Whisper

by Michael Bray

  Fumbling for her keys, she was about to unlock the door when the wind dragged at the trees, and her heart leapt into her throat. She whirled on the spot and pressed her back to the door, staring wide-eyed into the swaying canopy of birch, cedar and oak.

  She was sure she’d heard her name.

  It was subtle, perhaps no more than her exhausted brain playing with the thoughts plaguing her. Nevertheless, she was sure enough to be spooked, and as she listened, she heard it again, a low, secretive whisper almost completely hidden beneath the rustle of the leaves. Her stomach somersaulted, the heady cocktail of fear and excitement attuning her senses as she stared into the dense foliage surrounding the property.

  Just like the previous morning when she’d received the anonymous text messages, she was struck by that horrible, overwhelming sense of being watched from the shadowy recesses of the woodland. She was suddenly acutely aware of everything around her.

  The feel of the chipped wood of the door where her fingertips pressed against it, the bite of the cold as the wind probed at her clothes, and above all else she was aware of just how vulnerable and alone she was.

  She strained her ears, and almost simultaneously realised just what was wrong. Other than the wind, there was complete silence.

  Usually the land surrounding Hope House was alive with birdsong, but now nature was silent, leaving just the wind. The atmosphere had taken on a decidedly dark, sterile tone. She drew breath, the crisp freshness of the air doing little to clear the terror that rippled within her like a living thing. It threatened to overwhelm her and send her running from the house never to return, and she asked herself if that were such a bad thing, to just get into the car and go to the hospital to collect Steve, and then from there back to New York. Away from the house, and whoever or whatever was trying to frighten them away.

  The wind hit her, flapping her long coat against her legs in a series of persistent taps. She barely noticed. She was listening for the sound of her name. This time, however, she couldn’t decipher anything other than the natural sounds of the environment, and the charged atmosphere in the air suddenly diffused.

  She relaxed then, not realising how hard she’d been pushing herself back against the door and immediately took a step forward, allowing herself a small embarrassed smile. She had given herself the heebie jeebies, and hated the fact that she had allowed the situation to get on top of her. Turning back to the door, she unlocked it and let herself in.

  She wasn’t sure if she would even be able to sleep after everything that had happened, but within a half-hour and after a quick shower, she lay down and fell into a deep and much-needed slumber.

  20. THE VISITOR

  SHE KNEW IT WAS a dream. It held that ethereal, hazy quality that dreams always had. Hope House loomed in front of her, and yet it was different. Its paint was fresh and its wooden beams strong. The sun had almost set, and the grounds were bathed in a fiery orange glow which did nothing to stop the chill of the wind biting at her arms and legs. As she watched, a milky ground mist began to form in the dark reaches of the tangled forest. The vivid nature of the dream made her uncomfortable, as she looked around the familiar yet strange grounds, she felt the distressing sensation of being watched.

  Her eyes fell on the sign which hung above the dirt road leading away from the house. Here in her dream, however, the wood was new and the sign only half erected, tied at one end to the huge overhead beam. The main section of the sign proclaiming the house name swayed gently in the breeze and at the opposite side, a rickety looking ladder was propped against the wood.

  She was suddenly standing at its base having no recollection of walking to it. The sign towered above her, the thin mist she saw earlier clinging to her ankles.

  “Be careful, missus.”

  Startled, she whirled around and faced the source of the voice.

  She didn’t recognise the man.

  From his appearance, she could see that he was some kind of slave-worker. He was wearing tattered brown trousers, and his cocoa-skinned frame was painfully thin. She only noticed these things for a split second. However, her eyes were drawn to his neck, which bore the horrifying purple-blue ligature marks of strangulation. She should have been afraid, but the man’s eyes were kind and friendly.

  “Who are you?” she asked, unsure if she was ready for anything that this man had to say.

  He smiled, the expression knowing yet sorrowful. “Don’t be afraid, I aint’ gonna hurt you, missus,” the man replied in a deep, Southern accent.

  Even though she wanted to believe him, she took a cautious step backwards. Her foot clattered into the wooden leg of the ladder. “What do you want?”

  The man looked pained, and his eyes were filled with sorrow. “I come to warn you,” he said softly.

  “Warn me about what?”

  He smiled gently and looked around him, holding his arms to his sides as if showing the fruits of his labour. “This place, missus. This place and its whisperin’.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “You will if you stay here, course by then it’ll be too late.”

  “Are you somebody who died here?”

  He smiled, and it was enough of an answer.

  She opened her mouth to enquire further, but no words came. The wind rustled the treetops, and the man cocked his head to one side, and nodded.

  “They’re angry with you. They say you messin’ wit’ their plans.”

  “Who? What are you saying?”

  The man simply smiled. “Listen and you will hear, but not for too long, or they will get in yo’ head, like they did with your husband.”

  As if in direct response, the wind pushed and pulled at the treetops, and this time Melody did listen, trying to stretch her senses out into the forest which was now in heavy shadows as the last of the daylight faded.

  “I can’t hear anything; it’s just the trees.”

  “You have to listen past them. Listen to what’s under the wind.”

  “I tried I…”

  “Shhhhhh!” he said, putting a thin finger to his lips. “Jus’ listen.”

  She listened again, but could hear little more than the high tempo drum of her heart and the constant shhhhhhhhhhh sound of the trees. “This is stupid. I can’t hear anything.”

  The man nodded, and gave a thin smile. “Then could be that it ain’t too late for you.”

  He turned and walked towards the tree line, his arms folded behind his back. She noticed that nothing was disturbed as he moved—neither mist nor the grass underfoot.

  “Wait! Who are you?” she called to him.

  The man turned and set his gaze on her, and again offered his warm smile. “I ain’t nothin’ no more,” he said simply, and then walked into the woods.

  “Wait! Wait!” she called after him, but he didn’t answer, and was soon lost in shadows.

  She chased after him, her insatiable curiosity piqued. She wanted—needed—to know more, to extract more information from this man who had visited her in a dream that was infinitely more real and vivid than any she had ever experienced. She tried to push through the woods, but it felt as if it were trying to stop her, its sharp thorny branches clawing at her clothes and skin.

  “Please, wait!” she called breathlessly, but the man neither turned, nor did he deviate from his course.

  It seemed to Melody that as much as the trees were trying to stop her progression, they seemed to be opening up in front of the man, who didn’t have to duck, or change direction for a stubborn root, or overhanging branch.

  “Please!” she gasped, but the man walked on, and she fought against the dense woodland.

  She was suddenly in free air, and realised that she’d entered the vast open circle carved out of the forest. The man was standing in its centre, watching her. The circle was bathed in moonlight, and the man no longer looked friendly. His eyes were wide and filled with fear.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, his eyes flicking towards t
he trees that surrounded them.

  She wanted to tell him she wanted answers, but she didn’t have time to ask, because all rational thoughts were replaced with terror. The circle was drawing in, closing around them.

  “What’s happening?” she stammered.

  “You need to wake up. This is the bad place,” the man said softly.

  The air was charged with static, and the earth shook as the trees dragged themselves closer, their gnarled limbs slithering and swaying, resembling long-fingered talons stretching for her.

  “I don’t understand!” she sobbed.

  The man stood motionless, watching her with the same pleading look on his face.

  “No mo’ questions missus, you need to wake up!” he ordered, and she saw that he was as afraid as she was.

  The trees were touching her, cold and dry against her skin, probing at her clothes with sharp fingers.

  “Please!” she bellowed.

  “I… I cain’t help yo’.”

  The trees grasped at her, and she saw that they were now thickly muscled claws, long and knotted. One of them grabbed her arm, and she pulled away, tearing the skin from her wrist. She continued to scream as the trees smothered her, and then she was awake, sweating and panting, desperately wishing that she was not alone.

  It was daylight outside and bright bars of sunlight streamed through the window, pushing away the horrors of her nightmare. However, even awake, she was afraid to be alone in the house. But all paled in comparison to the fear that overcame her as she looked at her arm, and the narrow scratches across her wrist, which were still weeping blood.

  21. HOUSE CALL

  SHE WASHED AND DRESSED in a daze, unable to find the will to think about what had happened. The silence in the house was heavy and although Melody did her best to ignore it, she couldn’t help but feel discomfited. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping her third coffee of the morning, staring out of the window at the slate-grey skies and trying her best to ignore the house’s creaking and groaning as the wintry conditions pulled it this way and that.

  The house that was meant to be her sanctuary now felt as cold and desolate as a tomb. She marvelled at how, in such a short space of time, everything that had felt so right had become hopelessly derailed. She had been so preoccupied with the move and Steve’s increasingly erratic and irrational behaviour that she had neglected to consider how she was coping herself.

  She looked inward, testing the waters, trying to gauge just how she felt inside. The prognosis wasn’t great. She felt frayed and overstretched, sick with worry. And why not? she asked as she glanced at the scratches on her arm and ran her fingers lightly across them. She was determined not to get carried away with the situation. Besides, she supposed she could have done the scratches herself in the midst of the vivid nightmare, but even the thought of that was dismissed when she looked at her fingers—more so the lack of nails, which had been chewed down to the skin—an old habit from childhood gained in the midst of the never-ending arguments eventually leading to her parents’ divorce, which had now seemingly returned.

  She watched through the window as the treetops were wrenched in every direction, the hypnotic manner in which they moved making her eyes feel heavy. It reminded her of the ocean, ebbing and flowing, lulling her to sleep. She wondered how old those trees actually were? How ancient? How many people had they seen live in Hope House? How many had they seen move away or die here?

  Just to imagine such things made her aware of her own insignificance in the grand scheme of things. She didn’t want to look at them anymore, and turned her gaze away and saw the letter on the floor behind the front door.

  It was a plain brown envelope, unsealed and with no writing or other markings. She walked to the door, picked it and opened the flap, removing the folded slip of paper from inside.

  We need to talk.

  See me as soon as you can.

  Annie Briggs.

  Melody’s heart-rate increased as she threw the door open and stepped outside, but Mrs. Briggs was nowhere to be seen. The wind buffeted and teased her with droplets of rain. She clutched her arms to her body, shielding herself against the cold as she scanned the green and brown foliage and the exit road for her unannounced visitor.

  Immediately, she felt exposed and observed, and the sight of the wooden awning over the road leading away from Hope House brought back horrible, disturbing memories of the previous night’s dream. As much as being in the house made her feel uneasy, outside was somehow more frightening.

  She went back inside and closed the door, and, without really thinking about it, locked it. It was still too early to go and visit Steve at the hospital, plus she needed to think about what to do about the Mrs. Briggs situation.

  “Hell with it,” she muttered under her breath, then went upstairs and began to fill the bath.

  ***

  For the first time in what felt like an age, Melody felt relaxed. Basking in the silence, she lay in the deep white bathtub, her head back and eyes closed as she tried to soak away her troubles. The house was silent, and it seemed that even the endless blustery gusts weren’t able to penetrate her steam-filled sanctuary.

  She had found that rare place—the middle ground between sleeping and consciousness—and there her worries seemed distant and detached. She put her hands on the flat of her belly under the water and realised that, soon, everything was going to change. Since finding out that she was pregnant, she had managed to avoid thinking about it. However, now in her relaxed state the fear and doubts about not only her ability to be a mother, but also the current state of affairs with the house, Steve and even herself, tried to push their way to the fore.

  She felt as if someone were inside her head and picking away at the seams of her sanity. She was surer than ever that something was being kept from her. Mrs. Briggs certainly knew more than she was letting on, and she suspected that Will at the bar knew something too. Even Steve had appeared troubled when they were in the pub, but was fine before his secret conversation with the barman. And so, despite everything she was still in the same place and as unsure of anything as ever—which in turn made her more determined to find out.

  She still wasn’t sure how to proceed with the Mrs. Briggs situation, and was swaying towards leaving that particular can of worms unopened, but at the same time she did want answers.

  And what if those answers only raised more questions?

  Well then, she would just deal with that as and when. Either way, she knew that lying around feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help.

  As if somebody had listened in on her thoughts, there was a knock at the door. Sure that it was Mrs. Briggs, she quickly got out of the bath and wrapped a towel around her, then hurried downstairs.

  “Just a second,” she called as she walked as quickly as she dared with wet feet across the wooden floor.

  She opened the door.

  “I’m sorry I was… “

  She stopped, losing her train of thought. Instead of Mrs. Briggs, it was Donovan, who was barely able to hide his delight at her wet, half-naked appearance. He flashed his sleazy, wide grin as she shielded herself with her arms.

  “Mrs. Samson, apologies for the intrusion,” he said with apparent sincerity, which was betrayed by the sleazy way in which he openly stared at her body.

  “I hope I didn’t get you at a bad time,” he said, leaning on the door frame and giving what she supposed was his best flirtatious smile.

  “Actually it is, I’m a little busy right…”

  “Oh, I’m just checking in. I heard about the incident with Mr. Samson and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  She felt exposed and vulnerable and even a little afraid of the leering realtor, but tried her best to hide it.

  “Oh, we’re fine. Thank you for stopping by, though.”

  “I love what you’ve done with this place,” Donovan replied, walking past her uninvited into the house and looking around the sitting room.

  “Mr
. Donovan, this isn’t the best time…” she said, unable to fully hide her anger.

  “Don’t worry Mrs. Samson… or may I call you Melody?”

  He waited for a response with his head slightly tilted to one side, and she could feel him willing the towel which was just about covering her modesty to fall down.

  “Mrs. Samson will be fine,” she replied sharply, closing the door as Donovan walked around the large sitting room, looking at ornaments and photographs in between leering glances in her direction.

  “Understood. Some clients prefer the more…personal touch,” he said, shooting her towel another hungry look.

  “Look, no offence Mr. Donovan, but this isn’t the best time. I have a lot to do today.”

  “Oh, I won’t keep you. I’m also busy today. This is just a courtesy call. How is Mr. Samson?”

  She couldn’t shake the ominous vibe which radiated off Donovan in waves. Her state of undress made his leering even more uncomfortable than ever.

  “He’s fine. He should be home today or tomorrow.”

  Donovan paused in his inspection of the photograph of Steve and Melody on their wedding day, and half turned toward her.

  “Oh, is Mr. Samson still in the hospital? I was under the impression that he was here.”

  A tiny voice of warning began to speak in Melody’s head, and she realised that she was half-naked and alone in the middle of nowhere with a man she didn’t know. She wanted to be rid of him, not only because he had no business calling, but because she was nervous and more than a little afraid to be with him without Steve.

  “He could be home any minute,” she lied, forcing herself to smile. It was no more than an empty gesture, a manipulation of the facial muscles that she hoped showed more confidence than she felt.

  “Would you like a drink?” she heard herself say, because that was what people did when guests called, even ones as unwanted as Donovan.

  “Coffee would be fantastic, thank you,” said her slimy guest, who for the umpteenth time undressed her with his eyes. “It’s a little brisk out there.”