Whisper

by Michael Bray

  3. IN THE BEGINNING

  June 14th 1809

  JONES WATCHED THE HOUSE being built, the Negro slaves’ wiry bodies slick with sweat as they toiled in the intense summer heat. They in turn watched Jones through nervous and fearful eyes as they worked, making sure to give that little extra effort when his steely gaze fell upon them.

  Jones was Michael Jones, and he owned a reasonably successful construction company along with his brother Francis and their business partner Alfonse Schuster. He was a large man, with huge jowly cheeks and sandy hair. He didn’t care much for the Negroes. They worked hard only under constant supervision, and he was sure that if he were to turn his back, they would put down their tools and rest, and that was something he would not allow in spite of the oppressive, burning heat of what was turning out to be a scorching summer day; the kind of day when just standing still would bring sweat to the brow, the kind of day where the air felt hot and sticky.

  As he looked at the house from his vantage point by the river, he could see a thick, wispy heat haze shimmering off the ground. Despite this, he would not allow the workers to rest. Four of them had already passed out from exhaustion, and had been quickly revived and set back to work. His company was known for delivering on time, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to finish the house as soon as possible — especially with Alfonse looking for any possible way to pull the plug.

  He sighed and squinted at the sun which continued to burn without mercy. With a grunt, he walked towards the construction, angry and not really knowing why. The workers saw him and increased their efforts. Jones stood and watched, glaring at them even as they did all they could to ignore his stares. One of them stood and approached him, his eyes half-lidded and skin drenched with sweat.

  “Mr. Jones suh,” said the worker in his deep southern drawl, lowering his gaze.

  Jones said nothing. He simply glared and waited. Hesitantly, the worker went on.

  “Mr. Jones suh, we are tired, and would very much like some watah.”

  Jones shook his head slowly. “That’s the trouble with you niggers. Just plain lazy.”

  “Please suh, we workin’ hard.”

  “Really?” said Jones with a mocking smile. “How about you run back on over there and tell them they can stop working when the job is done and not a second sooner. You are here to work, not drink and take breaks.”

  “Yes suh,” said the worker, about to head back to his duties when Jones spoke to him.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Isaac, suh.”

  “Isaac? A typical nigger name. Well, Isaac you see that tree over there?”

  Jones jabbed his thumb over his shoulder to the immense willow overhanging the road.

  “Yessuh.”

  “I want you to cut that down and then make me a sign. A sign in honour of my easily frightened partner.”

  Jones nodded towards the awning where the dirt track opened onto the boundary of the land. Isaac looked from the awning and then to Jones, who was watching him intently.

  “I uhh, don’t like the heights suh.”

  “That is no concern of mine, I want you to do it, and do it now.”

  Isaac opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, and then closed it. He could see the venom in Jones’ eyes and knew better than to push his luck.

  “Yessuh. Right away suh.”

  Jones dismissed Isaac and watched as he hurried to the tree and picked up an axe. He shook his head, wishing he could get out of the heat and wondering why he was suddenly in such a foul mood. He supposed it could be the pressure he was under. The project had been one problem after another, and even though he would never admit it, he would be glad to see the back of it. He turned back to the house and the on-going construction, ignoring the aggrieved and fearful glances of the workers.

  He deliberately took a long drink from his water bottle, enjoying the desperate, thirsty glances of his workforce. He didn’t care. He wasn’t there to be liked, but to get the job done, and as soon as possible. He had learned that in order to obtain results, he had to be seen as a harsh man, a man to be feared. He couldn’t let them see that he was different away from the pressures of work. Even so, it was more than that.

  It was this place.

  He didn’t like to think that Alfonse might be right, but there was definitely something in the air, some unpleasant flavour to the atmosphere that made Jones’ skin crawl. As much as he hated to admit it, the place disturbed him, and that alone made him want to get the job finished quickly. If that meant treating his workforce with cruelty to ensure it, then so be it.

  A gentle breath of wind touched him, causing the treetop to sway and sing. He half-imagined that the trees themselves were speaking to him, calling his name, but he dismissed it. He was just tired. The good news was that, based on the current rate of work, he could expect the job to be completed in another week or two. Another delicate breeze moved through the trees, and again, he almost believed that he’d heard his name buried somewhere amid the natural sounds of the forest. The warning words of his business partner reverberated in his skull, and he found that despite the heat he shivered and felt the gooseflesh pop up on his massive forearms. It was as if he was being watched, prompting him to look nervously about him.

  All he could see were the trees, and the dark spaces in-between. He licked his lips and stared deeper into those twisted, darkened places, hoping to see what was making him so afraid. He watched intently, for the moment the worries of the on-going assembly forgotten. Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much. Seconds, minutes, hours: it all seemed insignificant. He shook his head and, unable to see anything, he slowly turned back to the building and tried to concentrate on the work at hand. He knew it was stupid, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being observed. It was difficult to ignore, but he managed to force himself not to turn around and look into the trees. Partly because he didn’t want to show that he had been spooked, but more because he was afraid of what he might see.

  4.THE PURGE

  1513

  THE GOGOKU VILLIAGE WAS silent, its wooden huts now deserted shells. The blood-drenched Elder walked to the mound of bodies assembled in the centre of the village, and tossed the escapee child onto it, pausing to admire his handiwork. The earth beneath his feet was soft, mired with the blood of his people.

  The trees surrounding the village swayed, and the words came to him in subtly devious tones. He saw the bodies of his children and his wife, their skulls broken and destroyed, their glassy eyes staring into oblivion. A brief sorrow overcame him, but the voices immediately drowned it out, guiding him and telling him what to do.

  He walked through the blood-soaked earth to drier ground, and stood by the pile of kindling he’d collected earlier. He took a double armful and returned to the bodies, stuffing the branches and grasses deep into the tangle of corpses. The task took many hours, and whenever his strength waned, or he recognised a broken, misshapen face amid the dead, the voices in the trees would urge him on. The encouragement had long since become a warning, a fear-inducing threat which drove the frightened Elder to complete his task. He took the tree sap which he had collected under instruction from the spirits and poured it amid the huts, over the bodies and finally onto himself.

  They told him what must be done, and the Gogoku smiled, for his mind was already broken. He crouched and struck a fire, using flint and dry grasses to light the torch. In the near dark, its glow made shadows dance and flicker on the his face as he touched the torch to the hovels, the flammable tree sap helping the fire to consume the homes greedily. The circle of land where the village stood was soon a raging inferno, and the Gogoku man watched as the bodies of his kin burned, their fats bubbling and popping as the flames continued to devour. The Elder stared at the flaming village from its edge, ignoring the heat which singed his skin and made breathing difficult.

  Even though there was little wind, the trees moved, and the branches still spoke to him. The Eld
er knew it was time. The spirits that the Gogoku had wronged for so many years had finally taken their vengeance. The Elder closed his eyes and uttered an oath, cursing the lands and any who ever tried to inhabit them again.

  He hoped the words would frighten the spirits, but they simply waited, silent until he did as they demanded. The Gogoku Elder grinned, and walked into the raging inferno, not even flinching as he began to burn, his flesh shearing away from bone as he lay on the mound of the dead with his kin.

  The trees shook and swayed their approval, as the burning Gogoku Elder’s laughter finally turned into pained screams.

  5. HOMECOMING

  DONOVAN’S OFFICE WAS A small glass-fronted building tucked between a grocery store and an antiques dealer. The sign on the front was as gaudy and cheap as the man himself. ‘Donovan’s Estates’ it proclaimed in blue on yellow. The windows were filled with properties for sale or rent in the area, as well as a laughable life-sized cut-out of Donovan, smiling his salesman grin, and a pasted-on speech bubble proclaiming:

  “Welcome to Donovan’s! Oakwell’s number one for new homes!”

  Despite his distaste for the man, Steve had to admire his work ethic. He was either brilliantly creative or ridiculously out of tune with how comically bad he actually was. Steve would have expected by the laughably high opinion that their realtor had of himself that he was an agent for a thriving and sprawling metropolis, but Oakwell was about as far from that as it was possible to get.

  It was one of those tree-lined, leafy one-street towns, with the major needs of all residents within a stone’s throw of each other. The corporate machine which had taken over the cities of the world, had so far not encroached onto the clean and tidy streets of Oakwell. Rather than a McDonald’s you had a quaint diner that served real burgers made from real meat. Forget Starbucks too. Here it was Lou’s—a charming café where the waitresses poured the coffee for you from a pot and service with a smile was something that actually existed. It was one of those places where everybody knew everyone by first-name terms, and nobody’s business was sacred—or private.

  Steve looked up and down the length of the street (aptly named Main Street. What else could it have been?) There was the townhouse, police station, and library all within spitting distance of the other. A little way down the road was the quaint Lou’s café, a couple of tables outside for those who wanted to enjoy a little sunshine with their coffee whilst they read the morning papers.

  Over the road from Donovan’s office was what looked to be a new store under construction, its plate-glass windows whitewashed to stop curious townsfolk from peering inside before work had been finished. Steve glanced up to the swirling red sign above the door.

  Grueber’s World of Food, it proclaimed. And then underneath Big city quality at small-town prices.

  He could imagine that this place wouldn’t be popular with the locals, as it took away some of the small-town feel to the area. It was a little too much glass and steel and not enough red brick and picket fence.

  Steve had already psyched himself up for another encounter with their sleaze ball realtor, but was relieved to discover that the man himself was out of the office when they arrived. Steve assumed he was probably out hawking one of his properties, or more likely ogling somebody’s wife or girlfriend, but their trip had not been in vain, as Donovan’s assistant was on hand to pass them the keys to the house and wish them good luck. The key itself was like something out of an old Hammer Horror movie. It was long and made of iron with an intricate head. Melody loved it. Steve felt just a little uncomfortable even holding the damned thing.

  As they drove towards the house, the pleasant, lazy stores and businesses of Oakwell gave way to rolling fields of green and yellow, and that ever-present cow shit smell that told you that the urban world had been replaced by the rural.

  Steve had been watching Melody carefully and, truth be known, he did so with more than a little concern. She was smiling to herself as she turned the ugly house key over in her hands, apparently lost in its finely crafted detail. Although he loved the childlike wonder on her face, he couldn’t shake his unease which, rather than fade as the day passed, had only grown. He turned his full attention back to the road and almost missed the turnoff to the narrow, single private lane, which led through the forest towards Hope House. Beside the lane's entrance, and underlined in red, there was a sign which simply said:

  PRIVATE PROPERTY - NO ACCESS

  He smiled at the thought that the sign applied to everyone but he and Melody, driving the car carefully off the gloriously smooth asphalt and onto the bumpy dirt track. A small wave of claustrophobia overcame him as the overhanging trees swallowed the light of the day and cast them into a dusky half-light.

  “I’m so excited Steve. I can’t wait to see the place again.”

  He said nothing, instead concentrating on the uneven and pitted road. Melody frowned, and set the house key down on her knees.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Just keeping my eyes on the road,” he mumbled as he glanced at her and flashed a fake smile which she saw through straight away.

  “No, there’s something else. You haven’t been yourself since this morning.”

  “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m just tired, and this is a big step for us. I want it to go well that’s all.”

  She seemed satisfied with his lie, and relaxed a little. They drove in silence for a while, Steve trying to keep the car on course and at the same time avoid ripping off vital parts of its anatomy. The narrow lane went on, and they delved deeper into the overarching trees of Oakwell Forest before eventually arriving at the house.

  It looked surreal as they approached. The dense trees suddenly opened up and, as they passed under the wooden sign on to what was officially their property, a perfect, golden shaft of sunlight illuminated the house, which looked even more stunning now that they had escaped the gloom of the tree canopy. Melody grinned and leapt out of the car before it had come to a complete halt. Steve hung back.

  The building was a large Colonial style property with a low, shallow roof. Since their last visit, the grass had been trimmed and a half-hearted attempt made to make the place look a little less dilapidated. Steve climbed out of the car and looked at the building, expecting to feel uneasy, but he was surprised to find that he was indifferent.

  “Hey, didn’t you forget something?” he called to Melody, holding the key up to her. She smiled sheepishly and came to him, kissing him gently on the lips.

  “Deliberate mistake. Come on, let’s go take a look around.”

  They started to walk towards the house, when Melody stopped.

  “I left my phone in the car and want to take a few photos. Go ahead and open up,” she said as she handed Steve the key.

  He nodded and walked on, trying to ignore the feel of the iron key against his skin as he neared the front door. The wood looked to be warped slightly; its lines were not quite as straight as they should be, and he thought that it would probably need to be replaced before too long, adding yet more expense to his already growing mental list of ‘shit that needed to be fixed.’

  The door had a brass knocker in the centre which had turned green with age and exposure to the elements. Steve ran his fingers over the ornate detailing as Melody caught up to him.

  “Beautiful isn’t it?” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.

  He couldn’t disagree. It was obviously hand-crafted, and the workmanship was amazing. It was a lion’s head, with an ornate swirling letter ‘J’ carved on either side of the roaring face.

  “I wonder what the letters stand for?” he said aloud, not really expecting an answer.

  “Jones I expect. After the man who built the place,” Melody said absently as she looked at the house.

  Steve turned towards her and flashed a grin.

  “I’m sure you just made that up.”

  “No,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “I did some research. There w
asn’t a whole lot of info on the place to be found, but I remember reading about the company that built it, and I’m sure one of them was called Jones… I think.”

  “And where was I when all this sleuthing was going on Mrs. Samson?” he said playfully.

  “Knowing you, Mr. Samson, you were probably either watching TV or had your nose buried in a book.”

  He laughed and turned to the door, inserting the key.

  “Well, here we go,” he said with a smile.

  He tried to turn it, but it would only move an inch or so.

  “Damn thing is stuck.”

  “It opened fine last time. Try turning it the other way.”

  He tried a little harder, pushing his shoulder into the door for leverage as he shook the key back and forth.

  “My guess is that the wood is swollen, it happens when the temperature changes.”

  “How do you know that?” Melody asked as he flashed a quick grin.

  “I saw it on TV whilst you were busy sleuthing on the internet.”

  She poked her tongue out at him and watched as he again shook the key back and forth in the door. After some effort, he gave up.

  “It’s stuck, I think the lock might be broken.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Well, we could come back later, or I could break in. I mean it’s our house, I suppose.”

  “No, you can’t break it,” Melody said a little too forcefully. She blushed and lowered her voice. “I mean it’s so old.”

  “We may need to replace this door anyway, so it doesn’t really make a difference, although now that I think about it, if I break it down the place will probably become a halfway house for the local wildlife.”