The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

“And it was fine?” I say.

“Oh, no, I never made it there. I was lost in those hallways for hours,” Cassie says. “I’m all for security, but some things are just excessive, right? But anyway, the point is, I may never actually find those photos I needed, but at least I know what I’m up against.”

“I don’t know if that was the message you wanted,” I say.

“Life’s messy that way,” she says with a dismissive gesture. “Oh, watch your step. That one’s rotted.”

I move carefully over the next stair. “Why would they put the broadcast studio in the basement?”

“You know public radio,” Cassie says. “Real bad boys.”

I miss that she’s joking at first. It sounds believable by Lotus Valley standards.

“It’s soundproofing, Rose,” she laughs. “Lotus Valley used to be under four different flight paths. Down here, they only have to worry about what’s underground.”

“What’s underground?” I ask.

“What isn’t underground,” she says.

The air in my lungs feels stale. The humming thrums under my feet, gently shaking the wood of the stairs. “Why did they stop broadcasting?”

“This was a dangerous place to be back then,” Cassie says. “I hear it just stopped one day. No explanation. They played a message from their sponsor, then—static. That was it. And no one wanted to come pack up their things.”

“If I were you . . .” My voice echoes. I have no way of knowing, but I feel like we’re halfway down the stairs. “I wouldn’t volunteer to be the first.”

“Better the devil you know,” Cassie says.

“Better the basement than the flood?” I say. “You don’t know either of them.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But this was my school. That recording studio’s been down here all my life, under my feet. Some meetings are just inevitable.”

One of the patchy overhead lights catches something on the wall. A poster, emblazoned with a faded blue logo at the top. Cassie is the first to draw closer. But then she slowly, as if I won’t notice, takes a step back.

Over her shoulder, I read:

lotus valley community radio reminds you of the following:

don’t look at her.

don’t speak to her.

pretend she isn’t there.

we thank you for your cooperation.

“Don’t worry too much about that,” Cassie says. But her voice has gone noticeably higher.

“And yet I’m still worried,” I say slowly.

“She’s not here much anymore,” Cassie says. “She went legitimate, a while back. Has a much more reputable office now, in the center of town. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s moved in in her place.”

As if to prove her point, the humming jumps an octave.

“Her?” I say. “Legitimate?”

“You’ve seen the commercials by now, haven’t you?” Cassie says. “What do you yearn for? When we negotiated the charter, she represented the neighbors. She was the best communicator of them, so we didn’t have much of a choice. But people came to respect her. And I think working with us, she saw an opportunity. She rebranded herself. Takes commissions in exchange for personal mementos and raw meat. The sheriff’s office checks in to make sure she’s not hurting anyone, but if she behaves, she’s left alone. Some people’ve already forgotten what she was. But it wasn’t that long ago.”

I hear Cassie swallow. “Ms. Jones . . . for all that she’s been through, she’s an optimistic person. Thinks every problem comes down to a failure to communicate. But not every neighbor comes to Lotus Valley for sanctuary or for connection. Some of them come for a hunting ground. And this was hers.”

I glance over at her. But Cassie’s eyes are on the stairs, down in the dark. “They say she was born when the first lie was told. And she lies every time she opens her mouth. She’d hide here, calling to us. Calling in other people’s voices. We named her the Mockingbird.”

There’s a vague, cold feeling circling the pit of my stomach. “She does commissions of . . . voices?”

“People you long to hear,” Cassie says faintly. “Gets good business actually. I don’t know why anyone would risk it. But Ms. Jones always says she never really hunted us for need. She feeds off the fear and anger and pain of the people who hear her, not off the people themselves. She hunted because she was bored.”

The humming, little by little, grows louder. Cassie looks distant for a moment. When she does speak, it’s quieter. “Can you talk to me?”

I laugh. I shouldn’t feel better because she’s scared. But at least she’s reacting like a person, finally. “I’m talking to you right now.”

“Tell me a story, then,” she says. “Anything. Tell me about the road.”

“Weird that you don’t want that humming to be the last thing you hear,” I say dryly.

“Oh, no.” She looks distant for a second. “This isn’t how I die.”

It catches me off guard. For a beat, the humming is all there is. And suddenly, I realize what she’d asked of me a second ago.

I play dumb anyway. “What road?”

“I saw you, you know. Well, I’ve seen you a couple of times now, but this was the first. Almost . . . three years ago now, before I knew who you were. Just you, standing in the middle of this empty road,” she says. “There’s usually more detail than that. But if I’m seeing it, even the little things are something big.”

It would be easy, right now, to tell her that I don’t know. That I’ve stood in the middle of countless roads, and I can’t be expected to remember them all. But she knows I know.

“There’s this girl,” I begin. Ahead of us, the hallway narrows. “Ariella Kaplan. Her grandparents have a cabin outside of the city that they never use anymore. So naturally the entire school is up there every other weekend.

“A couple of miles from the cabin, you turn onto Sutton Avenue. And the woods get thick—really thick.” I’d forgotten that until just now. In my memories there’s nothing past the boundaries of the road. Even yesterday, in that vision, Sutton Avenue looked the same way it looks in my mind: clear, flat. I