Whisper

by Michael Bray

  Exhausted, Jones sat on the grass bank then lay back, enjoying the relief on his shoulders and spine. He closed his eyes, allowing his complaining body the luxury of rest. The silence was total, apart from the steady flow of water and the occasional rustle of the trees as the wind breezed through them. He thought about the development, and how it would be when completed. A community carved out of the forest, a thriving self-contained town set against a beautiful natural backdrop. A world away from the filth and noise of the city and its streets overcrowded with—

  He opened his eyes and sat up quickly, staring into the woods.

  He had heard someone speak his name.

  “Francis?” he said, his voice sounding flat and somehow lifeless in the still air.

  He looked into the tangle of trees, the shadows cast by the sun playing tricks on him.

  “I’m not amused, Francis. This is not the time for…”

  He heard it again, this time from behind him. He scrambled to his feet and looked towards the sound, but there was nothing but the trees and the unfinished structure of Hope House.

  “Hello?” he called, unsure if he was angry or afraid.

  There was no answer, and he looked down at the bug-eyed corpse of Isaac, as if he had perhaps decided to call out to his former employer. The wind pushed through the trees, and within the resulting shhhhhhhhhh of thousands of branches moving together, he heard it again, only now it seemed to come from across the water. He whirled around, the house at his back, and stared wide eyed into the shadowy undergrowth on the opposite bank.

  There was nothing there—not that he could see, at least, but he was sure that he could sense something watching him, staring back at him with an intensity that matched his own gaze.

  “MICHAEL!”

  His own name was shouted impossibly loudly into his ear, despite being alone. He heard himself shriek as he spun to face it, but his feet caught on Isaac’s body, and he pitched over into the water.

  The cold hit him hard, and he involuntarily took a deep breath, taking in great mouthfuls of water. Choking and spluttering, he came to the surface, thrashing his arms and legs wildly, because for all of his business skills and determination, Michael Jones had never learned to swim.

  He thrashed and kicked and somehow just about managed to keep his head floating above the surface.

  He reached for a tangle of overhanging grass on the edge of the bank, which seemed to be impossibly high, even though he knew in reality it was less than two feet. The wind raged, and water swirled around his body and pulled at him, trying to take him into its chill embrace as it ebbed his strength. He snatched and panicked but his fingers found purchase, the strong grass enough to keep him in place.

  He could now clearly hear the terrible sounds, the voices that were everywhere but nowhere, all around him and at the same time faint and distant. They were laughing as he tried to haul himself on to the safety of the riverbank. He put his arm over the side onto blessed dry land, grabbing a handful of Isaac’s shirt, distantly aware of the cold chill of his dead flesh against his own skin.

  He pulled himself up, the water reluctantly releasing its death grip. He was going to make it, and as soon as he did, he would down tools, march into their shared office in London and tell Alfonse that he was sorry and had made a huge error in judgement, and that he should have listened to the warning given by his friend.

  His elbows were out on the edge, and he quickly released his grip on the overhanging grass and grabbed another handful of Isaac’s shirt, trying to haul himself to safety. His strength was waning, and the wind bit into his wet body with ferocious, razor-sharp teeth.

  I’m going to make it.

  The thought entered his head but was replaced almost instantaneously with panic, as Isaac’s body shifted slightly and then, just as it appeared it would hold still, slid towards the edge, sending Jones plunging back into the water and pulling the dead weight of Isaac’s corpse with him.

  He thought he had known fear but now, pinned under the water with the hanged man’s dead stare looking into his eyes, Jones knew the real meaning of true terror at its most primal. He kicked and thrashed, his lungs burning and screaming in their desperation for air.

  But he couldn’t move, and was acutely aware of everything happening to him. He could feel the sandy gravel digging into his back and the heavy pressure of Isaac’s body on top of him.

  He drew breath but was unable to hold the air in his lungs any longer, and instead took in a huge mouthful of water. He started to choke, but with every gagging inhale, more and more water filled his lungs. Soon enough, the pain faded, as did the light from the world.

  The last thing that Jones was aware of as life was torn from him was the sound of the water as it pulled its two-person cargo towards the ocean. Beyond that he could still hear the voices in the trees.

  They were laughing.

  30. FAMILY TIES

  SOMETHING STRANGE HAD happened to Mrs. Briggs since she had gained Steve and Melody’s full attention. When they’d arrived, she’d seemed every bit the harmless old, eccentric, alcoholic busybody that they’d expected. But now, with Steve and Melody perched and holding hands opposite, waiting for her to speak, a subtle transformation had occurred. Where her happy-go-lucky smile had been, there was now a thin, serious line of pursed lips. Her eyes that were so placid and calm, now carried a depth, seriousness and wisdom that had perhaps always been there, but until now had been unnoticeable. Now—far from taking anything she said with a pinch of salt—Steve was sure that he would believe whatever she was about to tell them.

  She licked her lips, and when she spoke it was assured and confident, a far cry from the previous shrill whine from their first encounter at the pub.

  “Are you both prepared to listen with an open mind to what I am about to tell you?”

  Melody glanced at Steve, and then nodded. “Yes.”

  “What about you, Mr. Samson?”

  “Look, I just want to know what’s going on… I’m struggling to make sense of this.”

  “Some things don’t make sense Mr. Samson. Some things just happen.”

  “I just want to know what to do so that I can put this right.”

  The old woman frowned, and then with some effort, leaned her huge frame forwards.

  “How much do you know already about the history of Hope House?”

  “Nothing,” Melody said, grabbing Steve’s hand for reassurance, “we just liked the look of it and put in an offer.”

  “I’m starting to wish we hadn’t,” Steve grumbled.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mr. Samson. Hope House chose you. There was nothing that you could have done.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t agree, but I don’t really believe in any of this stuff. It’s… difficult for me.”

  The old woman nodded, and sat back. She stroked the ginger cat on her lap, and then looked Steve in the eye.

  “Do you know how many people have lived in Hope House since its construction?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Forty-one,” she replied. “Of that forty-one do you know how many passed away on or around the property?”

  Steve and Melody looked back blankly, and Mrs. Briggs continued.

  “Twenty-nine.”

  The number was mind-bogglingly large, and both Steve and Melody were struggling to put it into perspective.

  “Twenty-nine deaths. All of them were under unusual circumstances. Murders. Suicides. In some cases, the inhabitants would just disappear, leaving their possessions behind. The ones who didn’t die had the good sense to leave. Either way, nobody stays there for long.”

  “So you’re telling us that everyone who lives in Hope House dies. I get it. Ghost story 101. Well, let me tell you that I don’t appreciate you trying to frighten my wife and scare us away from our home,” Steve spat.

  He was angry, and could feel himself shaking, yet Mrs. Briggs took the tirade in her stride, and waited for him to calm.

 
This old goat is tougher than she looks.

  Steve suddenly felt foolish for losing his temper so quickly. He calmed, and spoke softly. “I’m sorry… it’s just… I’m struggling here.”

  Melody gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Look, Mrs. Briggs, it was my idea to come here. I… I just thought you might be able to tell us what we’re dealing with.”

  “I can tell you what I know, although the story is, as you might expect, a bleak one. Hope House is special, and its history is one that we as a community have gone to great pains to hide. The last thing we want is to be bothered by paranormal investigators and souvenir hunters.”

  “But why let us move in? Somebody could have warned us,” Steve said.

  The old woman smiled, and it was friendly and wise.

  “Would you have listened? What if you had, what then? You would have gone back to wherever you came from and told of the small town with the haunted house that everyone was deterred from owning. And that in turn would bring exactly the kind of attention that we are desperate to avoid.”

  “But people died… you knew that and yet you still let people move in…” Melody was just about managing to hang on to her emotions. She felt hot, salty tears reach the corners of her mouth and wiped them away.

  “It wasn’t quite as inhumane as you think, if that makes a difference. It didn’t always seem to affect everyone. Some people moved in to Hope House and were unaffected, although nobody ever really stayed there for long. The couple that owned the house before you lived there for over ten years, and as far as I know never experienced anything. We thought we had made it safe.”

  “Safe? How the hell did you think you could make it safe?” Steve had found his voice, and was glaring at Mrs. Briggs with contempt. Melody held his hand in both of hers. Sensing that things were about to get heated, the ginger cat on Mrs. Brigg’s knee vacated the room, leaving the bad-tempered humans to their own devices.

  “We did what we thought was right. We thought it was over, that the house was protected.”

  “Protected by what?” Steve said as he struggled to comprehend.

  “By this,” Melody said, placing the carved crucifix that they had taken from the woods. For the first time since they’d arrived, Mrs. Briggs looked flustered—in fact she looked horrified.

  “You moved it from the tree?”

  “What is it? I don’t understand…”

  “You should have left it alone. You would have been safe….”

  Mrs. Briggs was wringing her hands nervously and looking from the cross to Melody and back again. She hauled herself out of her chair, and waddled over to the drinks cabinet wedged in the corner of the room. She poured herself a large scotch, and then immediately drained the glass, before refilling it and making her way back to her seat.

  Steve and Melody looked on perplexed as Mrs. Briggs swirled the golden liquid in her glass and then looked directly at Melody.

  “When is the child due?”

  Steve started to laugh and then saw the horrified expression on Melody’s face and knew that it was true. Words failed him; all he could do was look at her.

  “I… I’m sorry,” Melody stammered, as she looked him in the eye, then she stood and rushed from the room. Steve followed, as Mrs. Briggs called after them.

  “Wait, there’s more, you need to hear it all. Come back!”

  Melody charged out of the door, blinking through the hazy tears as she reached the front gate. She felt sick, angry and afraid. Steve walked out behind her. She didn’t turn towards him, but could feel his eyes on her back.

  “When were you going to tell me?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t answer, not out of cruelty, but because she didn’t know what to say. A thousand explanations swirled around her head, and yet she wasn’t able to pin down a single one.

  “Mel please… I deserve to know what’s going on here.”

  “I’m sorry… I wanted to tell you, I just didn’t know how.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but she flinched away, embarrassed.

  “No, please… I don’t think I can look at you right now. I don’t want to see how much I’ve hurt you.”

  Steve withdrew his hand, and was unsure what to do. He looked around Mrs. Briggs’s garden, and tried to come to terms with the life-changing news. He focused on the cherry blossom tree, at how delicate and natural it looked. But the tree wasn’t the issue. If only he could find the words, if he could know what he was supposed to say, or even how he was supposed to feel about it.

  “Are you angry?” she asked, still not able to face him.

  He knew he should say no, that he should comfort her in some way, but he realised that part of him was angry at her for keeping it from him, and also angry at himself for not realising that something was amiss. And he was angry with the house, which seemed for better or worse to be the centre of all of their problems.

  She turned to him and, when he saw the expression on her face, be it dejection, shame, or fear, he found his anger slip and his affection for her take over. He cleared his throat, if only to say something, anything to break his involuntary silence.

  “No… I’m not angry,” he managed. “It’s a shock, that much I can’t deny. And I’m upset that you didn’t feel you could tell me, but I’m not angry.”

  “I think we need to talk,” she said quietly.

  “Agreed, but not here, not with this crazy old witch hovering around.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Mrs. Briggs’s badly hidden silhouette as she peered through the edge of the curtains.

  “We could go back to the house.”

  A tremor of dread seemed to hit him all at once, but he managed to hide it and shook his head casually.

  “No! No, not there. Somewhere else. Somewhere…” He wanted to say safe, but at the same time didn’t want to cause any more alarm or distress. “… neutral.”

  It was as good a word as any, and he searched Melody’s face for any hint that she had read his thought process, something which she seemed to have a real knack of doing the more time they spent together. However, it seemed that she had bigger things on her mind, and simply nodded.

  “Where then?” she asked softly.

  “How about the pub?”

  “When?”

  Steve checked his watch. “No time like the present. We really need to talk this through.”

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t hold this against me.”

  Part of him wanted to hold her and say it would be okay, but he was surprised to find that a small voice telling him that she should suffer for her deception. As much as he tried, he couldn’t offer the comfort she needed, and wondered if a fundamental part of their relationship had already been irreparably broken.

  “Let’s just take one step at a time okay?”

  She nodded, and he saw the hurt in her face. He was surprised to find that the new darkness within him gloated.

  ***

  Mrs. Briggs watched them through the gap in the curtains as they walked to their car, and chewed nervously on her bottom lip as she contemplated what to do. She walked to the table and picked up the rough handmade cross and ran her fingers over its uneven surface, then set it back down. Her body screamed that it needed alcohol, and to continue building the slight buzz started by the whiskey she’d already consumed. She’d learned many years ago, that even if she could resist for a short time, eventually the craving would win and she would fall to its bitter embrace. She decided that today it would get its way without a fight, and if that was to be the case she would at least give it the good stuff, not the cheap brand reserved for guests.

  She walked with some effort to the kitchenette, past the mountain of unwashed dishes in the sink and squeezed her massive frame into the breakfast bar. She opened the fresh bottle of Jim Beam that she’d been saving for her birthday and, unable to see a glass, she took a huge drink direct from the bottle and wondered what she was going to do about the situation. She had already said t
oo much, and didn’t know what to do. But she knew someone who would. Her piggy eyes landed on the photograph frame on the wall. She reached up and took it down, looked at the picture and ran her fingers lightly over the glass.

  Struggling to her feet, she went back to the sitting room, taking the photograph with her and headed for the telephone in the corner. It was thick with dust as she hardly ever used it, but kept it connected because like today, she never knew when she needed to make an emergency call. She snatched up the handset and pressed 1 on the speed dial, waiting for the line to connect. Whilst she waited, she looked back at the picture.

  It was of a much younger, less alcohol-dependent version of the woman she’d become. She was smiling broadly, and she mused that it was a long time since she’d been able to produce such a carefree smile. The boy in the picture was also smiling, a wide grin that was all teeth. Even though he was just a boy, Donovan was easily recognisable, as he had barely changed. The line connected.

  “Hello?” Donovan said, sounding somewhat irritated.

  “It’s me.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  “I’m a little busy right now, can it wait?”

  “Not really. What are you doing that’s so important?”

  “I’m just… busy. What is it?” Donovan said evasively.

  “It’s about those people that you sold Hope House to.”

  There was a brief silence on the line before Donovan responded.

  “What about them?”

  “They’re starting to ask questions about the… activity.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Freddy, look….”

  “Donovan. It’s Donovan now.”

  “Regardless of what you choose to call yourself, you are still my son.”

  “That’s debatable…but anyway, I don’t have time to get into this right now. Like I said, I’m busy.”

  “I need your help. Talk to them. Smooth it over. And more importantly, don’t let them go to the authorities.”

  “Authorities?”