Evil Whispers

by Goingback, Owl

  There was a flash of movement, and the glint of light off cold steel, as Krissy Patterson whipped her arm around. Caught off guard, Captain Williams tried to jump back out of the way to avoid the knife. But he wasn’t fast enough, and the blade of the butcher knife sliced deep into his groin.

  The captain screamed in pain and dropped to his knees, grabbing his shredded testicles. Pain shot through him like burning fire, stealing his voice and forcing tears to his eyes. He knew the wound was serious, for he could feel blood rushing down his legs. The front of his pants turned wet and warm.

  Before he could even think of defending himself against a second attack, the little girl slashed the knife’s blade across the left side of his neck. The razor-sharp butcher knife sliced easily, laying open his flesh and severing his jugular vein.

  His eyes went wide. He tried to cry out, but only a gargled hissing escaped his lips. He tried to draw a breath of air, but his throat was full of blood and he could not breath. He was drowning in his own blood and knew he would be dead in a matter of seconds, but there was not a damn thing he could do about it. He placed the palm of his left hand against his neck and pressed tight, but it was a futile effort to stop the flow of blood. Even if a team of paramedics had been on the scene, it was doubtful they would be able to save his life.

  He looked at the girl who stood before him, wondering why she had attacked him. He was only trying to help her, only wanted to reunite her with her parents. What in God’s name had happened to her that would warrant such action? Had she been abducted and abused, did she look at him and see the man who had hurt her?

  A thousand questions danced through his mind in those final moments, but they were questions that would go unanswered. As Captain Williams toppled sideways and fell to the ground dying, he heard a laugh. Cold. Harsh. Definitely not the laugh of a little girl.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mansa silently rejoiced as he watched the black man kneeling before him slowly bleed to death. It had been a long time since he had killed someone without the use of his magic or the aid of dark spirits. There was something extremely satisfying about taking a life with his own hands, even if his hands were actually now those of a ten-year-old girl named Krissy.

  He glanced down at the tiny hands he now possessed, his grin growing wider. The small fingers which encircled the wooden handle of the butcher knife were covered with the soldier’s blood.

  The voodoo sorcerer looked at the dying man. At least he thought the man was a soldier. The black man wore no uniform, but he had identified himself as a captain. He had said his name was Captain Williams. Perhaps he wore no uniform because he was home on leave. Maybe he was a special kind of soldier and did not wear a uniform. Either way, uniform or not, Mansa was more than happy to take the man’s life.

  The captain gasped for air and toppled to his side, lying helpless on the ground. Though he wore a pistol, he made no attempt to reach for it. He was far too busy trying to stop the blood that spurted from his severed jugular. His efforts were foolhardy, however, for the knife had sliced deep into his neck. It would be only a matter of moments before he bled to death.

  Looking around to make sure they were still alone, Mansa stepped forward and grabbed Captain Williams by the legs. He was worried that someone else might come down the road at any minute. Not wanting to be seen, he decided to drag the dying soldier into the forest. He expected the captain to kick at him as he grabbed his legs, but he was already too close to death to put up any kind of struggle.

  The captain was heavy, and Mansa had to strain to get him out of the ditch. He slipped twice in the effort and had to put down his knife for fear of falling on it. Once the soldier was safely out of sight, he went back and retrieved the butcher knife.

  Even in the forest, it was still light enough to see what he was doing. Mansa opened the captain’s shirt, only to discover a second shirt beneath the first. The second shirt was heavy and stiff and appeared to be made of a protective material. It wasn’t metal, but Mansa still suspected that the second shirt was some kind of protective armor. Perhaps the captain wore it for protection against Indians.

  The sorcerer smiled, twisting his tiny mouth into an evil grin. He doubted if there were many Indians left in the area. At least he didn’t think there were. Though he had been dead for over a hundred years, his spirit had been far from dormant. He had been aware of the people around the lagoon, and it had been a long time since he had felt very many Indians. As far as he knew, only one Indian still lived in the region.

  His smile faded.

  Since Mansa’s death, there had always been a Seminole Indian living in the area. Just one. Not always the same Indian, but never more than one at a time. Since the time of his death, there had been a dozen different Seminoles living along the Wekiva River, each a man of medicine.

  The Seminoles knew more about Mansa Du Paul than did the white men, and they had lived in fear that he would one day rise again from the dead. They had not been wrong. So the Seminoles had left a man behind when they moved their village farther to the south, one man to watch over the area and guard against Mansa’s return.

  At first he had been angry that the Seminoles were using their magic to keep him from returning, but over the years that anger had given way to bored amusement. The medicine men had powers, but their magic paled when compared to his dark gifts. Let them do their dances and sing their songs, let them smoke their pipes and wave their eagle feathers in the air. None of it meant a thing to him. They were merely children, playing with children’s toys.

  Now he had returned, and the Seminole who called himself the guardian had failed to stop him. Mansa was back in the flesh, even though the body he now wore was only temporary. Soon he would be back in his own body and at full strength once again. Then he would have to pay a little visit on a certain Indian. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

  The smile came again to the sorcerer’s face as he thought of all the horrible things he would do to Jimmy Cypress. Yes, he knew the Indian’s name, for the man had been foolish enough to say it aloud during one of his prayers. Mansa had been listening in on the prayer and clearly heard the name. It was unwise to let your enemies know your name, because it gave them power over you. Not that Mansa needed any more power, for he would soon have more than he could ever use.

  Turning his attention back to the captain, Mansa removed the heavy protective shirt out of the way. There was another, thinner shirt beneath that, which he also removed. Finally, the captain’s bare chest was exposed to him. Taking the butcher knife in his right hand, he carefully cut around the dead man’s heart.

  The work was difficult, and Mansa had to be careful not to slip and cut into the heart. There was also the problem of getting through the rib bones in order to get to the heart. He wished he had a saw, but he would have to make due with the knife. Nearly twenty minutes elapsed before he was able to work the heart loose from the soldier’s chest.

  “Finally,” Mansa said, holding the heart up to the moonlight. He was delighted the heart had belonged to a black man. A very large, strong, black man. The heart was also large and strong. An excellent specimen. It would serve him well in his soon-to-be-resurrected body. He would have taken the captain’s eyes, but the man wore glasses. Weak eyes would never do.

  The sorcerer brought the heart to his nose and inhaled deeply, savoring the fragrance of fresh blood. It was such a wonderful aroma. There was nothing like it in all the world.

  Unable to control his hunger, he allowed his tongue to slip from between his lips to taste the bloody heart. Just a little taste, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth like a snake. And then he allowed his tongue to fully extend from his mouth as he licked the heart in one continuous motion, licking every drop of blood from the organ as he slowly turned it in his hand.

  Bending over, he removed the captain’s undershirt and carefully wrapped the still-warm heart in it. He still needed a pair of eyes, but Mansa wanted his vision to be strong, so he would just have to
borrow a pair of eyes from someone else.

  Mansa Du Paul smiled, knowing that he would have to kill again to get the eyes he needed.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Robert Patterson sat in one of the oversized chairs in his cabin, staring at, but not seeing, the wall in front of him. The room was dark and that was good, because he did not want to see the walls or the simple paintings that decorated them. He wanted only the darkness, wanted only to stare but not see.

  He sat alone in the tiny sitting room. Janet had gone to bed several hours earlier, her sleep brought to her by the two tiny pills she had swallowed. Robert had not taken any sleeping pills, so he found himself, at three o’clock in the morning, sitting alone in the darkness, wishing for sleep to carry him away to a place without thoughts or memories.

  But sleep refused to come to Robert Patterson. Instead, he was haunted by a thousand images and thoughts that floated through his mind like surrealistic cloud formations, formations that faded and slipped away as quickly as they came.

  In the darkness, he thought back to the early days of planning for their Florida vacation, to the hours spent in their St. Louis home looking through countless brochures for the perfect spot to visit.

  Janet had originally wanted to vacation in South Florida, visiting the art-deco buildings of Miami, the wilds of the Everglades, and maybe even a quick trip to Key West. She was a big fan of Ernest Hemingway and wanted to pay a visit to his home. She also wanted to have a drink at the original Sloppy Joe’s, a favorite haunt of the writer, and a place not to be missed by his devoted fans.

  Krissy had warmed quickly to the idea of visiting Key West when her mother told her about the six-toed cats that lived at the Hemingway home. The cats were supposed to be the descendants of the six-toed felines the author had kept as pets when living in Key West, but that was probably nothing more than a myth. According to a published interview with the oldest son of the author, Ernest Hemingway had never even owned cats while living in south Florida. Janet had also promised her daughter that they would spend a day at the Dolphin Research Center in Key West. The thought of swimming with a dolphin had greatly excited the child, and it was all she had talked about for days.

  Robert had also liked the idea of spending some time in Key West, but he wasn’t too keen on paying a visit to Miami. Despite attempts to renovate the city into a colorful tourist destination, Miami still had a very serious crime problem. He had read about tourists being robbed and even killed when accidentally wandering into some of Miami’s lower-income neighborhoods.

  Nor had he been too keen on the idea of taking Krissy to the Everglades. A land of misquotes, poisonous snakes, hungry alligators, and remote wilderness was not the kind of place he wanted to take his ten-year-old daughter.

  But that’s exactly the kind of place you brought her to.

  Robert sighed, feeling a burning sensation settle deep inside his stomach. He had picked Blackwater as the perfect family vacation spot. It had been his choice. There was no one else to blame but himself. He had convinced Janet that central Florida would be much safer than the Miami area, had convinced his daughter that his vacation choice was the best by bribing her with a promised visit to Walt Disney World. That’s all Krissy needed to hear to be on his side. A chance to shake hands with Mickey Mouse was much more exciting than visiting the home of a dead writer, even if that home did come equipped with six-toed cats.

  Standing up, Robert crossed the room to where his shirt hung on the wall. He removed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the shirt’s pocket, lighting one of the cigarettes. He had been trying to cut back on his smoking, but at that particular moment he no loner cared if he gave up cigarettes or not. He needed the taste of tobacco to kill the flavor of guilt that hung heavy on his tongue, needed the nicotine to steady his frayed nerves.

  Slipping the pack of cigarettes back into the shirt pocket, he walked to the window and opened the curtains so he could see out. The hour was late and the fish camp quiet, all of the reporters and searchers having gone home for the night.

  Though no one had actually said so, Robert was starting to have suspicions that some of the men in the search party felt that Krissy might never be found. It was the looks they gave him as they walked past, some of them deliberately avoiding eye contact. They were afraid he might ask them for encouraging news, and there was none to be given.

  Perhaps they suspected him as a culprit in his daughter’s disappearance. Maybe they thought he had done something terrible to her, and that he was now fabricating a story to cover his guilt.

  But I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything wrong. I did not hurt my daughter. I did not murder her and then bury her body in the forest.

  Feeling that anger and frustration was about to overcome him, fighting off the sudden urge to put his fist through the wall--even though he knew that he would surely shatter his hand in the attempt--he stared out the window and focused his attention on the night.

  At first he saw only the trees, and the walking path that wound between them, but then he noticed a light reflecting off a neighboring cabin. It was the flashing blue light of a police car.

  Stepping to his left to get a better view, Robert spotted an unmarked patrol car parked on the road with its blue lights flashing. Apparently, not everyone had gone home for the evening. Certain members of law enforcement were still on duty. He didn’t see another vehicle, so it wasn’t a traffic stop.

  Curious, Robert turned away from the window and walked back across the room. A pair of binoculars sat in their case atop the small wooden table. They had brought the binoculars on the trip to do a little bird watching. So far, they had not gotten much use, as bird watching was the farthest thing from their minds.

  Removing the binoculars from their case, he returned to the window and looked out. The moon was still bright; it cast a glare on the window and made using the binoculars difficult. But Robert was able to back up until the moon’s light was partially blocked by a large oak tree. Adjusting the binoculars to his eyesight, he focused his attention on the patrol car.

  The car was sitting in the middle of the road, partially blocking it, which struck Robert as odd, especially when he didn’t see another vehicle. Surly the person driving the patrol car would pull over to the side, rather than risk causing an accident. Country roads were notorious for high-speed driving, and even the flashing blue lights might not be warning enough to keep the car from getting hit.

  The second thing that struck him as odd was that the vehicle was empty. Despite the bright blue lights flashing in his eyes, he could clearly see that the driver’s door was open and the patrol car unoccupied. He moved the binoculars to search the area around the patrol car, but didn’t see anyone. Whoever was driving had gotten out of the car, not even bothering to close the door.

  Robert lowered the binoculars and scratched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Maybe the officer had come across some roadkill and was now dragging it out of the way. Maybe someone had hit a deer. Such things were not uncommon in rural areas, especially one as heavily forested as that around Blackwater. It probably happened all the time.

  Maybe the officer had to make a nature call, due to one cup of coffee too many, and was currently relieving himself behind a tree or bush. Robert smiled, thinking how funny it would be if the officer accidentally spooked a wild animal while in the process of doing his duty.

  Raising the binoculars back to his eyes, he again searched the area around the patrol car, but didn’t see anyone. He was about to look away when he caught a glimpse of movement.

  Something darted out from behind the car and moved into the shadows beneath a clump of trees. Robert focused the binoculars in that direction and gasped in surprise.

  A person was standing in the shadows, facing toward the fish camp. Even though it was dark, and the person in the shadows was covered with mud and filth, there was no mistaking her identity. It was Krissy.

  “Dear God. Krissy!”

  Robert star
ted to drop the binoculars and run for the front door, but an uneasy feeling stopped him. Something wasn’t right. Not right at all. Why was his daughter just standing there, looking his way? Why didn’t she come back to the camp? Why didn’t she come home? Was she afraid? Had someone in the camp done something bad to her?

  Anger flashed through him as he thought about the other occupants of the camp. Although Ross and Mary Sanders seemed like nice people, he really didn’t know anything about them.

  What if Ross was some kind of deviant, a sexual predator, and had molested Krissy? Maybe he had sneaked into their cabin when they were sleeping. Such a thing would have been very easy for the owner of the fish camp, because he knew who was staying in what cabin. He probably even knew which bedrooms they were sleeping in. He had the keys to all the cabins, so it would have been a simple matter to enter the cabin while they were out fishing or canoeing and unlock Krissy’s bedroom window.

  Neither Robert or Janet had checked the window in their daughter’s bedroom the night of her disappearance, prior to her going to bed, because it had already been checked the previous evening and found to be locked. No sense checking the window a second time when they were the only ones who had been in the cabin, or so they thought.

  Had Ross entered the cabin and unlocked the window? Was he a sexual predator of some kind? Robert wished he had a computer with access to the Internet, because he knew that the Florida Department of Law Enforcement maintained a web site that listed all of the known sexual predators residing within the state. The site listed their names, the crimes they had been charged with, their last known address, even provided their photos. He had come across the site by accident while doing research for their vacation.

  If he had access to the Internet, he could quickly find out if Ross had a history of molesting children. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a computer, nor did he know anyone locally who did. Fishing gear he had access to, but not a computer, and you sure the hell couldn’t log on the Internet with a rod and reel.