Spotlight: Whispers by Bonne Bartron

Stacey, a single white contract lawyer, is beyond excited to treat her blood-sister Emily, black sister-in- law Amalia and their four girls to a dream vacation at Disney World. She’s gone all out, even renting a palatial air BNB with a pool.

Stacey recounts, first hand, the experience of realizing how different the world is for her black family juxtaposed to her white family. As Stacey slowly awakens to her own inherent privilege, she and her sisters dismiss their children’s stories of a monster, known as Mister Tasty Treats, whom the girls believe is stalking them.

One morning, while the women read up on the mythical kid-snatching-baker, the kids have been discussing in hushed whispers, screams accompany the sinking realization the girls were on to something. Emily’s oldest, Tilly, is stolen from the luxury rental.

Their husbands and Stacey’s boyfriend come to Orlando immediately and a plan is decided on, though reluctantly, to take the children home where all three men will stand guard of them. The men also hire a private investigator to search for Tilly, while the women work with local authorities gathering evidence and trying to decipher the only clue left behind, a message written on a window in butter. Stacey reaches out to contacts online claiming to have the answers to the Mister Tasty Treats mythos, but she is painfully aware one of the anon users could be the man behind the monster.

After a run-in with some unhelpful police, Stacey plays all her chips at work and calls her firm’s name partner and top litigator in the country. Her firm throws their weight behind the women and puts Stacey in touch with the Governor of Florida, who personally introduces her to the Chief of Police.

A contact Stacey made, while researching M.T.T., begins sending her cryptic messages. Though they are fairly simple to decode, the clandestine nature of the messages and the satisfaction they get from solving clues, makes the sisters trust this “Anon”.

Stacey reaches out to news stations. Finally, a top reporter, Raquel Vasquez and her producer Mark, take an interest in the story and decide to make it a nationally syndicated feature. However, after an exhaustive interview, the segment about Tilly never airs.

The Sisters become desperate and lean into a narrative about Mister Tasty Treats they find in a web- based community called %, formed with the express mission to save the children. The group embraces them and Emily becomes dependent on the % to explain the real, strange occurrences surrounding the case. The sisters all begin to fall for the story the % preach as truth, that there is a dark cabal of cannibal pedophiles, running the world.

Amalia is the first to realize the women have been chasing windmills but it takes more than logic to disprove a narrative as strong as the %. Fortunately, the reporters, the private investigator and a couple good police officers are also hunting Tilly’s abductor, but using facts instead of wishes.

In the end the women realize there is no easy fix for systemic problems and those who claim there are, are trying to manipulate the population.

Excerpt

None of us logically thought there was a reason to fear anything in real life at that point, but something made us all want to stay close that night. Amalia wheeled the extra bed out of the girls’ room and into the master, relinquishing her own queen bed to sleep on the twin in front of the master bedroom door. I shared the bed with Emily and all the kids lay on piles of pillows on the floor with their sleeping bags.

I didn’t sleep much. I had obsessive thoughts that wouldn’t stop racing through my head. I considered getting up and going downstairs to sift through and find which game it was that the kids encountered.

What kind of sick designer would make something that would not only petrify children, but also control them and make them afraid to communicate? I mentally composed the letters I’d write when I found out which company was to blame for unleashing this trash on the world.

I was also beating myself up. Why didn’t I delete the questionable titles before letting the girls play? Of course, the kids would find the scariest, most forbidden shit. I always did when I was their age. Kids are incredibly intuitive and somehow the darkest curiosities always seem to have a way of leading a child right to them. It’s like that song Sara Sanderson sang—a dog whistle only children are young enough to recognize, and unaware enough to follow.

The next morning the girls were quiet, even as we were sitting down to breakfast. Emily was trying to hype them up and asked them which pre-chosen themed outfit they wanted to wear to the park. The girls didn’t volunteer any ideas; they weren’t even eating.

“Hey girls, come on, it was a game. Just let it go. I know it was scary, but we’re in Orlando!” She said “Orlando” like Oprah in the 90s. “Don’t you want to go Hogwarts?”

That got Morgan’s attention. “Can we get every flavor beans? Or chocolate frogs? Or whizzing fizzbees?”

“Um, obviously,” I said, like it was the most ridiculous question in the world. “And wands. And... Should we show them?” I asked Amalia and Emily.

“I don’t know if they can handle it...” Amalia said, baiting the children. It worked.

“Is it wizard robes? Because I would wear it if you got me a Slytherin.” Lana perked up, showing the first signs of life since I found them all the night before.

“Slytherin? What? You’re not Slytherin. You’re a Ravenclaw, aren’t you?” I asked, playing dumb.

Lana was shocked and a little disappointed as she looked down her nose at me. “No. Ravenclaws just read stupid books. I want to be powerful. I’m Slytherin.”

“Slytherin are evil, though. What about Gryffindor? They’re the most powerful. Harry Potter himself, right? And Hermione, Ron, the best of the best.” I playfully argued with her.

She took it a little more seriously than I had anticipated. “I hope you didn’t get me a Gryffindor robe. Those are some basic witches.”

“What did you just say?” Amalia asked, a warning on her face.
Lana rolled her eyes. “I said basic witches, Mom. Geez.”
“Who are you calling basic? I’m a Gryffindor!” I said in mock offense.
“Pshh, yeah, right. You can lie to yourself all you want, but you’re a Slytherin, too, and deep down you know it,” Lana retorted instantly.

I was taken aback, but I had to be honest. “That’s creepy and...also what your uncle Kent says. And the stupid Pottermore test,” I relented under my breath.
That made everyone laugh and soon we were all—Emily and Amalia included—wearing our Harry Potter robes and in the limo, headed for the park. The nightmares of the previous evening had been put on hold, at least for the moment.

I am happy to report that Hogwarts was just as amazing as I had hoped. I would live there, honestly, if they let me. I’d sleep above any number of the stores. Hell, I’d take a flat in Knockturn alley.

I know it’s become somewhat cliché for cute girls to cling to something nerdy, but my Harry Potter love is 100% genuine and I am willing to die on that cross. That’s the one way I’ll never let eleven- year-old Stacey down. We will always keep our candle burning for the Wizarding World...and Viktor Krum, no matter how secretly.

The pride and I did every one of the rides; a few we rode numerous times. We took the train from Platform Nine and Three- Quarters to the second part of the park. The interactive trip was so well done I felt like I had actually stepped into one of my favorite moments from the story. A tear may or may not have welled up in my eye when Hermione encountered Ron and Harry in our train car. The magical day really was a long time coming. I felt myself flicker in and out of being a supervising adult and a small child, awestruck as I discovered the beloved universe all over again.

I knew the trip was supposed to be about the kids, but I had to stop myself from pushing them out of the way to try a spell with my newly acquired wand. I was genuinely jealous when a random eight- year-old was chosen at Ollivander’s to select her wand with the man himself, and I only got to watch. I did feel a little bad for allowing that emotion. A very little.

Safe to say I was fairly distracted by the magic, but I noticed that Rosy was terrified to look out the window in the train car, even when we explained the Dementors were all make-believe. She was genuinely not having it. She also hated the goblins in the Escape Gringotts ride, possibly the best coaster in the whole park, so we decided to meet up with the moms for dinner and a Rosy handoff before the older girls and I rode it four or five more times.

We ate at The Hog’s Head, and I drank so much butterbeer I was sure I was going to throw my entire system into sugar shock. Emily and Amalia had a surprising number of purchases filling up the buggy’s undercarriage and told me to stop being nosey when I riffled through their bags. I knew they had found me a Christmas present, and quite possibly my next birthday present, too. I couldn’t have been happier to know that I would soon be the owner of even more Harry Potter paraphernalia.

The girls all got their themed meals, which looked considerably better than true British cuisine, and sat at their own table away from ours. Emily and Amalia thought it was cute, but it made me kinda sad. All day I had been one of the kids, albeit the only one who could mix vodka into her butterbeer, but still. That separation made me realize they were living a different life, in their own world among their true peers, and even though I was the cool auntie, I was not one of them.

I wasn’t one of the moms, either. It was a weird time to feel it, but I was very aware that I didn’t really fit into their world in an undefinable way. I couldn’t be a kid, and if I was being honest, I wouldn’t want to be for more than a day or so. I became very sure of that while having my second “mixed potion” of butterbeer and vodka. I could be a mom, of course, but the idea of spending all day tending to the needs of another human being without any promise of time for reflection, expression, or even concentration—well, that sounded as bad as being stuck as a kid. What was I?

Those questions were drifting through my head as I listened to Amalia and Emily talk about the upcoming school year and how the kids had fared the year before. I acted interested as they discussed each child’s challenges and how they planned to help simplify the curriculum and tailor their approach for each of the girls based on their individual strengths.

It was excruciatingly boring to listen to and I had a jolt of empathy for the girls. If it were this bad to listen to the planning phase, I imagined the kids were not going to enjoy these carefully crafted lessons, but I was not going to say a word either. No way did I want to get pulled into the conversation any more than the occasional nod of my head or audible mmmm to let them know I was hearing them.

I tried to listen to the kids instead. They were only a table away, but they were sitting at the far edge, close to the water. The open-air patio was pretty full, and the ambient noise made it difficult for me to be sure I heard them correctly. Also, Emily is loud as hell when she drinks. She’s got a pleasant voice so usually no one complains, but moments of impassioned explanation drowned out important words in the conversation I was trying to piece together from the girls.

At first it was just cute stuff, something about a treat they saw or wanted to look for, talk about making a TikTok from inside Gringotts, and how they could get into trouble if anyone saw them. I resolved right then and there to help them with it, no matter how frowned upon it would be. That made me happier than it should. It was a little mischief to look forward to.

Then, Lana glanced over at me and caught me trying to read her lips. She said something to the three younger girls who all turned in creepy ass unison to stare me down. I panicked for a moment, before I remembered to just smile and wave at them. When I did, they all mirrored me, but they looked suspicious. I turned back to the moms.

That was when a bit of fortune struck for an eavesdropping auntie. The boisterous family, who were dining at the long table just behind us, left and when they did the sound on the patio lowered a considerable amount. I could hear the girls without looking at them. I was laughing like an evil genius inside my head as I focused my eyes on my sister’s face and my attention on the pride.

“I don’t think they can hear us. Auntie Em’s pretty loud,” Lana said, turning back to the girls but lowering her voice.

Fools! All of them! I suppressed another cackle.
“Rosy, don’t look over there,” her elder sister warned her.
Rosy must have obeyed because Lana started talking again, using a

clandestine voice. “The adults will never believe us. They think we don’t know the difference between a game and real life. We are on our own here, understand?”

From my peripheral vision, I could see the younger girls nod their heads, but Rosy’s sister protested. “I think we can tell Auntie Ace. She’ll know what to do. She’s a lawyer.”

Auntie Ace is my favorite nickname anyone has ever given me in my life, and I was elated to learn my niece trusted me with whatever major secret she felt she had to hide from the rest of the adults in their lives.

Lana didn’t look so sure, but the girl continued. “Lawyers know how to break contracts, right? She can figure out how to get rid of ours.”

Contract? Did she say contract? I couldn’t be completely sure, but it sounded like that to me. What on earth could a kid know about a contract? Kids can’t legally sign anything anyway. It didn’t matter because Lana answered quickly. “No, we can’t bring her into it. He said she’d get hurt.” I heard Rosy sniffle and inhale in her patented way, her final warning before a total meltdown.

At that moment I realized I needed to say something to the girls, but I also needed to make sure they were in a place where they felt safe to talk to me. So, I decided to make my case for bringing them back to our favorite ride and leave Rosy with the moms. If I was going to have a chance of the girls telling me what the hell was happening, this was my best shot.

It wasn’t a hard sell to anyone. Rosy was in Emily’s arms, self- soothingly rubbing her ear and fighting the urge to suck her thumb— a habit that Emily had sworn a mission to break before all of Rosy’s adult teeth grew in—as soon as I suggested the ride. To my chagrin, Morgan seemed to be wary of my enthusiasm, as if she guessed I had ulterior motives. I decided to play it cool on the first go-around and didn’t say a word except to comment on the artfully constructed details of the waiting area for the ride.

It was the right move. As soon as we were locked into those harnesses, the energy shifted back to joy and childlike abandon. The ride was more experience than it was G-force, which I deeply appreciated. Nevertheless, the overfull bubble in my stomach started sliding from one side to the other. I began to doubt my timing and intestinal fortitude as we rounded the first bend and a real-life fireball flew from a roaring dragon’s mouth. The girls shrieked as it hit us with a blast of dry heat.

The heat didn’t stop for what felt like an eternity. Sweat stuck my shirt to my armpits and I felt a dribble cascade down my forehead into my lazily posh, bushy, eyebrows. At least they were good for something.

The muggy Florida air boiled in the flame, making the temperature intolerable. Then, mercifully, it puffed and sputtered out. The metal beast jerkily thrashed and tore at the sky in a death loop. The fire exploded again, a little too close for comfort once I realized the robot was malfunctioning. The kids were giggling. The sense of real, possible danger elevated the moment for them. I relaxed and told myself it was just a machine breaking down. No scarier than a plane waiting on the tarmac.

Then the ride went completely dark and still. A full turn it off and back on reboot. When the darkness fell, so did silence. I could tell that was frightening the kids more than the crazed dragon and its fireball. They hadn’t said a word, but I heard a whimper. I quickly recognized it was a good time to ask the kids some questions. It could be distracting from the scary moment at hand, and there wouldn’t be a better time to get some undivided attention with all three of them. “Hey, everyone okay?” I asked, just to be sure.

The girls sounded off. They were fine; I didn’t even detect fear in their voices. Lana, not missing a beat, added, “I bet they’ll let us go twice because of this.” I instinctively nodded in agreement with her, but didn’t get a chance to voice it out loud when my sister’s oldest child blurted out, “Auntie Ace, you know when you came downstairs and saw us by the window?”

That’s my girl right there. She thinks just like me, always has. She seized her moment and beat me to it. I felt myself swelling with pride. Sure, we share the coveted glacial eyes our family wears as the crown jewel of our lineage, but more than the shape of our noses or the wry way both of our mouths curled when we knew we were in command of the room, this kid was like a miniature, more pure, evolution of my own brain, and she recognized this mishap as the opportunity I also knew it was.

“Shut up!” Lana yelled back at her with an anger I’d never seen from the girl.

“Whoa there, you little fury you. What’s...” I didn’t even finish my sentence before I was interrupted. Clearly the dialogue was among the children and I was going to have to wait to see if I was getting clued in. It was a strange feeling, realizing for the second time that day I was really just a B-plot in their world.

“There’s no one else near us. Can you hear anyone? No! This is the best time!” The girl retorted before Lana spit back at her.

“He hears every whisper, you fucking idiot!”

“Okay now, none of that, Lana. Listen to me, all three of you. Your moms and I have an understanding. If you’re afraid I’m gonna tell them something you want to keep secret, I promise I would never tell anyone anything unnecessary, ever.”

Lana was hyperventilating, and the other two were silent for a full beat. I began to speak, “Voice it, girls, it’ll help...”

Morgan interrupted with a bout of verbal diarrhea. She didn’t breathe until it was over. “It wasn’t a video game! We know what VR is, we’re not stupid. It was the radio! He was talking to us through the radio. He told us he could always see us and that we can’t say anything. He knows where we live and he said he’d take us away.” She sucked in a huge breath of air then sobbed silently.

“What the actual fuck is she talking about? Both of you! Right now, out with it,” I said to the older girls, trying to sound stern because none of us could actually look each other in the eyes on the ride.

No one spoke for a long five seconds, then I surprised myself with the timbre of my voice. “Right now, Lana, start talking!” That was when I heard my pre-teen powerhouse crying. “What the literal hell, ladies? Seriously? Are you all crying?”

At that moment the ride whirled back to life and we passed the action cam. It flashed. I never checked afterward, but I’m sure that image was one for the books—three girls mid melt-down and an auntie with fire in her eyes.

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About the Author

Born into a Special Forces family, Bartron grew up all over the USA and Germany. As a small child she became passionate about human rights, equal rights and free speech. This and her inability to keep her views to herself, created...conflict within her traditional Nazarene family.

After visiting Dachau she joined the Model UN and planned to work in international affairs with the hopes of helping prevent similar future atrocities.

She conducted more than 30 interviews while still in high school, some political figures but mostly with hit bands touring Europe. Many of those interviews aired on AFN. (The Armed Forces Network)

While attending CSU-Pueblo she worked for the local news station while she majored in English and Psychology. She was part of a criminal study with death-row inmates in Florence Colorado, which sparked her interest in Milgram and cults. It was through that study that she realized she could be much more effective as a writer of parables that assumed the best about people, but pointed out the worst. Where better to do that then Hollywood?

In 2008 Bartron moved to Los Angeles, working her way up in the crew from the lowest rung on the ladder. In 2017 her feature film titled UNBRIDLED opened in theaters across the USA.

She has two projects with Billy Ray Cyrus in pre- production, she wrote them both and will be directing. They are slated to begin as soon as COVID allows.

She’s directed a number of wonderful actors in shorts and music videos, including Emmy award winner Adrienne Frantz Bailey, (Bold and the Beautiful) Kimberly J. Brown (Halloweentown, Rose Red), Daeg Faerch (Rob Zombie’s Halloween) Margret Cho, (Comedian) and others.

Bartron spent seven months in Mosul, Iraq in 2009 as a MWR (moral welfare and recreation) coordinator organizing concerts, games, etc. between the frequent INCOMING! sirens. She observed what war does to a country and to a person. She is very keen to keep the rest of Americans away from that kind of an experience, here.