VIPA- White Noise 1

April fifth, 2013, 11:30 eastern time

Gator Granite

Museum Location; New England

            She was sitting on the cool marble ground. She was crossed legged and had her deep brown eyes closed. She was breathing shallowly, silently and slowly. She was listening… listening… listening deeply…

            She was there to listen. She was there to feel. She was there to sense something that most people would overlook. She was there to sense something otherworldly, something paranormal.

            She found herself clenching her jaw and digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She was nervous, no matter how many times she had performed this ritual. No matter how many times she opened her soul up like a book to the wanderers around her she grew edgy and tense.

            She forced herself to slacken her jaw and loosen her balled up fists. Her shoulders dipped down as she let out a relaxed sigh. She began to feel herself becoming one with the air around her, no longer simply confined to the body of the young girl on the floor.

            But she was restricted from every sense other than touch and hearing. Even if she could have opened her eyes she would have seen nothing, nothing but an alive-like darkness.

            She could no longer hear her heart beating or her breathing. She heard only whispers. She sat still, not breaking her trance in any way. She would let them come to her.

            It was minutes before she heard the first voice. It was airy and thin, wasting away. It spoke so softly and sounded so much like the whisper of wind that any other person would have simply ignored its presence.

            But that was why she was special, that was why Gator Granite was different, why she was useful. She would not ignore this wither-away voice; she would hone in on it and amplify it. She had that power.

            Progressively and with much effort the voice grew, and was accompanied by other voices that made it difficult to comprehend what any of them were trying to say.

            But she sat patiently, her eyes closed lightly and her ears filled with all of the voices of lives long past.

            She felt a hand of pure ice grip her spine at the small of her back. Her trance prevented her from letting out the desperate cry of dread she wanted so badly to unleash. A mouth brushed her right ear and, with lips made of ice and wind, began to feed its many voices directly into her skull.

            She resisted the urge to break the trance, to remove herself from this most vulnerable and bewildering position. She allowed these lost souls, trapped in the deformed body of a wanderer, to pour their stories into her.

            The whispers grew louder and louder in her eardrums. They echoed around the inside of her skull and bounced along her own memories. They understood her as much as she understood them, which was not saying much.

            The lips against her ear moved with impeccable speed, sending shivers down her back. But she could not shiver, because its cold hand of ice was holding her firm.

            She tried, almost desperately, to make out at least one thing from all of the voices washing over her. She soaked in the airy tones and attempted to decode them. Then, all at once, there was a sound similar to being shot out of a very small tube.

            All of the whispering was suddenly rushed and pressed against her, almost squishing her, until one fragment was suddenly clear. The crispness and clarity were shocking. All of the voices were layered over one another in the desperate and rushed request to relay this one, last message to Gator before she was shot out of the tunnel.

            “Beware the white noise.” They said, their voices laced with torment and confliction. Then Gator was lurched forward. Her trance was broken and she fell onto her knees and elbows, coughing and retching.

            Tears she must have been crying while under the trance fell from her cheeks and eyelids onto the ground before her. She sniffled and shook, the coldness fading very slowly and the small of her back aching.

            She was frozen there for a second; taking in deep breaths and attempting to ward the coldness away from her body and make room for a healthy warm.

            “Gator, are you okay?” Someone’s voice broke the silence and Gator’s eyes shot up to the radio that she could not see.

            She reached blindly out for it, falling flat on her face once or twice. Her clammy hand knocked the hand held radio over and she stumbled to retrieve it.

            “Gator, just calm down a second, no rush.” The voice assured her, sounding worried. Gator then let her frame relax against the ground, her hand half around the radio, a loose grip.

            After three minutes Gator could finally see straight and pulled herself in a standing position. She put the radio as close to her mouth as she could and clicked the talk button.

            “H-Hello, Franck…” She said with a weak smile on her face.