Whisper

by Michael Bray

  She was now sitting in the living room opposite Steve. He had lit the natural fire in the hearth, making the room cosy and warm. Even though he’d assured her that he had checked the house from top to bottom and had locked all the doors and windows, she’d made him check a further three times. She took a small sip of tea, while looking over at Steve, who was observing her intently.

  “How’s the hand?” she asked him softly, trying her best to offer a smile and not quite succeeding.

  “It’s fine, just a scratch,” he replied, showing her the bandage.

  “I’m sorry… I… didn’t think it was you.”

  “Melody, my hand is the least of our troubles. Now I need you to talk to me. What happened here today?”

  She lowered her eyes, staring into her cup. “I was supposed to come and pick you up. You shouldn’t have had to come home by yourself, I…”

  “Melody,” he said sternly, and then gave her a reassuring smile that was only marginally more successful than hers. “It’s okay. Now please, tell me what happened.”

  She set her cup on the table, and looked him in the eye. “Promise me something first.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise me that when I tell you, you won’t go and do anything stupid. We’ve just moved here, and I don’t want this to ruin things for us. Can you promise?”

  “I can’t, not before I know what happened. The best I can give you is that I’ll try to do what you ask.”

  “You always do. God, I’m so stupid.” She would have wept, but didn’t think she had any tears left. Instead, she held them back and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

  “Melody, please, this is killing me. What the hell happened here?”

  She told him.

  About Donovan, about how he chased her through the woods as well as his unwillingness to follow her into the circle. All the time she was speaking, he watched her in stony silence. She had hoped for a reaction, and would have settled for any kind of emotion at all, but he simply watched. She had reached the part of the story that on some level, she was more reluctant to discuss than the Donovan situation.

  “Steve, there’s something else.”

  Silence

  Shadows licked at his face from the glow of the firelight, and there was something about it that troubled her.

  “Go on,” he said softly.

  “It’s about the things you said… the things you said about this house.”

  He waited patiently for her to elaborate. It occurred to her absently that this must be how therapy was. The patient rambling on to a silent and overpaid listener.

  “There is something… off about it. I know that now,” she blurted, watching carefully for his reaction.

  He licked his lips and leaned forward slightly.

  “Did you hear them? The whispers?”

  “I’m not sure… maybe I… everything is like a huge blur right now. But if you are asking me if I think that there’s something off about this house, then yes, I would agree.”

  It felt good to get it off her chest. She waited for Steve’s inevitable leap into action, but instead he simply nodded, sat back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee.

  The silence seemed to last an age, and for what seemed like an eternity the only sound was the spit and crackle of the fire and the dull bluster of the conditions outside. He looked at her, his eyes impossible for her to read.

  “What do you think we ought to do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I mean I’m not even sure what ‘it’ actually is. All I know is that there is something here, an essence, a… I don’t know.”

  “Let’s call it what it is. An entity. A spirit. A fucking ghost.”

  His smile seemed to shimmer in the shifting light of the fire, and despite the heat of the room, she shivered.

  “I think we should speak to the old woman from the bar.”

  “Mrs. Briggs? I don’t see how she can help us.”

  “She knows the history of this place.”

  She was going to mention about the note that Mrs. Briggs had left, but that might lead to questions she didn’t want to answer, so skimmed over it. Steve didn’t seem to notice. He set his cup down and perched himself on the edge of the chair.

  “I think I know a better way. Wait here.”

  He stood and walked into the kitchen. She had no idea what he was up to, but could hear him rummaging around in the pantry. He came back with an unmarked cardboard box. He had a strange half-smile on his lips as he sat opposite her again and set the box on the coffee table.

  “I picked this up the other day when I went for my studio stuff. I didn’t want to mention it to you until I was sure you believed me.”

  “What is it?”

  He opened the box and set the contents on the table, and as soon as she saw it, she felt a wave of dizzy, nauseating terror.

  It was a Ouija Board. It looked to be incredibly old, and the wood had a smoky hue. Its smooth front had the letters of the alphabet arranged neatly, and underneath were the numbers zero to nine, and below that a large YES and NO. At the bottom of the board was the word ‘goodbye’

  Steve grinned and pulled a small, smooth heart-shaped piece of wood from the box and set it beside the board. “That’s the planchette. You use it to communicate.”

  Melody felt her throat tighten as she looked from the board to Steve.

  “A fucking Ouija Board? Are you insane?”

  She wasn’t sure if she were more angry or scared.

  “It’s okay; they’re perfectly safe. They actually sell these in toy shops. I read about them,” he said, realising that she obviously wasn’t as thrilled as he was.

  “Oh well if Google says its safe, then I suppose it must be. Jesus Christ Steve, do you really want to screw with… well with whatever it is that’s here?”

  “Look there’s no need to be afraid okay? All I want to do is try to see if we can communicate with it, try to find out what it wants. I can then read about a way to get rid of it. Have a ritual!”

  “Ritual or no ritual, I want it out of the house. And I don’t mean tomorrow. I want it gone right now.”

  “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  “No I don’t. The idea of using that thing scares the hell out of me, and I won’t have it in this house!”

  “You could at least have an open mind about this! Jesus what made you so uptight?” Steve yelled, putting the wooden board back in its box.

  “I was almost fucking raped earlier, and you dare to ask me why I’m uptight?”

  “Look I didn’t mean that… I was just making the point that…”

  “Get it out of here!”

  “Look I’m sorry okay, I thought you understood!”

  “No!” she screamed, throwing her cup across the room. It smashed off the wall, splashing hot tea all over the paintwork. “No Steve I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand how our fucking lives have gone down the toilet ever since we moved out here. I’m scared, and I’m confused, and I feel like I’m going it alone whilst you’re obsessed with looking for ghosts!”

  She was breathing in ragged, short breaths and found that she was crying again. Steve stood, his face serious and twisted into a determined grimace.

  “You’re right. What sort of man am I? Some prick tried to rape you, and I almost let you talk me into doing nothing about it.”

  “Steve you promised, you said you wouldn’t do anything.”

  “No, I said I would try not to. I didn’t promise anything.”

  He stood and strode across the room, and put on his jacket.

  “What are you doing? Where are you going?” she said, hurrying after him.

  “I’m going to do what I should have done when you first told me about this.”

  She had never seen him so angry, and that alone scared her.

  “I don’t want you to leave me here alone!”

  “Someone has to teach him a le
sson.”

  “Steve! Please!” she screamed, grabbing onto his arm. He shook her loose and opened the door.

  The wind drove through the house, whistling and moaning. Steve looked at her then, his eyes dark and filled with jealous rage, which looked so alien on him that he almost resembled a stranger.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He smiled at her, and she wished she hadn’t seen it. That simple gesture drove home the fact that whatever happened, things between them would never be the same. He’d given her a glimpse of something dark, something that had been hidden below the surface all the time she’d known him and which had now risen to the surface.

  “I’m going to give him what he deserves.”

  “I’m scared to be alone!” she pleaded, as he stood framed in the door, the wind billowing around him.

  “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Please, stay here with me,” she begged, but he wasn’t listening.

  He closed the door, and she watched him jog to the car. He gunned the engine, spun around in the soft, leaf-covered dirt, and raced away from the house. He either didn’t hear or had ignored her pleas to stay.

  25. CONFRONTATION

  DONOVAN SAT IN HIS office working on finishing the bottle of scotch he’d been saving for a special occasion. He’d closed early, knowing that before long he might be living his life behind bars. He still couldn’t fully remember the details of the incident with the Samson woman—it was hazy like the fragmented memories of a night out where there were way too many drinks and drugs available. It had taken him a while, but he’d put most of the pieces in place apart from one.

  Why?

  He took a long slug of the sour mash whiskey, wincing as it burned away a little more of his sobriety. He realised that the why of the situation wasn’t the real issue, not if he wanted to save his own skin.

  So, what to do?

  The options were limited. His first thought was to blame her, accuse her of making it all up like most bitches were prone to do, but he suspected that there was more than enough DNA evidence to cast reasonable doubt. He could offer to pay them off, but he suspected that it too was a no-go. It would imply that he was guilty, and with a reputation as stellar as his, even if it was as part of a little inbred and backwards village like Oakwell, it was important to his business. With no reputation, there was no business, and with no business, what else was there but plain old Donovan?

  He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the handgun. He held it up in front of his face, marvelling at how such a simple, primitive instrument could both cause and solve so many of the world’s problems. He had already half-fleshed out the idea in his mind. He would make it look like a home invasion. He nodded and set the gun on his desk.

  Yes, he thought that it would make a very neat, tidy solution. Of course, he couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t already called the police, but that was a loose end he could do nothing about. Either way, he knew that if he waited there for long enough, someone would come knocking on his office door. If it was the husband, out looking for some kind of macho way of reasserting his superiority, marking the boundaries of his territory, then he would let him have it. At least that way, he would have the proper time to work out the details of his plan.

  And if it’s the police? Well, that was a different story. Although he was almost certain that he’d be able to talk his way out of any immediate arrest, he still had a lot of skeletons in his closet that he definitely didn’t want dug up. Sure enough, he had done a reasonable job of hiding them, but any amount of professional scrutiny could link him to any number of things, which would see him living the rest of his days behind bars.

  He would never accept that. He took another long drink, picking up the gun again from the desk and looking at it.

  No!

  If the police came knocking, he knew exactly what he’d do.

  He put the barrel in his mouth and bit down. He tasted the steel where it pressed his tongue onto the floor of his mouth, and was surprised to find that he was completely unafraid. He flicked the safety off, then on, then off again. It was amazing, he thought, looking down the topmost edge of the weapon. Just a few pounds of pressure to the trigger and it would be lights out. Game over. End of the road. He wondered if it would hurt, if he would feel it when his skull exploded, and his brains became part of the décor.

  Probably not.

  And either way, by then it would be too late to do anything about it. He heard a car pull into the car park, and removed the gun from his mouth. He waited, listening and wondering what his fate would be.

  Pounding on the door, and yes, shouting too. He recognized the voice, and with a smile, put the gun back into the desk drawer and stood. He paused long enough to smooth down his suit, and prepare the Donovan mask that he wore in public, and then walked from the office. He could see the Samson woman’s husband beating his fist on the glass and demanding to be let in. Although Donovan could tell just by his demeanour that there was only one reason why he would be here, he intended to let him in and get it out of his system. He knew what he was going to say, how he would at least try to smooth things over and appease Steve, even though he didn’t expect to be successful, he was confident that he could sow a few seeds of doubt.

  He fished his keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the glass-fronted door.

  “Steve, I’m glad you came I…”

  Pain.

  Steve hadn’t given Donovan time, and had hit him hard in the face. It was unexpected, sending him staggering back to slam into his receptionist’s desk, paperwork cascading to the floor. The bitter sting of blood filled his mouth as he tried to regain his senses. It seemed that he had underestimated just how aggressive Steve would be, because before Donovan could even begin to reorganise his thoughts, Steve was upon him with two quick strides.

  He dragged Donovan upright by the collars of his cheap suit, and hit him again, this time mashing his fist into Donovan’s nose and sending him sprawling to the floor on his hands and knees.

  “Wait! Let me explain…” Donovan blurted, spitting out blood as he crawled on all fours.

  Steve was only half a step behind him. He grabbed Donovan by the head and hauled him roughly to his feet, then threw him into his office. Donovan clattered painfully into his desk, and more by instinct than conscious thought, hurried behind it, putting some distance between him and Steve, who had stalked after him and slammed the door shut.

  “Stevey listen, this is a misunderstanding… just sit down and listen.”

  “What? Not so brave now, are you, you little fuck?” Steve hurried around the desk, and although Donovan did the best he could to keep his distance, he couldn’t move in time. He felt vice-like fingers grab his throat, then a fresh explosion of pain as Steve head-butted him hard in the face. Donovan fell into his plush leather chair, his ears ringing, and his nose throbbing angrily. Donovan thought that he might have misjudged the situation, and his eyes drifted to the desk drawer containing the gun.

  “You son of a bitch!” Steve roared, hitting Donovan hard again. He managed to flinch away a little, and his neck took most of the impact.

  “Steve, please… it’s not what you think…”

  “Shut up!” Steve raged, and grabbed Donovan again by the lapels of his jacket and hauled him to his feet.

  “Let me make this crystal clear you son of a bitch. You should be behind bars for what you did, but my wife doesn’t want to cause a fuss.”

  “Please… let me…”

  “…SHUT UP!” Steve bellowed as he shoved Donovan back into his seat.

  “Now I’m a reasonable man Mr. Donovan, and for that you can think yourself lucky. Otherwise I might not have shown such restraint.”

  Steve was shaking, his fists balled as he glowered at Donovan, cowering in his chair.

  “Now, in my book, a slimy rapist like you doesn’t deserve to walk free, but I happen to love my wife, and so will do as she asks.”<
br />
  “Mr. Samson, be reasonable I…”

  “Open your mouth again, and I swear to God I’ll break your jaw.”

  Donovan snapped his bloody mouth shut. Steve leaned close.

  “If I ever… and I mean ever… see you anywhere near my house, anywhere near my wife again… if I even see you look at her from across the street, then I swear, with God as my witness, I will kill you, Donovan. Do I make myself clear?”

  Donovan nodded enthusiastically. Steve grinned and leaned close, whispering in Donovan’s ear.

  “I do as my wife asks, Donovan. But there’s nothing to say that the police won’t receive an anonymous tip off as to your rapist exploits. Something tells me that a slimy, disgusting freak like you has done this before. If I hear even the slightest whisper that you’ve said anything to anyone… well I think you can guess what will happen. Understood?”

  He leaned back, and Donovan nodded.

  “I said is that understood?”

  “Yes, yes. I understand!”

  Steve walked back around the desk. He paused at the door to Donovan’s office and looked over his shoulder.

  “Don’t make me come back here, Donovan. Keep your mouth shut.”

  Donovan could hear Steve but was barely listening. He was looking at his desk drawer, and thinking about the gun nestled inside. The rage stirred, and it took all of his willpower not to snatch it up and shoot this pathetic little man in the face, but he convinced himself that he would only enjoy that in the short term. He wanted to make his revenge meaningful. He watched as Steve left the office and slammed the door behind him.

  For a few moments, Donovan sat in silence, allowing the pain in his throbbing face to settle, and the rage to swell and grow. With a shaking hand, he picked up the overturned bottle of whiskey from the floor, and took a long, bitter swig. He set it down, and considered his options.

  He had been embarrassed, made a fool out of by some out-of-town prick that thought a couple of black eyes would be enough to frighten him off. Donovan opened the drawer and took out the gun. He held it in his hands, the weight familiar and reassuring. He removed the full ammunition clip, then pointed the weapon at the open door, holding it with practised assurance, closing one swelling eye as he looked down the sights.