Whispering Bones

by Rita Vetere

  Anna blinked in surprise. Then she leapt out of bed, one shaking hand clamped over her mouth to stop the screams that wanted to keep coming. It’s gone. It’s gone... She clamped down hard to keep herself from shrieking again, knowing if she started, she might never stop, and... What was that terrible thing? Dear God, it...

  She raced around the room, turning on all the lights, scanning every corner as she went, her heart still pounding painfully, her breath ragged. When all the lights were lit, she stood in the center of the room, trembling, waiting to see if anything else would happen. After a few minutes, she moved to the foot of the bed where the creature had appeared. She found no trace that anything had been standing there mere seconds ago.

  An insidious voice spoke inside her head. It was a child. Your child...your daughter.

  A sharp knock at the door made her jump and she had to swallow another cry that rose to her throat.

  “Who is it?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  “Sicurezza. Security. Please open the door.”

  Anna rammed the deadbolt back and opened the door to two uniformed men holding up plastic photo security cards.

  “We had a report of screaming coming from your room.” One of the men poked his head in, taking a quick look around. Anna stood aside and allowed them to enter after checking the security cards they held up.

  She pulled her flimsy nightgown around her and hurried to the bed, snatching the courtesy bathrobe and wrapping it tightly around her. Turning to face the men, she said, “I, I’m sorry. Of course, look around, but I must have had a nightmare, that’s all.” A nightmare, yes. It had to have been. But it had seemed so real.

  The men conducted a cursory sweep of the room, bathroom and closet. One of them nodded to Anna before speaking in Italian into the walkie-talkie he held in his hands.

  When he was done, he asked if she was all right, whether she needed anything.

  “No. Thank you,” she said in a weak voice. “Please apologize to whoever made the complaint.”

  The two men filed out and Anna slid the deadbolt back into place.

  She walked over to the bed and sat heavily, covering her face with her hands. Unable to stop herself, she wept as the memories rushed back.

  She’d only been fifteen. Fifteen when that faceless man had held a knife to her throat and defiled her. She remembered everything, the smell of his sweat, his ragged breath on her face, his heavy weight crushing her. The way she’d thrashed beneath him when she realized what he intended to do, one hand unzipping his pants, the other holding the blade firmly against her throat. Blood, as her struggles caused the blade to penetrate the skin of her neck. The sound of ripping fabric as he tore her shorts open and pushed her underwear down. Stinging, burning pain as he thrust into her, tearing her flesh. The awful, moaning sounds he made as he forced himself deep inside her, over and over. She knew he was going to kill her—would have killed her had it not been for the dog. The arrival of the dog had saved her. It had been off its leash and the monster lying on top of her must have assumed its owner to be nearby, because he had fled into the woods when the animal approached them. But not before he finished planting his seed in her, she thought bitterly.

  Only fifteen when, in a cruel twist of fate, she discovered she was pregnant, the by-product of the brutal rape she had survived. For nine long months she had carried that child inside her, even though she’d been not much more than a child herself.

  She remembered the look on Nonna’s face when the doctor confirmed her pregnancy. Nonna, who refused to give permission to abort the fetus, fearing Anna’s soul would be forever damned. The Catholic Church did not permit abortion. Instead, her grandmother had taken her out of school, out of the city, up north to a convent where the nuns had arranged for an adoption.

  There she suffered through six more terrible months of waiting while her body underwent drastic changes, worried sick about what exactly would be involved in birthing a baby. And not just any baby—the child of a rapist. Her shame had left her depressed and suicidal. It had been the darkest period of her life, worse than anything that had happened to her before or since. There had been times during those lonely months she thought she would not be able to carry on, days when she had contemplated how best to end her life. But somehow she had managed, with Nonna’s help, to survive. Nonna had remained by her side throughout the entire ordeal, pulling her through the worst of it with every ounce of her considerable determination.

  Finally the day arrived. The pain associated with the birth had been much worse than she’d imagined, but she got through it. Anna had seen her newborn daughter only for a few seconds before the infant had been whisked away by the nuns.

  Several weeks later, she had returned to the city with her grandmother. From that day forward, neither she nor her grandmother brought up the subject of the daughter she had birthed. No, they had never spoken of the matter again, but Anna remembered. She remembered it all. Now she felt sure all the years of suppressing her emotions had manifested itself in the terrifying nightmare she’d experienced tonight. Even though she’d pushed the memory of her daughter far back into her psyche, it had lurked there, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  A sudden weariness overcame her, an exhaustion that drained her. She crawled into bed, leaving all the lights burning. For the next two hours, she remained awake, not daring to close her eyes, in case the nightmare returned. Sometime before sunup, unable to stave off sleep any longer, she drifted off.

  * * * *

  At eight in the morning, the blat-blat-blat of her alarm sounded and Anna started awake. Immediately, the memory of what had happened the previous night rolled through her. She shuddered as the image of the corpse-like child loomed in her mind. After a few moments, though, the daylight filtering through the curtains brought with it the reassurance it had only been a nightmare, nothing more. The awful dream seemed to lose some of its potency in the bright light of day.

  She tossed back the covers and headed to the bathroom to shower. The steamy water rolling over her dissolved the remnants of her nightmare, and she concentrated instead on her meeting with Falcone.

  An hour later, Anna stood in front of an old, three-story building with grey stone walls that had observed centuries of comings and goings on the narrow street where it was situated. Falcone’s office was on the second floor, and she opened the heavy wooden doorway and entered a dim foyer. It smelled a bit musty but felt blessedly cool after the sticky morning heat. Straight ahead was a stone stairway, flanked by a wrought iron railing. The steps were worn down in the middle by countless trudging feet. At the top of the landing, double entry doors bearing the name of Falcone’s company faced her. She entered a classically-decorated reception room, and a well-dressed young woman who spoke in accented English greeted her and ushered her into Falcone’s office.

  “Anna. Have a seat.” Falcone motioned to one of the armchairs. “I trust you had a comfortable night.”

  “Yes,” she lied, as a vestige of the nightmare reared its ugly head again. “Very comfortable. The hotel is lovely. And I enjoyed the walk over this morning as well.”

  “Good. Well then, here is the package for your review. There’s an empty office in which you can look the material over. My assistant will accompany you there.” He used the telephone to summon the woman, who appeared at the door a moment later.

  “Thank you. Mr. Falcone—”

  “Please, call me Paolo.”

  “Paolo, then. I was hoping to have a look at the site later today. Would it be possible for me to do that after I’ve looked over the material?”

  “I can certainly try to arrange it for today,” he said. “There is a construction trailer set up on the island in anticipation of your arrival, although it may be difficult to arrange water transport on same-day notice.”

  “Oh, I’m more than willing to take public transport, no need to arrange a private boat.” She didn’t want him to think she expected special consideratio
n.

  He skipped a beat before saying, “I’m afraid that’s not possible. There is no public transportation to Poveglia.”

  “Oh. I noticed the boats going to the Lido yesterday, so I thought—”

  “Unfortunately, no. Access to Poveglia entails certain...arrangements. The city must provide special dispensation to those requesting permission to visit the island, for the time being, at least. I will, however, do my best to make those arrangements and have a boat and driver lined up for mid-afternoon.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks,” she said, wondering why the island was not accessible by public transportation. Up until a few weeks ago, when Falcone’s company had taken ownership, the property had belonged to the city and been under its jurisdiction.

  A man spoke in a baritone voice from behind her. “Good morning.”

  Anna turned around to see a ruggedly handsome man entering the office. He looked to be in his mid-forties, a powerhouse of a fellow with thick waves of black hair and a Mediterranean complexion. His hazel eyes locked with hers, and Anna felt something jump inside her.

  “Alejandro, come in. This is very timely. Alejandro Ramirez, meet Anna LaServa, the design architect for the hotel. Alejandro is the man in charge of the hotel’s construction,” Falcone explained.

  “A pleasure,” Alejandro said without taking his eyes off her.

  Anna picked up a hint of a Spanish accent in his deep voice. She extended her hand, which got lost in Alejandro’s large one, and felt an undeniable spark travel through her as they shook. In a rare moment of being caught off guard, she blushed and broke eye contact with him. She decided on the spot she liked this man, with whom she would need to consult frequently during the course of the project.

  “Alejandro, I’m making arrangements for Ms. LaServa to visit the island today. I assume you will wish to accompany her.”

  “Yes, of course,” he agreed.

  “I would accompany you both as well,” Falcone said, looking down at the papers on his desk, “but unfortunately, I’m expected elsewhere today.”

  “I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.” Anna cast a sidelong glance at Alejandro, who she noticed continued to stare at her.

  Falcone returned his attention to Anna. “Very good, then. My assistant will show you to the office now. She or Alejandro should be able to answer any questions you may have. And I will send word as soon as arrangements are in place for you to visit the island.” Falcone looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I must be off now, I’m already late for another meeting.”

  After they said goodbye, Falcone’s assistant escorted Anna and Alejandro to a nearby office. There they set to work poring over the documents. As she immersed herself in the paperwork, slightly distracted by her proximity to Alejandro, all thoughts of the unsettling dream of the previous night faded away.

  * * * *

  Several moments later, Falcone entered the office of his partner, Luciano Ferro, on the third floor, directly above the office in which Anna and Alejandro worked.

  “Well?” Ferro asked.

  “Everything is in order. She appears to be more than competent,” Falcone replied.

  Ferro gave a terse nod. “Good. Let’s hope she’ll have no trouble in carrying the project to fruition. There’s too much money at stake. If we don’t get the project underway in short order, our investors will lose confidence and pull out.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Falcone snapped. “I’ve done the best I could. You know very well no Italian will set foot on that island. And procuring services outside the country takes time. I’ve managed to line up an architect in less than two weeks. What more do you expect?”

  Ferro waved off Falcone’s outburst. “I know that, Paolo. And you’ve done well. Sit, sit. I did not mean to criticize your efforts. Construction will begin soon. We will both be wealthy men before long.”

  Mollified by Ferro’s apologetic tone, Falcone sat and accepted the cigar Ferro held out to him.

  Chapter 8

  Poveglia Island, Venice

  1927

  The last thing Dr. Rossi unpacked from the remaining box on the floor of his new office was a photograph of him with Serafina and their children. After polishing the glass of the framed photo with the sleeve of his pristine lab coat, Rossi angled the picture just so on the large desk. He looked around the bright room with more than a little pride and a sense of accomplishment in his new capacity as head surgeon of the asylum on Poveglia.

  He’d arranged for the custom-made mahogany desk to be shipped to the island earlier in the week with the other furnishings he had hand-picked—walls of bookshelves, a settee, tables, chairs, and even a bed, in the event he was required to remain overnight on the island in case of an emergency. The head surgeon’s office was actually a separate one-story building, erected a small distance from the complex. The building served as both office and personal sanctuary, devoted entirely to him, and a more comfortable place to work he could not imagine. The building’s interior consisted of one enormous room with banks of tall, arched windows running along both lengths, providing plenty of air and sunshine. The back wall had been partitioned to include a bathroom, complete with a large tub, for his use alone.

  Today marked his first official day as head surgeon in charge of the facility. Earlier during the week, he had taken a quick tour of the two-story hospital, with its orderly, clean patient wards—twenty beds to a room—and the adjoining laboratory, a large, up-to-date facility with stainless steel operating tables and everything necessary for surgical procedures. Approximately twenty feet to the north of the hospital proper, and resting at a right angle to it, was the quarantine building, where patients who required segregation could be housed, if necessary.

  The facility, he’d been pleased to learn, even had its own crematorium, so any who died during their hospitalization could be cremated without the necessity of having to transport corpses by boat to the mainland. Not something the surviving family members had been happy to learn of—traditional burial was always preferred—but the city health officials had deemed it a practical necessity and the regulation had gone into effect right after the hospital’s construction five years ago. The crematorium rested just beyond the quarantine building. Next to that, approximately thirty feet away, was his, the head surgeon’s office.

  All in all, he’d been extremely impressed by the institution. The structures on the island, save, perhaps, for the crematorium and the quarantine building, were aesthetically pleasing, with plenty of tall, narrow windows. The entire facility had been constructed short steps away from the landing where the boats arrived and departed. A treed path connected all the buildings, starting at the landing and ending at his office. The hospital’s imposing bell tower, built in the Venetian style and incorporated into the facade, lent a formal air to the place.

  He walked over to one of the windows on the north wall of his office, which overlooked a large field, a bit overgrown, and backed by a veritable forest of poplar trees. Yes, he was going to be very happy in his new position.

  At eleven o’clock, Rossi exited his office, ready to make his first rounds. Close to a hundred patients occupied the facility and he had spent the earlier part of the morning conducting a quick review of the medical records provided to him by Dr. Fenelli. Rossi had been impressed by the young doctor’s thoroughness in preparing the daily charts. From his perusal of the records, he learned several of the patients were afflicted with severe mental conditions. A quick walk-through to introduce himself to those in his care was his first order of business, and he followed the path to the hospital to locate Dr. Fenelli, anxious to get started.

  Rossi entered through the main doors of the hospital and found Dr. Fenelli in the large vestibule, waiting for him. They passed through a portico on their left, into the first of the three wards on the main floor, which were connected to each other by arched openings. As he made his way through ward one, Rossi stopped at each bed and introduced himself to the occupant. Some of the patients
appeared responsive, others not so much. Rossi made a note in his chart as he met and observed each one.

  He continued in the same manner through the second ward. Just as they finished in ward two, Rossi heard shouts coming from the next room. He and Fenelli rushed through the opening into ward three, where two attendants were attempting to physically restrain a struggling patient shouting incoherently at the top of his lungs. Two more attendants arrived a moment later, but it took all four of them to subdue the man. Even after being restrained in his bed with leather straps at his wrists and ankles, the patient continued yelling.

  “That’s Carbone,” said Fenelli. “Admitted just over a year ago. He’s become extremely delusional over the past several months.”

  “What’s he saying?” Rossi asked. “I can’t make it out.”

  “He’s yelling that they give him no rest.”

  “Who?”

  Fenelli sighed. “The spirits. He claims to see spirits, almost on a daily basis. As I say, the delusions started approximately three months ago. He appears to have developed symptoms of schizophrenia since his admittance, and his condition has worsened considerably in the past few weeks.”

  “Have him transferred to the quarantine building. Today. I don’t want him threatening the safety of the other patients. I’ll review his history in more detail tonight then conduct a thorough examination of him first thing in the morning.”

  “Of course, Dottore.”

  Fenelli gave directions to the attendants nearby to remove the patient into quarantine, and Rossi continued making his rounds.

  * * * *

  At six o’clock that evening, Rossi boarded the waiting vessel at the landing for his return to the mainland. He carried with him the files of nine patients. It appeared whatever affliction the patient, Carbone, suffered from he was not the only extremely delusional patient in the hospital. Eight of the other patients seemed to also be suffering from a similar condition, requiring the regular use of restraints. He supposed it might be possible the patients could be feeding off each other’s paranoia, but the matter definitely warranted further investigation. By the time he’d finished making his rounds that afternoon, all nine of the patients who’d exhibited violent behavior had been transferred to the quarantine building. He would spend tonight studying their case histories and, in the morning, intended to conduct his own examination of each of them.