious Esmeralda had gone missing after getting in the car with Quasimodo.

My fingers automatically clicked the already-thunderous volume up a couple notches as I made my way toward the building, eyes down, avoiding the hostile gazes around me.

The stares followed me through the main building and all the way to English. Taking my seat in the far left hand corner of the class, I dropped my backpack onto the floor and yanked out my English binder and a copy of The Scarlet Letter. Never opened; I was listening to the audiobook.

Slowly, students began filing in, clustering together in groups throughout the classroom. I kept my buds in, unable to discern the words or even the melody at such a high volume, and waited for the moment I dreaded.

As always, it came sooner than I hoped. Mrs. Sullivan stepped through the door and started saying something that brought all the students into their seats. Finally, she locked eyes with me. Shutting off the player, I pulled the buds free and tossed them into my bag.

I focused on every word Mrs. Sullivan spoke, every question asked and every answer given. When we waited for a struggling kid to scramble up an answer that wouldn't reveal he hadn't open his book either, I listened to the whispered conversations around me. They weren't talking about me; I just needed the sound.

Simon, could you explain the significance of Pearl being unable to recognize her mother after she removes the scarlet letter from her dress?

Chairs scraped and desks squeaked as everyone turned around to stare at me. I felt my shoulders curl in an attempt to hide from their gaze—the anger and hostility still radiated toward me in hot waves.

Pearl is the symbol of Hester and Dimmesdale's sin and all the struggles they have to endure because of what they've done. Her panicking after her mother takes off the letter is a reminder that although they've decided to leave the town and all their troubles behind, the past is not so easily forgotten and they still have a long way to go before they're free of it.

Mrs. Sullivan smiled. An excellent point, Simon. Well done.

Even though she'd already moved on to another student, everyone else was still turned in my direction, eyeing me with contempt. Each gaze held the same unspoken accusation: we know what you did.

Hester and I had a lot in common. All I needed was my own scarlet letter.

The classroom phone rang suddenly making several people jump, including Lisa Cavanaugh who ended up smearing the lipstick she was applying across her cheek.

Mrs. Sullivan picked up the phone. Hello? Yes. Yes, he's here.

Her face fell a little and my stomach dropped. Once again I was acutely aware of all eyes on me.

When she hung up the phone and turned to face me, I wasn't even surprised. Simon, they'd like to see you in the office.

I stood up and started up the aisle but Mrs. Sullivan stopped me. You should probably take your stuff with you.

So it was like that.

I retrieved my backpack, tossing the binder and Scarlet Letter inside. As I packed, I again focused on the whispers floating around me. Now they were talking about me.

There was a cop car out front when I came in this morning.

They've been asking around about Melanie.

Only a matter of time before the Grim Reaper struck.

I put my buds in to drown out the rest as I quickly walked out the door. I headed for the stairs and slowly made my way toward the office.

There were some kids wandering aimlessly around the quad either ditching or killing time during their free period. They all watched me head for the double doors like they knew exactly what was waiting for me.

I pushed through the doors. Glancing up at the sign posted above briefly—The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet—I pulled my earbuds free, took a deep breath, and entered the office.

The first thing I saw was the county sheriff and the deputy sheriff standing by the admin desk wearing matching forest green shirts and trousers with thick black Batman utility belts. Their golden badges reflected the florescent light above. It reminded me of Melanie Grace's hair for some reason.

They were speaking in hushed tones to Principal Lincoln, a tall railroad-thin woman of fifty-something. She always wore the same suit to school—changing the color only—and a ribbon tie thing that I'd only ever seen British women wear on the BBC late at night when I couldn't sleep. I'd only met her once when I first enrolled.

The