VOICES
By: Phyllis P. Colucci
Copyright © 2015 by Phyllis P. Colucci
United States Copyright Office
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE-
ROSALIE CONFIDES IN FRANCO
CHAPTER TWO-
MARIA VISITS FOR LUNCH
CHAPTER THREE-
MEETING JACQUELINE PRICE
CHAPTER FOUR-
A VISIT WITH MILLIE
CHAPTER FIVE-
A NEW DAY
CHAPTER SIX-
MARIA PAYS A VISIT
CHAPTER SEVEN-
ROSALIE CONFIDES IN MICHAEL
CHAPTER EIGHT-
TOMORROW COMES
CHAPTER NINE-
“THE PLAN” AS THE
CULPRIT SURFACES
CHAPTER TEN-
THE TRUTH BE TOLD
CHAPTER ELEVEN-
MILLIE’s REVELATION
CHAPTER TWELVE-
MOVING ON
VOICES
CHAPTER ONE – ROSALIE CONFIDES IN FRANCO
…It was the morning after a perfectly wonderful and memorable get-together with family, friends, and the man she loved. The end of the summer was closing in on her and she was feeling the effects of the all-too-familiar panic attacks she suffered throughout her life. The thought of winter frightened her the most. It felt cold, dark and ever so lonely. The days will grow shorter, the streets quieter, the trees barer and the New York winter will chill her to the bone. No one will be around except for those rushing off to work and those needing a container of milk for their morning coffee. Then there will be those walking their dogs, of course, fighting off the bitter winds as their pets run around in circles until they mark their spots. Some others will be making quick stops at the local candy store for their daily newspapers while she watches the world go by from her second floor window; like she does most days each and every winter. She will notice that no one likes to stop and chat during the cold winter months as most people prefer to rush home and hibernate, including herself, until the springtime rescues them from the brutal frost and biting winds of the season.
This morning, however, she sat at her kitchen table enjoying a fresh cup of French Roast, staring out the open window, gazing at the playful birds that were chirping loudly and flying in and around the backyard fig-tree beneath the early morning sun; embracing this vision she hoped would sustain her throughout the approaching winter and throughout the raging thoughts that were screaming out in her unsettled mind. Every few minutes or so a warm breeze would blow through the open window rattling her curtains, lightly brushing across her face, carrying a moment of peace upon its wings.
As the kitchen radio played, she tried to comprehend all the news briefs about the President, Congress, and world events – the local news, the national news, all sorts of news which sickened her to the point of nausea. The more she listened, the sicker she felt. Yet, she listened on as the news commentator continued about the horrific brush fires in California, the usual traffic and weather reports, the chaos in the Middle East and all of the other things happening in the world that were harshly annoying to her now. She had to stop listening! Although she welcomed the distraction, she just couldn’t think about all those issues right now. She had her own personal issues to deal with…Staring up at the round fluorescent light on her kitchen ceiling then back down at her coffee mug, rolling her eyes in discontent, she thought – “This darn world is just going about its business and there’s not much anyone can do about it, certainly not me…the economy is shaky, times are hard, and we are in financial crisis heading down the same road that brought us to the Great Depression back in 1929. Yet our wonderful leaders with their great vision still claim all is well…Ugh!” She rolled her eyes once again in annoyance and disbelief, but she knew she just couldn’t keep thinking about all those things right now. She had too much on her mind that needed immediate attention or she’d soon be swallowed up alive by something she couldn’t see, something she couldn’t touch, something that was out to destroy her. So today, as she sipped her cup of French Roast, Rosalie decided to tune out the unrest in the outside world and focus on her world, her life, her thoughts, her fears. The thoughts that tormented her day and night. This prompted Rosalie to jump out of her seat, turn off the kitchen radio, and sit back down to meditate in silence.
Her only solace, her only escape, was reminiscing about her hometown of Brooklyn, her Brooklyn. The Brooklyn she knew as a child growing up in a loving family, enjoying Sunday dinners and visits with her grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. The nostalgic and innocent thoughts of a child playing “hopscotch”, “hide and seek” and “jump rope” on her neighborhood block. Yes, that was Rosalie’s Brooklyn. The only place she’s ever lived, the only place she calls home, and the only place that comforts and protects her while everything else in her life crumbles around her like an earthquake. She feels like a frightened child in the body of a thirty-eight year old woman, wondering whether or not her heartfelt memories of life in Brooklyn are really enough to save her from that which wreaks havoc on her soul, plays with her mind, and plots to destroy her.
After another sip of French Roast, Rosalie finds another moment of joy as her thoughts revert back to the night before once again, when she and her boyfriend were basking in the safety net of a family barbecue, the last one of the summer; pigging out on garlic chicken, sirloin burgers, tender baby-back ribs and scrumptious sides of Italian pasta salad, stuffed artichokes and eggplant rollatini. All was safe and wonderful last night, especially after her third glass of Pinot Grigio. She recalls falling back into a lounge chair last evening, drifting away, on and off, off and on, hearing bits of mundane conversations going on around her while straining her ears to grasp the words of Italian folk songs playing on CD in the background. She was at peace then, and she felt safe with the man that she loved at her side; but interrupting that short-lived peace and harmony was the constant gnawing of reality, eating at her brain, waking up her senses, disturbing any restful moments she could salvage…So this morning, here she sits at her kitchen table trying desperately to hide somewhere within nature’s bliss happening outside her open window, or somewhere within the comforting aromas of French Roast, or somewhere within the wonderful thoughts of last evening; but there is no hiding, there is no calm, there is no comfort. No. Not today. Not the days to follow, nor any day to come. Not for Rosalie. That is the reality of her world. She sits motionless, with meandering thoughts of comfort and fear; crumpling a paper napkin, nervously shredding it to bits and pieces between her slender fingers, watching as each piece falls to the table in front of her, wondering what she will do now to confront the “voices” from her cellar.
Who would she tell? Who would listen? Who would believe her? Is she going crazy? She is frightened and doesn’t know where to turn…She jumps as she hears the key in the door. A familiar men’s cologne fills the air and finds its way to her nostrils, and she suddenly feels safe once again. It’s Franco, her one true love. The caring and handsome boyfriend who has shared her Brooklyn home with her for a good number of years since her parents passed, a year apart from each other while both in their early seventies, leaving the house to Rosalie. Rosalie was devastated by their passing. They had Rosalie late in life and Rosalie periodically suffered the loneliness of an only child, which just magnified her fears and her panic attacks with time. Her boyfriend Franco was a godsend.
Franco helped put this old house back into shape for her; new windows, new siding, new wood floors, new walls, and new mahogany doors with European doorknobs. He did it all - new plumbing, new gas and electric lines…but best of all he put up a white privacy fence in the backyard so he and Rosalie could enjoy their time together, away from the gaze of their i
nquisitive neighbors.
Franco was forty-something, a few years older than Rosalie. He was tall, strong, and masculine; and worked very hard with his hands. He was intelligent and confident, everything Rosalie looked for in a man. He could build a new house from the ground up and Rosalie was so proud of his talents. He worked for a local construction company, and was one of their best. He knew how to build just about anything. He made a great living and was able and very willing to help Rosalie share the bills, especially the major house bills, while she free-lanced as a mystery writer. Oh, and yes - how he hated the old paneling Rosalie had on her walls throughout the narrow hallways; but somehow Rosalie was able to convince Franco not to tear down that paneling. She just wanted to paint over it so that the house could retain its original charm with a rustic look. Again, the familiar always seemed to comfort Rosalie. Franco easily agreed in order to keep Rosalie happy and smiling, as he often did.
…As Franco entered the kitchen, Rosalie excitedly jumped from her chair straight into Franco’s waiting arms like an eager child needing a protective hug. Franco responded in kind by holding her tightly. They both took their usual seats at the kitchen table, lovingly holding hands with arms stretched wide across it, sharing some French Roast while studying each other’s gaze. Franco then rose to get a plate from the kitchen cabinet for the hot sesame bagels he picked up at the neighborhood bagel shop they both know and love, and placed it in the middle of the table. He placed the fresh-smelling bagels in the plate, just below Rosalie’s nose. She loved the smell of fresh hot bagels. They enjoyed sharing bagels and coffee together as they chatted about love and life. However, Rosalie wanted so much to tell Franco about what she has recently been experiencing; what she has recently been hearing, coming up from the cellar. She was so tormented and so frightened to even think about it, but she needed Franco’s strong arms to hold her and his strong voice to comfort her. She didn’t know where to start. She feared he would think she was going crazy and possibly leave her at some point in the future. “Who would stay with a crazy woman who hears voices?” she thought. So she got up and rustled about the kitchen trying to slice and butter the bagels, hiding her fears, getting lost in her thoughts, while forcing a smile for Franco hoping he wouldn’t notice her anxiety.
“Rosalie,” he said, taking the knife from her hand with a concerned look on his face - “I’ll take care of the bagels. You sit and enjoy your coffee.” Franco sensed something wasn’t right with Rosalie, but he kept silent in order to allow her the privacy of her own thoughts. Soon enough, with tears flowing from her eyes, Rosalie said in a whisper, “Franco. I have something to tell you. I don’t know where to begin and I don’t know how you’ll take this.” Unable to make eye contact with Franco, Rosalie looked away and stared at the fallen sesame seeds in the white plate on the table, almost embarrassed to say another word.
Franco took one of his hands, calloused from the hard work he performed each day, and raised Rosalie’s chin until her bright hazel eyes met his. Her fair complexion added to her beauty…Rosalie had no choice but to look into his deep brown eyes, completely mesmerized by his long dark lashes and his handsome face. Rosalie, too, was as gorgeous as Franco was handsome. She was just under five feet two inches and quite a pleasant and petite package to Franco. They made a fabulous couple…Rosalie couldn’t help notice how Franco hadn’t blinked once as he so caringly studied her face and brushed back a loose strand of brown hair from her cheek. She truly felt him close as he touched her soul with his stare. The sensation made her shiver before a calmness came over her, allowing her to trust Franco enough to tell him about her encounters in the cellar.
“Talk to me Rosalie,” he said with a soft smile only a loving heart can give. He felt her pain, her fear, her panic and invited her to confide in him with little effort other than his kind voice. So Rosalie, determined to choose the best words to explain her ordeal to Franco, began to speak in a tone even foreign to herself, yet exceptionally confident and quite comfortable. She mustered the courage to finally speak honestly to Franco, but knew deep down inside of her that it was actually Franco’s strength and courage that allowed her to do so. So Rosalie began to pour her heart out as best she could, engaging Franco in the conversation of a lifetime.
Rosalie first asked Franco if he believed in ghosts and the afterlife, to which Franco surprisingly responded, “I believe spirits are around us all the time.” Rosalie smiled, thinking how easily she got through the first part of this talk she feared having with Franco for quite some time. The talk she practiced over and over again in her head to ensure the words came out exactly right when she needed them. Rosalie was overjoyed at Franco’s response. Franco then cautiously asked Rosalie, “Why such a question?” - almost as if he, himself, feared the answer. Rosalie’s response was short but powerful. She simply stated, “I hear voices coming from the cellar Franco. I think the house is haunted.” Franco responded with a chuckle, “It’s probably just the mice and rats playing around from all the work I’ve been doing in this house. I must have disrupted their living space and they’re just mad at us.” Rosalie was not happy with Franco’s witty response as she felt Franco’s sudden shift from real concern to amusement, at her expense. Rosalie, choking back her words, asked Franco to please be serious because the voices she has been hearing from down in that cellar are real. Franco took one look at the fright in Rosalie’s eyes then realized he needed to take her seriously because this woman before him was devastated by her own thoughts and words. So Franco grew deeply concerned at this point. He held Rosalie’s petite shoulders, positioned her to face him directly, pushed her long brown hair away from her pretty face and said, “Go on Rosalie. Tell me about the cellar. I’m listening sweet girl.”
Through tears, Rosalie went on to say that she hears conversations going on down there. She can’t actually make out the exact words, but she knows it’s human-like chatter; sometimes she hears her name being mentioned – even being called out as if someone is summoning her to the cellar. She hears a horrible moaning as well. It’s awful. She told Franco she has been so frightened by this for several weeks, since it first started…she thought she was going crazy hearing those voices, but soon realized it was all real. It had to be. She further explained how one day she decided to go down to the cellar to check things out just in case this was all in her mind, but as she approached the cellar door she heard a voice call out to her. It was a loud, somewhat distorted whisper saying, “Rosalie! Rosalie! Come down here Rosalie!” The closer she got to that door, the clearer the words. It wasn’t a familiar voice she heard. It was horrible sounding; eerily harsh and terribly threatening. She couldn’t tell if it was male or female, but it was definitely someone or something. At this point she had Franco’s full attention. So Rosalie continued to explain that she immediately turned around and ran back up the stairs to the apartment like a bat out of hell, tripping over her own feet, locking the door behind her and hoping that whoever or whatever was down that cellar would not and could not follow her up the stairs. She ran so fast that she felt she had outrun herself, as her heart began beating out of her chest. She was out of breath and she shook all over. Once safely in the apartment, she turned the television on so loud just to feel that someone else was home with her even though no one was there. Then she sat on the sofa hugging a huge throw pillow, staring at the door, just waiting for something evil to break it down. She began praying and praying, unconsciously biting her lip with every word, almost drawing blood, in hopes that she’d be protected from this evil frightful “voice”, this awful “thing” that continues to call upon her. She sadly stated that she struggles within herself, unable to determine what is real and what is not…In a solemn tone Rosalie said to Franco, “I’m not myself anymore. I’ve been losing sleep over this, I can’t concentrate on my writing and I’m scared all the time. I hate being alone. I’m afraid of life. I’m just falling apart. I wanted so much to tell you about this Franco but I feared you would never believe me. I was afraid
you’d think it was just an exaggerated panic attack of mine, or that I was going crazy. I couldn’t bear the thought of you not believing me. I need you on my side Franco. I’m so, so frightened. I don’t know what’s happening. What am I going to do?”
Franco sat silently for a moment, then questioned Rosalie with a pensive look on his face, asking Rosalie if she’s been under any stress from her writing lately, trying to make a short deadline perhaps; or if she’s been thinking about her deceased parents; or if she’s been watching any horror films, had any bad dreams. Rosalie became increasingly sadder and slightly enraged at this point, sensing Franco did not believe her, as she originally feared. Franco assured Rosalie that he believed every word of what she was saying; however, before they go down that road of hearing voices and conversations from the cellar, he just wanted to be sure she was in a clear, calm, lucid state of mind, free of the effects of panic attacks, bad dreams, scary thoughts and anything else that could frighten her to the point of letting her imagination run wild on her. Rosalie assured Franco that this is not her imagination. Angrily, she explained that she already had this conversation with herself on a daily basis since all this started. Rosalie insisted that what she is hearing from that cellar is real. She just can’t explain exactly what or why it’s happening. Franco, sitting silently once again, thought for a few more moments, then presented Rosalie with a fair suggestion. Franco suggested they both go down to the cellar together. He promised Rosalie he would hold her tightly as they approached the cellar so she wouldn’t feel so frightened while she listened for her name being called out again, or any conversations going on for that matter. If so, Franco thought that maybe he would hear it as well. Or maybe they would discover a logical reason behind whatever it is Rosalie is hearing. Franco looked somewhat perplexed about what Rosalie had just told him since they’ve both gone down to that cellar many times before, as they use that space for storage. Franco even built a wooden wine rack down there for their favorite wines. All the Christmas decorations and special dinnerware sets are down there as well. Franco was truly caught off guard with Rosalie’s story and is hoping that their visit together down to that cellar will somehow alleviate Rosalie’s fears and prove that all is well, and that perhaps she was mistaken. The house is very old, built in 1890. Franco commented that it’s quite possible that Rosalie is hearing the muffled sounds of an old house settling on its foundation, mixed with the loud sounds of traffic and people’s voices from off the street. Along with that, there is the constant meowing of backyard cats – and even the chirping of birds she loves to listen to each morning…Franco took another look at Rosalie’s sullen eyes and helpless facial expressions and just couldn’t wait another moment. He firmly, yet lovingly, asked Rosalie to please allow him to accompany her down to the cellar. It’s the only way.
Voices Page 1