A Voice So Soft

by Patrick Lacey

  But it was not a monster.

  It was Melissa.

  And she was in bad shape.

  She wore a pair of headphones, an oversized Red Sox t-shirt, and not much else.

  “Melissa?” he said. “Are you okay?”

  Her mouth opened but her voice was much too soft.

  He stepped farther inside, despite his pulse warning him, and flipped up the closest shade.

  And wished he’d slept in that morning. The migraine and hangover and the inexplicable erection were all preferable to what he saw before him.

  “I didn’t pay the electric bill,” Melissa said too loudly, perhaps forgetting about the headphones. “The lights. That’s why they don’t work.” Her eyes were bloodshot. The irises were too large and they’d changed shape somehow. “I know that’s my responsibility but I couldn’t pay it. Not this time. It wasn’t my fault, Josh. I swear.”

  There were several adult coloring books open on her criss-crossed knees. He used to tell her the things were just a marketing ploy but she insisted they helped with her anxiety and depression. She’d been good at them too. A natural artist. He’d suggested she take up drawing or painting classes. It would get her out of the house more often, make her feel productive.

  Today she’d done plenty of coloring, though not with markers or crayons.

  With blood.

  He covered his mouth at the revelation. Both of Melissa’s wrists had been crudely sliced. The horizontal incisions bled freely. The pages of the top coloring book were soaked through. Another lay open on the floor, a rendition of a skyscraper obscured by red smears.

  “I couldn’t remember,” she went on. “She wouldn’t let me.”

  “Honey, what are you talking about?” He hadn’t called her that in a long time. The word seemed foreign now.

  “Angie. There isn’t time for things like bills anymore. She stepped inside my head and she showed me things. She showed me what’s coming. And it’s beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. She said a lot of people are going to die and some will say she’s bad but she’s not bad. She’s exactly what we’ve been waiting for. She said the end of the world is really just the beginning.”

  From behind, Josh heard Roberta gasp. Either she hadn’t seen the blood until now or shock had delayed her reaction. “Call the police,” he said without turning around. “Call an ambulance. Call someone. And make it quick.” He tried his best to sound calm, talking to Melissa like she was a would-be jumper.

  But his calm vanished when he noticed the knife.

  Stainless steel. A wedding gift from her parents before they’d disowned her. Melissa hadn’t had the easiest life. Her family was . . . difficult to say the least. And she hadn’t asked for her depression. Though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, he often thought she used her condition as an excuse, a means to treat her husband like shit, but now he saw just how sick she truly was.

  This isn’t from depression, though.

  As if on cue, he noticed the music for the first time. Low and muffled but present nonetheless. The headphones. Melissa took them off and set them on the side of the couch. He backed away as the sounds grew louder. He eyed the tiny speakers like snakes.

  Forever with you, Angie sang.

  From within his jeans, his cock stiffened. Like the shower that morning, his entire body tingled with pleasure. He imagined Angie slipping out of her clothes and into his bed. He’d make Melissa watch. Tie her up. Pin her eyelids open so she couldn’t blink. He’d stuff a sock into her mouth to keep her from screaming. And then he, alongside the world’s most famous singer, would cut her many more times.

  He blinked and he was back from wherever he’d traveled. He wasn’t sure if it was a daydream or a delusion but one thing was certain.

  Those thoughts had not been his own.

  “She talks to you too, doesn’t she?” Melissa brushed away a loose strand of hair, leaving behind a drop of blood on her forehead. “She said you were next. Said you were important in all this. You’re a fighter, Josh, but she’s stronger.”

  She licked the blade clean and dropped it onto the floor, giggling and bleeding.

  Josh grabbed the headphones, pulled them out of her iPod, and tossed them across the room. They landed with a thud against the bathroom door. The music played for a moment longer and he wasn’t certain if it was a delay or his subconscious picking up where the song left off.

  Then the melody was replaced with another sound.

  Sirens.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SHE’S ALREADY HERE

  SHAWNA DID NOT ATTEND ENGLISH class. She couldn’t afford to miss any more time and her grades were plummeting, but grades were the furthest thing from her mind. Let the school call her mother.

  Her heart skipped. No, she didn’t want that. Didn’t want to be grounded, at home alone in her room while you know who roamed the halls. She imagined two rectangular shadows, her sister’s feet, beneath her bedroom door. In no rush as she waited for Shawna to come out.

  Her sister was patient.

  And also evil.

  That much was evident in Salem High this morning. Homeroom had been strange, her fellow students barely speaking. Most of them wore headphones and the few that did mutter words did so quietly. It felt as if she’d entered some bizarre church mid-ritual.

  Now, standing outside that same room, watching Mr. Fuller silently address the class, she knew she’d been smart to skip.

  There were only two empty desks: her own and Mia’s. Mr. Fuller paced back and forth, speaking with his hands. She wasn’t sure what they were covering today. The last real assignment had been three days ago: a literary analysis for On the Road. She’d forgotten to pass hers in, though Fuller hadn’t called her out. He’d been acting as if something was on his mind. She’d thought at the time it was more budget cuts but now she saw it was nothing so simple.

  On the board behind him were thousands of chicken-scratch words. They looked as though they’d been written with urgency. She imagined Fuller threatening a student with detention if they didn’t cover the board with text of his choosing. Only it wasn’t anything funny or witty or disciplinary.

  It was, unsurprisingly, her sister’s lyrics.

  Not just the single either. There were plenty of Forever with You’s but there were other lines too. Lines from deeper cuts that seemed innocent at first. But stare at them long enough and they grew sinister.

  No matter how far you are, I will always find you.

  We aren’t over yet cuz I’ll never stop following.

  And perhaps the worst line, the one that made her blood curdle:

  The end is just the beginning.

  This close to the door’s window, her breath fogged the glass, obscuring the room, which felt like a blessing. Mr. Fuller looked angry and happy at once, if that was possible. A large, almost synthetic smile stretched across his face, distorting his features so his eyes looked . . . deformed somehow. Even from here she could tell they’d changed shape, the green and blue irises now more square-like.

  “Skipping again, huh?”

  Shawna’s bladder threatened to burst at the sound of the voice. She spun around and held a hand to her chest.

  Mia smirked. “Is the left one still smaller? Or did they finally even out?” She nodded toward her breasts.

  Shawna dropped her hand. She felt exposed, looked left and right but the hall was empty. And even if there had been onlookers, who was to say they’d be on her side?

  On her side?

  She didn’t like her own choice of words. They implied a line was being drawn. A line that separated good from evil.

  “You scared the shit out of me. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough.” Another smirk. Mia’s braces were gone. Her teeth were perfect aside from a stubborn incisor that still poked out. They used to call it her vampire tooth, back when they were together. She wore sequins and skin-tight leggings, a ghost of what she’d once been. “You’re better off giving in.�
��

  “What?”

  “How long do you think you can fight it? Look how far things have come. Give it another month and she’ll be everywhere.”

  Shawna gulped. “Who?” She knew the answer.

  “You know, I’m actually jealous of you? In a weird way, I look up to you. But it pisses me off too. You’re her sister. You can talk to her anytime you want but you don’t take advantage of it. No, you keep going around like Angie isn’t the world’s most important creature.”

  Shawna noted the last word. It hung in the air for much too long.

  Mia took a step closer. “We can sense it, you know. That you’re not a fan. You might want to change that. I’m only telling you because of what we had. I don’t owe you anything after this.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s happening?”

  She sighed, closed her eyes. “Can’t you feel it? It’s in the air. Like the feeling just before a hurricane. Something’s coming. Angie’s coming. No—” she cut herself off. “She’s already here.”

  She opened her eyes as if for the first time. They were different now. Just like Mr. Fuller’s. Whatever change had taken place affected her too. It wasn’t just a shift in personality and fashion sense. It was deeper than that. This wasn’t Mia. Not anymore.

  “I loved you,” Shawna said. “Still do. And maybe it’s just puppy love or a crush but you were more than just a girlfriend. You were my best friend. You kept the bullies away because we were in it together. Us against the world. I don’t get what’s happening but I know it has to do with my sister and her songs. I’m going to figure it out. And I’m going to save you.”

  Another step forward. One more and Shawna would be pinned against the door. Then it would be painfully easy for Mia to reach for the knob. She imagined the class moving in on her. A horde of mindless cannibals, singing pop lyrics as they dined on her innards.

  “You’re too late,” Mia said. “I’ve already been saved.”

  As she took that final step, Shawna dodged and jogged down the hall. She did not stop until she was outside. The temperature was too cold for this time of year but she welcomed the bitter breeze.

  An RV pulled up to the curb: black exterior with cheesy graphics of ghosts and ghouls and text. A generic haunted walking tour of Salem. The windows were tinted. The driver’s side was rolled down.

  Mike Mallory wore sunglasses that hid his exhausted eyes. “I need an answer.”

  She ran down the steps, opened the passenger door, and dove in.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Esmeralda had gone to the same bank since she’d cashed her first check at age fourteen. It was illegal in Massachusetts to work prior to sixteen unless you got yourself a work permit. That’s all she’d asked for for her birthday that year.

  “Why do you want to work so badly?” her mother had asked, pausing between breaths. Three years shy of her first heart attack.

  Two hundred pounds lighter, Esmeralda had shrugged. “I just do.” What she’d really meant was I want to make something of myself because I don’t want to be like you and Dad.

  Her parents had been massively obese. They worked as little as possible. She grew up in her father’s childhood home across town. The mortgage was paid off and the place was falling apart. There were countless promises to fix it up but he never followed through. She watched them die a slow death while they ate themselves into oblivion. They weren’t bad parents but they weren’t exactly role models either.

  And now look at you, she thought as she walked up to the revolving door of Salem National Bank. You followed their footsteps to a T.

  The bank had not changed much in all the time she’d been visiting. Same carpet. Same lights and desks. Same everything aside from the employees. Normally, she took comfort in this. It was like stepping into a time capsule. But today she wasn’t in the mood for reminiscing. She wanted to get her money and get the hell out of town.

  She waited in line for an eternity. Her feet ached and swelled within her shoes. Another early sign of heart failure, her doctor had warned. She needed to lay off salt immediately. She had. For precisely one week after her last visit. Then she’d traded vegetables for chips and cheese curls. And burgers. You couldn’t forget the burgers.

  This morning, though, she’d barely been able to think about food after the phone call. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe fear was the ultimate diet.

  She wasn’t certain what the woman—Glenda—had been implying about the shift in ownership and she didn’t intend to find out. Once Esmeralda reached Florida, she could sort out the details. Once she was sipping something fruity under the sun, she’d call Glenda back and let her know she’d abandoned the business.

  The line moved up and she finally reached the closest teller.

  The girl smiled too eagerly. New to the job. “Can I help you?”

  Esmeralda nodded. “Yes, I’d like to withdraw my savings account.” She told her the account number.

  “Of course. How much will you be withdrawing?”

  “All of it.”

  The girl frowned. “Okay. Let’s take a look.” She typed for what seemed like eons.

  Esmeralda looked around. She didn’t spot anyone that seemed out of place but that did her nerves no favors.

  The girl cleared her throat and made a noise under her breath.

  “Is everything okay?” Esmeralda said.

  “Yes. I . . . it looks like there’s been a hold on your account.”

  “A hold?”

  The girl nodded. “It says here it went into effect this morning at 8:47 AM.”

  Esmeralda did not need a mathematician to know that was the exact moment of the phone call. “That’s impossible.”

  The girl shrugged. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Why would there be a hold?”

  “It doesn’t say. I’m sorry,” she said again, on the verge of tears now.

  “I’d like to speak with your supervisor.”

  “Of course. I’ll go get him.”

  She walked into the back room, head down, eyes to the floor. Her fellow tellers watched as if she was on her way to get fired or worse. Esmeralda felt a moment of guilt. Obviously the girl had nothing to do with this error. And obviously that was the correct term for this: error. Because Esmeralda had always been good with her money. She hadn’t withdrawn from her savings since three winters ago, when her brakes had finally rotted away on her Ford Taurus. The same car she’d be driving to Florida. It had been on its last legs then, was on borrowed time. What if she broke down on the side of the highway? What if it broke down before she left town?

  A man cleared his throat. She looked up, blinking away her thoughts. According to his nametag, the front-end supervisor’s name was Gregory Charles. A formal sounding name for a grumpy looking person. He scowled at her. She could practically hear his inner voice judging her weight. He should’ve spoken aloud. She’d heard it all before.

  Fat ass.

  Tub of lard.

  Heffer.

  And her personal favorite: tower of diabetes. At least that had been original.

  “You’ve made a mistake,” she said.

  He looked at the screen and shook his head. “It says here there’s a hold on the account.”

  “Yes, thanks. She already told me that much.”

  The girl stood behind him, nibbling a nail that already looked nibbled. She said nothing.

  “Then what is the mistake you mention?” Gregory said.

  “The mistake is that there can’t be a hold. I deposit money into that account every week. I check it religiously. Why in God’s name would there be an issue?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ll need to contact the administration department.” He said the words as if they were obvious, as if he were schooling her. Not unlike doctors giving dieting tips.

  “How long will that take?”

  He looked at his watch. “I’d guess we could get you in by noon.”

  She slamme
d her hand onto the counter. “That won’t do. I’m in a hurry.”

  The line behind her murmured under their collective breaths. She wondered how crazy she looked. “Isn’t there anything else you can do?”

  He shrugged and she could’ve punched him in the throat if it weren’t for the thing in her periphery. The thing that had not been there a moment before. Through the closest windows, something dark and fluid shimmered across the street. No, not a thing, despite what her imagination insisted. A human. A human wearing a robe, the material swaying in the wind.

  “Miss?” Gregory said. “Is everything okay?”

  She belched up the taste of partially digested doughnuts. “Do you have a back exit?”

  Gregory raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re okay? Would you like to sit down?”

  Her stinging chest agreed with him. She did need to sit down. A nap didn’t sound bad either. But the man across the street—the man who worked for that little she-demon—disagreed. He had something other than rest on his mind.

  “Answer the fucking question. Is there another way out?”

  “Near the bathrooms,” the girl said, pointing in the opposite direction. She sounded on the verge of tears now. Esmeralda knew the feeling well.

  She left without thanking either of them, without meeting the stares of her onlookers. She marched down the hall, past the bathrooms, and through the rear exit.

  The breeze stole her breath for a moment. And in that moment, she knew two things.

  She knew Angie Everstein had somehow put a hold on her savings account.

  And she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to get out of Salem without a fight.

  What she didn’t know was how much of a fight she had in her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CREEPING THINGS

  “WHERE ARE WE GOING?” SHAWNA said.

  “To meet my colleague.” Mike Mallory did not look away from the road. He wore sunglasses despite the tinted windows and his face could have been a mask.