Whisper
Page 4
He waved back and held up the cigarette. “Give me a second. I’ll just finish this smoke.”
Melody waved her acknowledgement and went back inside, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts. He found his mind drifting towards the path in the woods and, again, he forced himself to shut it out. He had enough concerns with sorting through the teething problems of the move without worrying about missing bridges and mysterious forest tracks. He grinned at his stupidity, flicked the remains of his cigarette into the water, and headed back to the house to help Melody.
A few hours later, they flopped down on the large plush sofa in the sitting room. The house was starting to take shape, although there were still a few boxes scattered here and there waiting to be unpacked. Melody had poured them both a large glass of wine, and then snuggled close to him.
“What a day,” she said as she kicked off her shoes.
“Tell me about it. You would make someone a good dictator,” Steve teased.
“You’re lucky I’m not so strict, or I would have been out there kicking your ass for slinking off to smoke instead of helping.”
“Promises, promises,” he said with a grin. “And besides I wasn’t skiving I was… overseeing the move.”
Melody leapt up and straddled Steve, hooking her hands around his neck.
“Overseeing the move, huh?” she said, kissing him gently on the lips.
“Of course, I was making sure everything had its proper—”
She kissed him passionately, her tongue probing into his mouth. She pulled back, and he marvelled at how beautiful she looked in the soft glow of the corner lamp. Her eyes locked onto his, and her next words were almost a whisper.
“And how would Mr. Samson like to spend his first night in his new house?”
She kissed him again, and took her t-shirt off over her head.
“Well, I was going to suggest a quiet night and a movie, but now…”
She grinned and leaned close, and they fell greedily on each other, before stumbling to the bedroom. Neither of them noticed the old rocking chair in the corner of the room as it slowly swayed back and forth of its own accord, nor the sound of the wind as it shook the trees, making them shake and whisper.
8. THE RAGE
THE DOG HAD BEEN barking for over two hours. Donovan kicked at his covers and pulled the pillow over his head, but still he could hear it. He threw the pillow across the bedroom and glanced at the clock. He would need to be up in around three hours, and the little sleep he had managed had been disturbed by the incessant barking. The rage bubbled and stirred within, a feeling which both frightened and exhilarated him. For so long it had remained dormant, but on occasion, it would make itself known and he knew well enough that when that happened, it would need to be satisfied.
He climbed out of bed and walked to the closet, pushing past his array of cheap business suits to the hanger at the back, and took the clothing from it to the bed. Faded jeans, white t-shirt, dark grey hoodie, black gloves. He laid them out carefully, and his heart rate increased, beautifully complimenting the giddy butterfly feeling in his stomach. He dressed slowly, allowing the rage to bubble and build and swell. It always went this way.
Still the dog barked, a monotonous yap yap yap, but it no longer concerned Donovan, because the rage was now in control. Once dressed, he walked to the window and looked out into next door’s garden. There it was, the scruffy terrier that had kept him from his sleep, barking at the house and pleading for its owners to open the door. He wondered how they—the Parsons—could sleep through such noise, and why they didn’t just let the animal in, but whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Donovan went downstairs, pausing only to grab the steak out of the fridge that he had planned to eat later in the week, but this was more important. The rage was growing, and it was almost to that frightening point of no return. He opened the door and went outside.
Donovan’s back-yard was small and grubby, surrounded by a small fence which offered neither privacy nor protection. But it was late, and he didn’t think it would matter. Sensing his presence, the dog jumped up at the fence, growling at him and showing its teeth. Donovan approached, holding out the steak to the dog. The growling stopped, as the skinny wretch of an animal drooled at the potential meal.
Donovan smiled, the expression cold and alien, and one which, if flashed at a human, would give them a glimpse of who he really was beneath the exterior he chose to show people. But the dog cared only for the meat, and so it trusted the human without question.
“Here boy,” Donovan whispered pleasantly as he held the cut of meat towards the dog.
The animal responded, its nose twitching in anticipation. As it licked its lips, thick strands of drool began to ooze from the edges of its mouth. Donovan could see the creature’s name tag on its collar.
Spike.
He smiled at the irony as he reached the fence, allowing the dog to take one edge of the meat in its mouth. Spike tried to wrestle it away, but Donovan’s grip was firm, and the rage was flowing through him. Spike had given up on trying to take the meat, and was content to perch there on the fence on his front paws and try to bite a chunk to take away.
Donovan smiled as he brought the knife up and plunged it into the animal’s neck.
It uttered a whimper and tried to pull away, but Donovan had already grabbed it by the collar and pulled it over the fence. He pushed the blade deeper as the dog whined and scrabbled to get away, but the rage was strong, and Donovan easily overpowered it. He sat astride the terrier and watched as its whimpers faded to shallow breaths, then eventually to silence.
The sky was starting to brighten, and the first birdsong of pre-dawn was coming. Donovan paused to savour the moment, then stood, brushing dirt from his knees as he picked the lifeless animal up, tucking it under one arm. He retrieved the partially chewed steak and walked back to the house.
He was happy.
Happy because for now, the rage was satisfied but, as always, it would only be a matter of time before it came back. He tossed the dead dog on the kitchen floor, mesmerised by the bloody streak it left behind as it slid to a halt. The knife went in the sink, the chewed up steak in the bin. Even though it had been sated, the rage was still talking to him, telling him what he had to do. And as always, he would obey it without question.
A little while later
Mrs Parsons stood at the door, looking into her empty back-yard, a frown etched on her portly face.
“Spike, come on Spike,” she called, wondering if the stupid dog had managed to escape again. She took a slipper-clad step out into the yard, pulling her dressing gown closer to her.
“Spike!” she called again. “Stupid fucking dog,” she muttered as an afterthought.
“Excuse me, Mrs Parsons.”
Startled, the obese woman flicked her head toward the voice.
“Oh, good morning Mr Donovan.”
“Good morning. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said warmly, glancing up at the sky, which was a brilliant blue. “Is everything okay ma’am? Anything I can help with?”
She waddled to the fence, pausing to light a cigarette, and watched Donovan as he hosed his yard down.
“It’s my dog, it’s gone missing again,” she said with a sigh.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Donovan said sincerely. “What breed is it?”
“It’s a terrier, but he isn’t house trained, so I have to leave him outside.”
“Oh, I see,” Donovan said as he turned the hose off and gave his neighbour his full attention.
“Well, I’ve been up for a while, and I did see a terrier out front in the street. Light blue collar if I remember rightly,” he said with a perfectly manufactured look of concern.
“Oh, that’s him. How the hell did he get out there?”
“Well ma’am, I suppose he must have escaped through the gap in the fence there.”
“What gap?” Mrs Parsons said as she blew smoke out of her nostrils.
“Uh, that one over there ma’am” Donovan said apologetically, pointing to his handiwork.
“That damn dog!” Mrs Parsons said, rolling her eyes and taking another great drag of her cigarette.
Donovan smiled pleasantly, at the same time wondering how such a fat, disgusting mass of flesh was still alive. He wondered what it would be like to cut her throat, how glorious it would be to see someone so immense bleed out.
The rage stirred within him.
“Are you okay, Mr. Donovan?”
“Oh, I’m fine Mrs. Parsons. I’m just wishing I had more information to help you with.”
“It’s okay, it’s my fault.” She sighed. “I better get dressed and go look for him.”
“Good idea, I doubt he would have got far.” Donovan replied.
He spotted some blood by the fence that he had missed.
“Well, I’d better get back to work,” he said, turning on the hose and spraying away the blood.
“Yes, yes of course. Thank you Mr Donovan,” she said as she waddled back inside the house. Donovan watched her go, and then turned back to hosing down his yard.
He smiled.
It really was a beautiful day.
9. THE WOODCUTTER
November 12th 1816
THE WOODCUTTER PAUSED, wiping a grubby forearm against his brow. He had been working hard all morning, and had almost cut enough wood to see his family through the winter, which even now threatened to unleash its fury from snow-laden skies. The surrounding trees were bare and wiry, and around his feet the ground was a golden orange and brown carpet of fallen leaves. His breath plumed in the chilly early-morning air, and he returned to his work, rearing back with the huge axe and driving it down hard, expertly splintering the slab of wood and tossing it onto the pile with the others.
He had been ignoring the voices speaking to him all morning.
He hoped that by not acknowledging their existence, he would not have to deal with the possibility that he might be insane. He paused again and set another chunk of wood on the tree stump, then heard it clearly—his name buried under the breath of the wind.
He looked into the trees, green eyes staring intently as he surveyed the land. Water rolled past the house slowly under the footbridge which he had built in order to cross to the other side of the river—although now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the reason why. He had neither business nor desire to go that way, and yet felt compelled to build the bridge anyway. He had half an idea that there was something over there, something powerful and important, but what it was, he couldn’t remember.
Setting his axe down, he walked slowly to the bridge and looked across the water. His instinct screamed at him to turn back, but he disregarded the warning and crossed. The opposite bank was cooler, the brush overgrown and wild. He heard the chorus of the trees as they were pushed around by the wind, and held his breath and listened.
Yes.
The voices were clearer now, beckoning him closer, deeper into the forest. He walked towards the sounds, his work forgotten, and he ignored the sharp pain as overgrown branches and thorny bushes grabbed at his clothes as he pushed his way through the tangled foliage.
The source of the sound was hard to pinpoint, seeming to come from every direction at once, but over on this side of the water, they were no longer sweet and encouraging. Now they said things that horrified him. He covered his ears, trying to ignore the terrible, frightening things they said to him, and what they were telling him to do. He grimaced, gritting his gappy, uneven teeth. Nausea swept over him as his senses became overwhelmed. He no longer knew which way he had come, or which way he was heading. He was lost and all he could see around him were immense roots and moss-covered trees swaying and dancing and singing and speaking.
Screaming with rage, the woodcutter fell to his knees, covering his ears to try to keep the awful horrors of those words at bay, but to no avail. The voices were in his head, infecting his brain and polluting his thoughts. He reached up and grabbed the silver crucifix which he wore around his neck and began to pray for his soul, but still the words came, mocking and taunting, and as they spoke, the most atrocious ideas began to fill his mind.
A short time later.
He lay on his side, eyes glassy and vacant, mouth turned into a twisted grin. There was merciful silence, and even though he lay on the cold earth and was stiff and damp, he didn’t mind, because he could barely hear them anymore. Those appalling, dark voices were silent at last.
The sky above him was white, and the wind jabbed at his body like thousands of tiny daggers, yet he still couldn’t move or stop smiling. The first lazy snowflakes of winter fell, and one touched his cheek with its soft caress. Still the woodcutter did not stir. He was afraid that if he did, they would know, and if they knew he was sure that they would start to speak to him again. He would do anything to avoid having to listen to those abhorrent words.
He had managed to shut them out, that much was true, but he had gone to extreme lengths to do so. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that if they should start talking to him again, he would not be able to stop them. So he would stay where he was and wait until they went away. The snow began to fall more heavily, and it had already started to cover the ground and the woodcutter himself. He closed his eyes and imagined that the snow on his cheeks was the tender kiss of his wife, or the loving embrace of his children. The wind rose and he swallowed a scream, for he was certain that he heard them again, barely audible on the very edge of the breeze, somehow spoken by the trees themselves as they swayed.
He wondered how it could be, how it was possible. He shouldn’t be able to hear much. After all, he’d already cut off his ears, and that had seemed to diminish the voices—for a while at least. He began to shiver, but was still too afraid to move. He couldn’t risk listening to their words again, of the things they told him to do to his wife and child, as they were things that would surely give any man nightmares for the rest of his life.
No.
He would wait. Wait until they went away. Surely, they couldn’t talk forever. He was a patient man. As soon as they were quiet, he would return to the house and tell his wife all about the horrible things that the voices had said to him. It all made sense now, the inexplicable things that had been happening. Just small things, not enough on their own to cause too many concerns—things that he knew he’d put in a certain place appearing somewhere else without him or his wife moving them—or the way things would get somehow burned at the edges with no explanation. But now it made sense, because the voices had told him that it was them all along.
The snow lay against his bloated, engorged body in great drifts which reached up to his waist, and despite the intense cold, he managed a dirty, vacant smile. The voices weren’t so bad once you got used to them, he thought as he forced a fistful of dirt into his mouth with blue and unfeeling hands. And if you listened to them long enough they made sense. The snow continued to fall, and he continued to eat.
It took eleven hours for the hypothermia to kill the woodcutter, but by then he was already quite mad. He had stuffed as many leaves and stones into the bloody remains of his ears as he could, in order to blot out the frightening and disturbing words that the trees whispered, and because they told him to, had continued eating the earth itself, shovelling great handfuls of rotten leaves, dirt and worms into his mouth as he gibbered and cackled.
The trees were still talking to him as he lost consciousness.
10. ACROSS THE RIVER
DESPITE HIS RESERVATIONS, Steve had grown accustomed to living in Hope House. Seven weeks had passed since that first night, and with the majority of the repair work done, he found himself more and more at ease with the solitude of the countryside. He lay on the sofa in the small annex off the kitchen reading his newspaper, the house now pretty much organized and tidy.
He was enjoying the be
nefits of working from home, and as a session musician for TV and film, combined with the wonder of high speed internet, it meant that he could work when he wanted on his own terms. He had been toying with the idea of installing a studio in the house but Melody wasn’t keen, saying that it would go against the traditional feel of the building. He supposed that she was right, and instead he had managed to free up enough money to build one as a separate building out back.
He glanced up from his newspaper and could see it out of the window; it was only small, no more than a medium-sized walk-in building about the same dimensions as a greenhouse or shed, but it was his and, once the soundproofing was done and the rest of his equipment installed, it would give him a place to work without the two hour-plus commutes to the recording studios that he would have to otherwise make in order to deliver on time. It also meant that he could work whenever his creative spark switched itself on, and not be forced to try to produce something when the ideas just weren’t there. It gave him a good reason to spend a little time outside the house itself, too.
Although it was true that he had got used to it, there were still aspects that bothered him. Just silly things, like when he had come home and put his car keys in the dish on the end table by the door, and couldn’t find them when he next went to get them. Melody had insisted that she hadn’t moved them, and a frustrating search later, he found them in the kitchen drawer. He was certain that he hadn’t put them there (before then he had never even opened that particular drawer at all) but it wasn’t worth stressing over and so he hadn’t worried too much about it.
There were other things as well. Even though neither of them smoked in the house (a joint agreement to avoid the ingrained stench and yellowed nicotine stains from appearing on walls and ceilings) sometimes he would walk into a room and find that he could smell nicotine fumes. Not just normal aroma from cigarettes either, but thick, heavy smoke like the stuff that used to tumble off the end of the huge brown cigars that his grandfather had been partial to.