Whisper

by Michael Bray

  “So, for argument’s sake, we go see the old girl and she can’t help us, what then?”

  She shrugged, letting out a deep sigh.

  “I really don’t know. The internet I guess, see what we can dig up.”

  Steve shook his head.

  “Already looked into it. There’s nothing at all that I could find about this place being out of the ordinary. Hell, there’s no information full stop. It’s as if the place doesn’t exist. There is one other thing that’s been bothering me for the last couple of days.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The cross we took from the big tree out there,” he said, nodding towards the woods. “I’m starting to wonder if we should have left it where it was.”

  Melody stood and walked to the pantry, grabbing the cross from the shelf and bringing it to the table. They both looked at it, its simplicity of design and the rough nature of its construction giving it an authenticity which made it appear all the more sinister and out of place sitting on their kitchen table.

  Steve didn’t like it. The cross seemed to hum with a life of its own. There was an energy about it, something ominous and knowing. He thought it could be the key to their troubles, but how, he didn’t know.

  “You think we might have caused all this by taking the cross?” Melody asked, her eyes frightened and her words spooking Steve in their closeness to his own train of thought.

  “Not caused. I think whatever is happening here was always going to manifest itself regardless. I just keep thinking that this thing was out there for a reason. And it might be in our interest to put it back, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want to go back over there.”

  She knew that she’d said it too quickly, too sharply. He looked at her across the table, and saw the true depth of her terror. He saw that, no matter what, Hope House was spoiled for her. It had gone from a quirky, unique property that could have been a place to raise a family, and live out their lives, to a place of constant fear and misery. It was hard to believe that in such a short time things had changed so quickly.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to go back over. Not under the circumstances. I’ll take it okay?”

  He smiled reassuringly, and was sure that he’d just about managed to hide his own trepidation—and yes, fear—because he was afraid, afraid of the house, afraid of the woods, afraid of the tree from his dreams where he always saw Melody dead or dying, and afraid of the circle where nothing grew and the creatures of the woods never ventured. However, his own fear was secondary, because whatever had happened or would happen, he would do anything to give Melody back even a little of the magic that she’d once seen in Hope House. She seemed relieved, and yet still troubled.

  “Maybe we should ask Mrs. Briggs if she knows anything about it?” she said, glancing from the cross to Steve.

  “Good idea.”

  She looked surprised at his willingness to comply, not knowing that he had only done so in order to delay having to make the journey to put the cross back where it came from.

  “I thought you would have objected.”

  “Hell, we may as well get our money’s worth out of the old hag. I just want some answers. The sooner the better.”

  “Steve… do you still love me?”

  It came out of the blue, and it both surprised and saddened him.

  “Of course I do…I can’t believe you even asked me that.”

  “I just… I don’t want this situation to ruin what we have that’s all,” she said, fighting and just about managing to keep the tears at bay.

  “Look Mel, no matter what this place throws at us, we will stick together. Just like always, it’ll be you and me against the world, okay?”

  “Okay,I’m sorry—I just needed to know.”

  He grabbed her hand across the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Look, there’s no time like the present. Let’s get dressed and go pay Mrs. Briggs a visit. Best to get her early whist she’s sober I suppose.”

  He tipped her a wink as he said it, which brought out a grin on her despite how upset she was.

  “We will be okay won’t we?”

  “Whatever it takes,” he said, giving her hand another squeeze, “whatever it takes.”

  She appeared satisfied with his response, and he was certain she hadn’t seen his own worry that things wouldn’t be okay, or his own suspicions that things were likely to get worse before they got better.

  28. LOOKING FOR ANSWERS

  MRS BRIGGS WAS A hoarder. That much was apparent as Steve and Melody perched on the end of the sofa, surrounded by huge piles of magazines and newspapers. The walls were filled with family photos, seemingly from an era before Mrs. Briggs had become a slave to alcohol or collecting everything she could lay her hands on.

  Steve looked around the room trying to conjure some kind of sense of order from the chaos, but he realised that a man could only look for so long at such a mishmash of trinkets and ornaments before any attempt became pointless.

  Instead, he concentrated on keeping his facial expression neutral as one of the old girl’s many cats snaked its way past his leg and slipped between a haphazard stack of yellowed newspapers to whatever lay beyond. Steve glanced at Melody, who flicked a small semi-smile at him that said more than words would ever be able to. It was one of those shared moments that only extremely close couples had when a thought was transferred with just a single look, and this one was clear.

  This old girl is crazy.

  Mrs. Briggs waddled her way back into the room, somehow managing not to spill the tray carrying their cups of coffee. She was wearing a garish tangerine jumpsuit with purple trim, and was panting so hard when she set the tray on the table (or, more accurately, on one of the mountains of papers) that she looked and sounded more like someone who’d just run a marathon rather than slipped into the kitchen to make drinks. Steve noted that she hadn’t made herself one, and he would have bet that she’d be sipping something a little stronger just as soon as they were out of the door.

  She scooped the ginger tomcat out of her chair with one podgy hand, disregarding its inconvenienced wail as she flopped down hard in the creaking seat. She looked at them both, her eyes as sharp as her skin was waxy. “I wondered when you were going to come. I expected you yesterday.”

  “We… couldn’t make it.”

  Mrs. Briggs looked at Steve as if he had spoken out of turn. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, young man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The old woman locked eyes with Melody, and even though Steve wasn’t sure what it could possibly be, some unspoken message passed between them. She cast her blue makeup-daubed eyes back to Steve and smiled politely. “I mean simply that I didn’t think that two women chatting would be your idea of a fun afternoon, that’s all.”

  The explanation was almost as weak as the delivery, but he let it go. Whatever it was could wait. They had bigger issues to deal with. “I was interested in the information you might have. I—rather, we hoped that you might be able to tell us a little about Hope House.”

  “I can tell you both a little or a lot young man. It depends upon how much you are willing to hear.”

  The answer baffled Steve, and seeing that he was about to say something which could end the meeting before it began, Melody interjected, smiling warmly at Mrs. Briggs and giving Steve’s hand a squeeze.

  “Anything that you can tell us would be great. We’re interested in the history, the previous occupants. Anything really.”

  With some effort, Mrs. Briggs sat back in her chair, and folded her hands over her pendulous bosom. She smiled warmly, as the displaced ginger tomcat that she’d so rudely ejected, leapt onto her knee and settled down to sleep. She stroked it gently, then turned her attention back to her visitors.

  “Well, there’s much that I could tell you. As you may know, I’m something of an expert on local history, and have learned over the years almost all that there is to know. However, even I don’t know
every secret. And there are many secrets.”

  She sounded like a cheap horror cliché, and delivered the line with such cheese, that Steve couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Something funny?” she asked him sharply.

  “No. Look, no offence but we don’t need the doom and gloom routine. All we want to know are the facts.”

  She smiled thinly. “You seem afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  “So you say. However, the tiredness in your faces says otherwise.”

  She glared at him, and he stared back. A battle of wills which, for the time being, didn’t include Melody.

  “Mrs. Briggs, it’s obvious there’s something that you want us to know, so let’s cut the Hammer House of Horror crap and get to it.”

  “Steve!” Melody chastised, looking apologetically towards Mrs. Briggs, but for her part she only smiled and continued to stroke the ginger tomcat’s head as he purred appreciatively.

  “It’s okay; it’s obvious that your husband is only here under protest. However, it doesn’t matter, because you both need to hear what I have to say, whether you like it or not.”

  Steve started to answer, but Melody interjected.

  “Look, Mrs. Briggs, we came to you because we thought you might be willing to help us.”

  “Perhaps I can. That depends on you.”

  “Forget it. This was a bad idea,” Steve said, standing up quickly and scaring the cat from Mrs. Briggs’s leg.

  “Steve please…” Melody said as she grabbed at his arm.

  “No, this is pointless. It’s a waste of our time.”

  “We haven’t even given it a try please…”

  “What did the voices in the trees say to you Mr. Samson, before you jumped into the water?”

  Her words were like a sledgehammer blow, bringing Steve and Melody to a crushing silence. They looked at her open-mouthed as she watched them expressionlessly.

  “Please,” she said, “sit down.”

  29. A WARNING TOO LATE

  June 15th 1809

  “SON OF A BITCH.”

  Jones stood with his hands planted on his hips, one eye shut against the morning sun. Isaac’s body was hanging from the awning, his bloated tongue protruding from his mouth, his dead eyes open and staring. The rope had embedded itself deep into his neck, and already the drone of curious flies could be heard.

  “What do we do?”

  Jones glanced to his brother Francis, who was still staring at the body.

  “Well we can hardly leave him there can we?”

  “Who found him?”

  “I did. Nobody else knows about it.”

  Francis nodded, and the two brothers watched the body in silence for a few seconds. Francis had a more elegant facial structure than his brother. His high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes gave him an intimidating appearance, and it was well deserved, for he had a cruel streak which had become somewhat legendary in the local community.

  “This could shut us down, as if we haven’t had enough setbacks with this project,” Jones said with a sigh.

  “Setbacks? If by setbacks you mean the never-ending catalogue of disasters since this bastard project began, then yes, setbacks we have had.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic Francis, it isn’t that bad.”

  “Really?” Francis replied, flashing a grin that reminded Michael all too well of their abusive father “How exactly do you come to such a conclusion?”

  “What I mean is…”

  “…We are already seven weeks overdue. Alfonse is breathing down our necks for progress, and that’s not to mention the other… issues.”

  “You sound as superstitious as the locals! This is nothing more than circumstances not working in our favour.”

  Francis turned to his brother, his brow furrowed.

  “Michael, why don’t we just stop? Let’s give this up as an experiment that went wrong and move on. There’s a superb plot over in Ridgefield that we can…”

  “No, I won’t give up. Not when we’re so close.”

  Francis turned to look at the shell of Hope House, complete apart from the roof, a black skeleton against the pale morning sky.

  “I don’t think it’s in our hands anymore. Once word spreads about this… situation then we can forget any hope of them ever setting foot on these grounds again. They’re already afraid.”

  “Afraid!” Jones snorted, giving his brother a disgusted sneer. “They’re lazy. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “What are you suggesting Francis, that our workers make slow progress because of the voices in the trees or the blood in the earth? You sound just like mother with your superstitious talk.”

  “And you sound just like father with your pig-headed refusal to see in anything other than black and white.”

  “I trust what my own eyes see, and my own ears hear, nothing more, nothing less. If you prefer to listen to gossip and hearsay then that, I’m afraid, is your own burden to bear.”

  Francis frowned, and looked ready to continue the discussion, but decided against it, and instead nodded towards Isaac’s body.

  “Either way we’re losing sight of the issue at hand. What are we going to do about this?”

  “Well,” Jones said as he turned towards his brother, “we could cut him down and hide the body.”

  The two brothers were locked in eye contact, and when Francis realised that his sibling was serious, he shook his head.

  “No, absolutely not. Just the fact that you have suggested such a thing is disturbing to say the least. Does this project really mean so much that you would deny a man a decent burial?”

  “Decent burial? He’s not worth the trouble or delay. And yes. This project means everything to me. I’ve invested more than any man should to make this happen.”

  “And you would do anything, even break the law in order to see your precious project completed?”

  “I would. However, not just for me but also for us, and our business. You’re quick to call my judgement into doubt, and yet here you are believing the rambling gossip of apparitions and disembodied voices within the trees.”

  “And you might do well not to be so quick to disbelieve that which you do not understand.”

  Jones shook his head, and spoke quietly.

  “Are you going to help me to cut him down or not?”

  “No. I’ll have no part of it.”

  “Nobody need ever know. The rest of the workers won’t be here for an hour or more. We can…”

  “No. This is too much. We need to do the right thing,” Francis said, flashing a quick glance to the woods.

  “I agree. And the right thing now is for us to move the body and complete this project.”

  Jones searched his brother’s eyes, hoping for his acquiescence, but found only a hard, cool gaze.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, “I want nothing more to do with this project. Consider my involvement over. If you are determined to ruin both your reputation and your life then you will do so without me.”

  “Francis please…”

  “No. This is madness!”

  “Then I’ll do it alone. At least help me to cut him down.”

  “No. If you insist on doing this, then you will do it alone. I want no part of it.”

  Francis turned and walked away, not looking back at his brother, or up at the still-hanging body as he passed it and made his way away up to the forest road. He would never see his sibling again.

  ***

  Jones didn’t have much of a head for heights. As he teetered on the ladder, struggling to cut through the rope on which suspended his former employee’s body was suspended, he could barely contain his fury. Fury at his brother, fury at the thought of another day of construction wasted because of one man’s selfish decision to take his own life.

  The sun had begun to creep over the treetops, and he felt its warmth on his back as he continued cutting through the rope—simultaneously mana
ging to maintain his balance. The virtually severed rope creaked and then, with a sharp snap, gave way, sending the body tumbling to the ground and almost taking Jones with it as it clattered into the ladder. He grabbed at the sign, noting that at least the Negro had had the decency to erect it before he hung himself. Jones cut away the remaining length of rope from the awning, and carefully descended.

  It was a cold morning, Jones’s breath pluming in the chill air as he struggled with the corpse. He hesitated, and wondered exactly where he could deposit it. The trees stretched upwards around him, and he was aware of a heavy stillness that made him feel more than a little uncomfortable. He shook it off, thinking it was just nerves and perhaps a little fear at what he was about to do.

  He glanced at the tree line behind the house, and knowing there was a river which cut across the land that eventually emptied out into the ocean some miles away. It would be perfect. He was sure that the corpse would be lost forever, and even if it was found, nobody would know where it had come from. At least, when it was done, he could at last return to his work and get back on schedule.

  Grabbing the body under the arms, he dragged it, the effort making him acutely aware of his poor physical condition. Despite the chill, it didn’t take long for a sweat to form on his brow, and his breathing to become laboured. He cursed silently and quickly realised that it was a job for two, and because Francis had lost his nerve, he was now being forced to do it alone.

  The terrain was difficult, and his arms burned with the effort of dragging the body. He wasn’t sure how long he had toiled, but by the time he reached the water’s edge he was drenched with sweat, and he could barely feel his arms. The sliver of sun which had just been creeping over the horizon when he’d begun, now burned fiercely down from almost directly above him.