Whisper

by Michael Bray

  11. THE DREAM

  STEVE RACED THROUGH the trees, heart pounding thickly in his chest as he tried to shrug away the grasping pull of the branches. He was exhausted, but knew he had to push on. It was hard to see where he was going, as the night was dark and the woods were inky black and treacherous. However, he was not entirely unaided: there was a pale yellow moon that gave just enough light for him to keep heading in the right direction. His foot snagged on an old root, and he was certain that he was about to fall, but he pin-wheeled his arms and somehow managed to remain upright. He knew that he was almost out of time and, lowering his head, he increased his speed, driving through the sharp branches and the pained protests of his lungs.

  He arrived at the dead tree, its hollowed-out trunk resembling a ghastly maw in the faint moonlight. He saw her, and stifled a scream. Melody was sitting high on a long, thick branch, her petite legs swinging back and forth as she slipped the noose around her neck. He tried to call out to her, but the efforts of running through the trees had rendered him breathless, so he could only watch, his breath coming in ragged gasping wheezes, as she stood in his oversized shirt billowing and flapping against her bare legs as she tottered for balance. He reached out for the tree, wanting to climb up to her, but he could see no way to do so, or any handholds on the smooth surface of the trunk to aid his ascent. He craned his neck and saw her smile at him, her eyes dreamy and vacant as she stepped off the edge. He felt the scream launch itself hoarsely from his mouth as the rope pulled taut and her tiny body snapped to a halt.

  He woke with a start.

  For a moment, he thought he was still there at the tree, but the familiarity of his surroundings found him, and he quelled the scream in his throat, instead letting out a disgruntled sigh at another night’s sleep disturbed by nightmares. They’d begun the day after they’d gone to the woodland circle and had plagued him almost every night since. Often it would be the dream with Melody high up in the dead branches, but on other occasions it was he himself who was up there with the noose around his neck, powerless to stop himself from stepping to his death as Melody watched from below. He glanced over to her, checking that she was okay and still safe, relaxing a little as he watched the rhythmic breathing of untroubled sleep. With the horror of his nightmare fading, he glanced at the luminescent display of the digital alarm clock. It told him that it was just after four in the morning. As if to confirm what it said, he heard the birds outside in the trees heralding the dawn of a new day with their intrusive songs. Armed with the knowledge that his night’s sleep was over with, he climbed quietly out of bed and went downstairs.

  The nightly imaginings worried him. Until he and Melody had moved into Hope House, he would rarely ever remember his dreams, something which he would gladly take back if it would mean an end to experiencing them now in such horrific clarity. His mother took great pleasure in telling and re-telling the same story about how, as a boy, he had slept through a small earthquake that had shaken the house he’d grown up in hard enough to knock the pictures off the walls and send the huge silver chest freezer in the pantry sliding all the way to the opposite side of the room. She would recall with joy how he hadn’t stirred, even as the other residents of the neighbourhood were charging around in panic.

  He smiled to himself as he poured a glass of milk, not bothering to turn on the light—the hazy early dawn offered enough for him to be able to see what he was doing. He walked to the window and looked out over the back garden and the river. A low mist was rolling gently just above the ground, and the sky was white and cloudless. He thought there was a good chance of snow later, and as he watched he saw the treetops swaying as they were tossed around by the wind. He finished his drink then walked to the sitting room, skirting around the plush leather sofa and sitting instead in the rocker they’d rescued, now positioned by the fireplace. It was odd, as he had never had the desire to sit in it before, but as he began to sway gently back and forth, he found himself smiling contentedly. It felt right to him.

  Comfortable.

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  It was as if it had been made for him, as if the hundred-year-old wood was crafted for the exact shape of his body.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  He thought that all the world’s troubles could be solved by sitting in the quiet and just relaxing. He imagined a huge table filled with the leaders of the world, all in matching rockers, as they made peace and forgot their petty squabbles over oil, land borders and political agendas.

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  He could hear the sound of the wind rustling in the treetops, finding it soothing. It reminded him of the ocean, as well as that secret childhood sound found inside seashells. How old were the trees? he wondered as he closed his eyes. How long had they stood? How deep did their roots go? What travesties of humanity had they witnessed over the years?

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  He allowed his mind and body to rest. He liked the sound from outside. The trees sounded like they were talking among themselves, holding secret conversations not meant for human ears. Perhaps they didn’t know that he was up and awake, thinking that their long, slow words went unheard. But, from his new favourite chair, he could hear everything. As he sat in the dark, listening to the branches as they were tugged this way and that, he could almost imagine that they spoke to him alone. And if they were, then it was okay. Because he thought he could, with time, learn to understand what they were saying.

  His mobile phone vibrated on the coffee table, snapping him from his musings. Because the reception at Hope House was so spotty, both he and Melody had already grown used to a world away from the constant assault of text messages and the reading of social networking websites on the go, which to him wasn’t such a bad thing. Curious, he scooped up the phone and looked at the display.

  1 NEW MESSAGE

  He hesitated, unsure why he was so reluctant, then swept aside his own stupidity and clicked the button to open the message.

  Hi Steve. :-)

  Even though there was nothing sinister in the content, it still made the flesh on his arms prickle, causing him to glance around the shadow-draped room. He read it again, asking himself if it was just a combination of his tiredness and the tension he felt around the house making him misread the situation, or something altogether more sinister, when the phone vibrated again, two quick pulses. His heart began to thump a little faster, and he licked his lips as he looked at the screen.

  2 NEW MESSAGES

  Both appeared to be from the same sender, although the display listed the number as unknown. He clicked into his inbox, and selected the first message.

  It’s only us. :-)

  Again, on the surface there was nothing sinister about the text, but as he looked at it, the surer he was that whoever had sent it was mocking him in some way. Despite his every instinct screaming at him not to, he opened the second one. This one contained no smiley, no jovial tone of the previous communications. The content of this one was to the point, and even though he was a twenty-nine year-old man, Steve was afraid.

  We see you.

  It was simple, to the point. And raised more questions than he thought he would be able to find answers for. He toyed with what to do, or if he should take the messages seriously. He asked himself if it was a matter for the police, then almost immediately dismissed it. No crime had been committed, and he could almost guarantee he would be looked at by the local constabulary as the out of town new guy who got spooked by living in his old house in the woods.

  And then there was Melody. She loved the house, and he didn’t want to bother her with something as trivial as someone trying to pull a tasteless prank on the new family in town. He decided that he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction and, with his decision made, he deleted the messages and switched off the phone. Not wanting Melody to be alone, and feeling a little too isolated and exposed, he went upstairs and climbed into bed. He was certain that he wouldn’t sleep,
and for a while he had simply lain there watching the sky through the bedroom window as it slowly and subtly grew lighter. The clock by the bedside said it was almost six, and he was just toying with the idea of giving up on sleep and getting up again, when he drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep. Outside, the wind blustered and spoke, and the house creaked and groaned in answer.

  12. DRINKS AT THE OAK

  THE OLD OAK PUBLIC house was around a five-mile drive from Hope House and sat on the edge of Oakville. Following the stress of the last few weeks, setting up house and attending to the niggling little issues which plague a move into a new property, they decided to take a much needed break and to pay a visit to the local—in fact, the only—watering hole.

  “Looks quiet,” Steve mumbled as he brought their trusty Passat to a halt and looked around the almost empty car park.

  “I love it,” Melody said excitedly.

  Steve nodded in agreement. It looked inviting, not like the snooty, modern wine bars of the city which were usually both devoid of atmosphere and filled with arrogant idiots in business suits who drank too much and got rowdy far too easily.

  “I bet it’s like in those movies,” Steve said with a grin.

  “What movies?”

  “The old Westerns. You know, we walk in and everyone stops talking and look at us like we’re a couple of aliens or something.”

  “You think the locals won’t like us being here?”

  Steve turned to her in his seat, and put on an awful hillbilly voice. “We don’t take kindly to strangers here in these parts.”

  “Cut it out,” she said, slapping him lightly on the arm, but still unable to mask her smile. “Come on, let’s go in. I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

  “Lucky me,” he said, climbing out of the car.

  They headed for the entrance, and just before they went inside, Steve leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “I bet they have one of those pictures on the wall with eyes that follow you…”

  She nudged him in the ribs as they went inside.

  There was a picture on the wall—an imposing oil painting of a heavy set man standing arms folded in front of a construction site—but as far as they could tell its eyes didn’t follow them as they approached the bar, nor did the locals stop and stare at them as Steve had suggested. Instead their presence went mostly unnoticed as they took in their surroundings. It was exactly as they’d imagined it would be from outside. As with everything in Oakville, the modern world seemed to have bypassed the Old Oak almost entirely, and apart from the modern heaters and light fittings, it was the very embodiment of the word traditional. Melody grinned at Steve, and he couldn’t help but return the gesture. They were greeted by the bartender, a huge, broad shouldered man with long, jet black hair and friendly eyes.

  “What can I get you?” he said, leaning on the bar and watching them carefully.

  “Hi. Pint of the house beer for me please and…” Steve glanced over to Melody with eyebrows raised.

  “Just an orange juice for me.”

  The man nodded and started to prepare the drinks as Steve sat on a vacant stool.

  “You two new around here?” the man asked, setting the orange juice down.

  “Yeah, we just bought a place a few miles down the road.”

  The man held out his hand.

  “In that case let me be the first to welcome you. I’m Will Jones.”

  Steve shook the man’s hand, which felt like a block of rough granite.

  “Thanks. I’m Steve. This is my wife, Melody.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” he said as he started to pull Steve’s pint of beer. “So, where is this place of yours?”

  “It’s a little place in the woods called Hope House,” Steve said.

  Will did not pause as such, but there was a definite reaction, just a flicker of something in his facial expression, which was there and gone almost immediately. He set the drink before Steve.

  “Aye, I know Hope House. My great, great grandfather built it,” said Will, rolling his eyes to the portrait behind him.

  Melody stepped back and, now that it had been pointed out to her, she could see a striking resemblance—Will and the man in the painting had the same eyes and jaw line.

  “That’s amazing,” she said with a smile. “Why is it that you don’t live there?”

  Will flashed a small smile and shook his head. “I would never live in Hope House,” Will said with a dry chuckle.

  “Why not?” Melody said defensively.

  We see you.

  Melody, relax,” Steve said with a nervous smile and trying to push away the memories of the strange text messages that he still hadn’t told her about.

  Will licked his lips nervously. “No offence of course, it’s just not for me, that’s all. Besides, this is my place, here at the Oak. I’m sure the two of you will be very happy there. Now if you would excuse me, I have another customer.”

  Without waiting for a response he headed off to the opposite side of the bar, leaving Steve and Melody alone.

  “Jesus Mel, hell of a way to make an impression.”

  “I thought he was going to badmouth our new house.”

  “Did you see the size of the guy’s arms? He can badmouth anything he wants to. Besides, I don’t think he meant anything by it.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, watching Will as he served one of the regulars. “What did you think about his reaction when we told him where we lived?”

  “I think maybe you should just leave it alone for now, don’t you?” Steve said. “We don’t want to get ourselves barred from the only pub for miles because you offended the owner.”

  Melody knew Steve was teasing, and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “Cut it out. I’m sure he’s not offended.”

  “Yeah? I can imagine it now, him telling the locals about the arrogant new people who have just moved in to Hope House—all short-tempered and full of beans.”

  He was messing with her, and she was playing along, even though she did wonder if she had, in fact, hurt Will’s feelings. She took a sip of her drink then looked at Steve with a mock scowl.

  “I’ll show you, Steven Samson. You just watch.”

  He mock grimaced, playing on the fact that she knew full well how much he hated being called by his first name.

  “Mrs. Samson, I’m offended.”

  Melody poked her tongue out and then called across the bar.

  “Mr. Jones, could I ask you a question please?”

  Melody flicked a teasing glance towards Steve as the burly barman approached. For his part, Steve kept his face neutral.

  “What can I do for you?” Will asked standing and folding his immense forearms. Steve couldn’t help but feel intimidated.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you knew anything of the history of Hope House?”

  Will’s brow furrowed, and again Steve had the distinct impression that their host was choosing his words carefully.

  We see you.

  “Well I don’t know much myself. I was never really all that interested in the past, only in what is yet to be.”

  “Makes sense” Steve said around a gentle sip of his beer. He tried his best not to grimace at the less than savoury taste.

  “I appreciate that Mr. Jones, I just wondered if there was anything at all you could tell me,” Melody pressed.

  “You two bought Hope House without checking its history?”

  The way he’d said it made it sound more like a statement than a question, the surprise in his voice noticed by both of them.

  “What do you mean by history?” Melody asked, all joking forgotten.

  Even though the immense man dwarfed her, she held his gaze, and Steve was surprised to see that it was him who seemed uncomfortable.

  “I really don’t know much. But a place as old as Hope House is bound to have some stories attached to it. One thing that never changes in this world is that people talk and stories are told.”r />
  “What do you mean by stories?”

  “Like I said, I don’t really know.”

  “Well, is there anyone locally who might be able to tell us more?”

  Will licked his lips and looked incredibly uncomfortable. As much as Steve wanted to help get him off the hook and tell Melody to back off, he was also curious to know what Will was hiding that might explain some of the things that had been happening in and around the house.

  “Mrs. Briggs over there in the corner,” Will said, gesturing across the room, “She’s something of an amateur historian. If anyone knows anything it’s her.”

  Melody and Steve turned around to see a grizzled old lady sitting in the corner. She was with two other equally ancient companions and, even from across the room, the sound of their cackling was grating on the ears. Steve had a vision of the opening scene of Macbeth, and could quite imagine Mrs. Briggs and her coven cackling and stirring a huge iron cauldron, rather than sipping vodka and tonic.