A whisper is a monster with many mouths. It invites, it infests, it assures: I am not for all ears, I am just for you. There are whispers in the water, as strange as that may seem. But it’s only strange to the ones who don’t hear them. The ones who do hear them have a choice. They can ignore or they can follow.
On a rainy November night, Alistair Cleary chose to follow. The whispers came out of radiators. “We’ve waited so long for you,” they said.
He followed them down to the basement of Fiona Loomis’s house, where a boiler, tall and round, disappeared, revealing a cylinder of water. The water was unbroken, immune to gravity, suspended in the air.
Alistair reached out and touched it. His body tingled and then crossed over. What was once a basement became an entire world, a place smudged sick and gray. His eyes burned. Tornadoes of ash swirled around him, while in front of him a colorful river raged. With an arm over his face, he rushed toward the sound of the current.
This is how Alistair’s tale began.