The Whispering Council

The Whispering Council

Brookmoor was, in its time, secrets clutched to the air like morning mist. But a newly elected mayor by the name of Eleanor Vance believed she could break that spell. Her campaign motto—"Truth. Transparency. Trust."—had resonated with the people who were tired of the shadow-dealing and the whispers. However, change is a very dangerous ambition, Eleanor will soon learn.

She spent her very first week of office speaking not a word until the letter arrived, to her, in an envelope.

There was no return address; it was just a crisp sheet of paper. On the paper was intricately embossed a sigil of serpents. The text itself was very short: "Welcome to the council. We are meeting at midnight. Town Hall basement."

The Town Hall basement was full of the scent of damp wood and mildew. In the center, one hanging light bulb cast its low-watt glow on six figures seated at a broad oak table, their heads and faces dark. Eleanor advanced with heels that echoed off stone floors

"Mayor Vance," he said with an unsettling smile, his steely grey eyes glinting back. "Welcome to the Whispering Council. Here we are, to support you in ruling."

Eleanor's brow creased. "Help me rule? Who are you?"

"We are the reason Brookmoor has thrived for fifty years," he said. "We establish order in the town by addressing. sensitive issues. Things you might find yourself morally opposed to."

"What kind of things?"

Things like silencing dissent. Redirecting funds to ensure certain parties continue to cooperate. In other words, we do what must be done.

Eleanor's gut churned with nausea. "I was elected to serve the people—not to be part of some shadow government."

Brookmoor isn't voted on; it's the whispers of the town run it, and if anyone defied them, Mayor Vance thought, they'd be very quickly on its wrong side.

Eleanor tried the next weeks in the fire. She vetoed one of the ordinances that the council had presented: a shady zoning law meant to favor a local developer. The reaction was immediate. Whispers started circulating through town--rumors regarding her personal life, her mental health, and even her family.

Then came the accidents.

The first was veiled: brake failure in her car that might have catapulted her off the bridge. Then her sister Claire's bookstore mysteriously burned to the ground with Claire fleeing town. Each posed the council's silent message, Obey or suffer.

Eleanor's fear turned to fury. She called an investigative reporter named Jack Linton. She knew he had, several times, brought corrupt groups to their knees. For nights of sit-downs over diner fries at the fringes of town, she and Jack assembled a disturbing history of the council.

They have been here since the town was first started, Jack continued, pushing a folder across the table. Dressed up as a civic organization, but they are indeed a crime family. And they have the money and law and people.

It included old photographs, ledgers of financials, and police reports. One particular name caught her eye: Howard Vance.

Her dad.

"That can't be," she whispered. "My father died when I was twelve."

Or maybe he just took off, Jack ventured.

This news shocked Eleanor. But it made her more courageous. And if her father, indeed formed part of the council, she had every reason to go and inquire why. She ventured back the next night to that diner with hopes that Jack had returned home. Her telephone calls found no response as an unknown number lit her phone's screen: "Mill. 10 PM. Come alone."

Outside of town, a derelict textile mill stood like a ghost. Eleanor found Jack inside, pale and fidgety, clutching a pile of yellowed papers.

"This is the proof," he said, opening the papers on a table made from a bed frame. "Payoffs, bribes, and cleanup costs. And her father's signature.".

Eleanor gazed at the papers, her hands trembling. She hadn't yet digested that betrayal when a loud crack broke the silence. Jack stumbled backward clutching his chest as blood trickled through his fingers.

"Run," he gasped.

Eleanor stood frozen in horror, gazing at the crumbling form of her friend. The sound of footsteps shattered the spell. She collected the papers and ran through the dark mill corridors with sharp harsh breaths. A bullet hit a metal beam and ricocheted off; she didn't ease her pace. She spied an exit and fled out into the woods with adrenaline carrying her far away from the scene.

Going to the office and sifting the cartons with stolen documents, showed her that her thoughts were racing. The reach of the council went further than Brookmoor; it implicated different state officials and business big-shots. But one did stand out: a certain payment termed "Protection Fee" with a trail being traced from it to an outskirt warehouse, out on the outskirts.

The following day, Eleanor arrived at the warehouse. There, in a hidden room, was a selection of surveillance equipment. The council had monitored everything that happened in the whole town: all the phone calls, all the emails, even all the conversations held in private homes. One of the files contained a recent recording of Claire.

"Eleanor doesn't know," Claire's voice said. "She thinks our father is dead, but he's alive.".

The revelation was a gut punch. Claire had known the truth and kept it from her. Eleanor confronted her sister, who reluctantly admitted that Howard Vance had faked his death to escape the council but had later rejoined it as a hidden figurehead.

“I wanted to protect you,” Claire said, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t think you’d ever get involved.”

Eleanor was incensed, yet in that indignation, she found her resolve. "Too late for that. Bring them down."

Eleanor devised a scheme. She arranged an open public town hall meeting solely for the purpose of airing some new ideas proposed to be put into place. Her hidden agenda was to expose all the crimes committed by the council members. She scheduled having the said meeting on the Centennial of Brookmoor which would naturally attract crowds and media attention simultaneously.

The council, wary of her insolence, hurled veiled threats. "You don't want to ruin the town's reputation," he said, gray eyes alert. But Eleanor did not yield.

The town square buzzed with anticipation on the night of the meeting. Eleanor took the stage, her voice steady over the weight of the evening.

"Tonight," she begins, "we celebrate Brookmoor's history. But history is not always what it seems."

She exposed the atrocities of the council, screening Jack's documents on an overhead projector. Horror in the crowd transformed into anger as the truth rolled out. Then came the sharp crack of breaking glass.

Eleanor's shoulder burned; she dropped to the ground. Chaos and panic reigned as people ran for their lives. She saw Claire, struggling to take a gun away from some guy in the crowd, through the waves of pain.

Eleanor opened her eyes to find herself in a hospital bed, the bandage on her shoulder mended. Claire sat with her, dazed, but unharmed. The council's influence fell under public scrutiny and subsequent arrests, but many of its members, including her father, vanished without warning.

Brookmoor was now healing. Eleanor had promised to recreate an atmosphere wherein the people again trusted this town by finding ways in which corruption had no fertile ground. Even in all those silent and quiet nights, she somehow felt the whispers of that council didn't disappear but were waiting for its right opportunity to resurface.