Whispers - Volume 1: A Collection

by Keane, Stuart

  "It's...it's not the right time. For me or the baby."

  "So when is the right time?" The child's words rang true with vehemence.

  "I don’t know. Maybe in a couple of years…after I can plan for it, have a child with a responsible adult who will nurture the child and give it everything it needs." Victoria rubbed her stomach, grimacing in pain. A drop of blood slipped from her mouth and rolled down her chin. She coughed. "No child deserves to be raised in poverty."

  "You have a job. Or will it restrict funds for your shoes and clothes? Like I said, an inconvenience. Nothing more."

  "It's not enough. Yes, I have the money but no child should have one parent, especially one so young and…inexperienced. You must see my dilemma here? It's not an easy decision. I want a baby with a man who can adore it, love it. A proper family, not a horrible result of a one-night stand." Victoria dropped to one knee in pain, coughing more violently.

  "And you think that will happen? Do you have the confidence that after a termination…maybe two, seeing as you like the sauce and sex a little too much – seems obvious that this could be the first in a line of bad chapters for you - that someone will want you? There's a word for you, Victoria. It's damaged goods. Men won't touch you with a barge pole."

  Victoria said nothing. She wiped her mouth, smearing red along her forearm.

  The voice softened. Baiting Victoria, tempting her. "If you have the child, who knows. Men love kids, there's plenty of men who are willing to step up and help raise a kid. Even if it isn't their own. It's time to take responsibility. If they can, you can."

  "I'm taking responsibility. I’m getting rid of it…not that it’s any of your concern anyway. Now is not the time or place to have a kid." Victoria was more agitated now, angry. "Who the hell do you think you are?” The woman stood up, the pain growing.

  The child laughed. An eerie, monotonous laugh, one beyond its years and one too deep to be emanating from such a young looking kid. “You don’t get it do you, Victoria? Getting rid of a responsibility isn’t responsible. It’s an excuse, ignorance, shifting the blame, passing the buck. Like throwing a bag of kittens into a river. You shift it around, never facing it directly until it’s too late.”

  “That’s rubbish. I can’t give the baby a life it deserves. Letting it grow up would be cruel. If terminations were so bad then they wouldn’t perform them, would they? I mean, what happens if a drug addict or a rape victim gets pregnant? Do they have to keep it and not get it aborted? That’s not fair –”

  The child interrupted. "You're missing the point. The abortion is irrelevant, a moot point. It exists for a reason, yes, but it shouldn’t be abused. I'm talking about responsibility for your actions. You had a choice in matters here, a rape victim might not have such a choice. Don’t get me wrong, abortion isn’t the nicest of procedures but it has a purpose. You shouldn’t be using it as an excuse to continue your boozing and partying. You could have been more careful."

  Victoria paused. She tucked her hair behind her ears. "I've considered all of the options and no others fit. This is my choice and I need to stick with it."

  "So be it," answered the child. It sent shivers up her spine.

  Silence filled the room for a moment. Victoria glanced around, somewhat confused. “How did you get in here anyway?" She groaned, her stomach felt like it was on fire. "I want you to leave.”

  “Ah, Victoria. That’s the thing. If someone walked in here now, they’d see you speaking to nothing, empty air. That doesn’t mean I’m not here, it just means you’re the only one who can see me. Awesome, huh? Like I said, it's not nice having your personal space violated, is it?”

  “I want you to go.”

  “I can’t do that you see. I mean, I came in here, ruined your shower, and stopped you from drinking yourself into a coma. Want to know how our violation feels? When you shove a coat hanger into our heads and pull us out like an unwanted tumor? When the pill drops and spreads a toxic chemical that’s suffocates us. HUH! You get off fucking easy compared.”

  The child started to turn. Victoria narrowed her eyes, not wanting to see the face that had been baiting her. She couldn’t move her head, the pain from her stomach paralyzing her body.

  Then it was too late.

  The boy was gazing at Victoria. The face was pale, bloody, ripped. The left eye was gone, a huge gaping gash remained as if someone had sliced through with a chainsaw and gave up after a few seconds. Bone and viscera and slick muscle was visible, it throbbed and moved. A thin sliver of bone and skin wobbled, separated from the remainder of the head by the gaping gash. The right eye remained, the eyelid was gone but the dead pupil was staring intently at her. The mouth was torn into a sickly grimace and Victoria noticed the nose was ugly, pudgy.

  Like the doctor’s.

  She felt bile rising in her throat. The child’s face was covered in dried blood. Only half of its hair remained. It took a step forward, out of the shadow.

  That’s when Victoria saw its hands. And the contents.

  A white bundle, oval shaped, reminiscent of a newborn baby wrapped in a blanket. The shape and color was unmistakable. The boy was holding it and rocking it back and forth. He stared at her, teeth exposed, black gums sneering. “See, it can be beautiful. Why ruin that by killing it?” Victoria slapped a hand to her face, the bile seeped from her mouth despite the blockage. Vomit shot from between her fingers and hit the carpet with a dull spatter. She removed her hand and vomited properly, letting it out. A yellow clumpy pile formed at her feet. The boy took a step closer.

  “Don’t resist it. Have the baby. It’ll be for the better.”

  Victoria backed up. “No…stay away…” She fell to her knees, her stomach started to throb uncontrollably. She felt her bladder release. She looked down and realized it wasn’t urine but blood escaping from her body. Her jeans were turning a dark red color. Victoria could feel the hot blood sliding down her fresh, clean legs.

  The boy continued walking. “Don’t resist it. You can’t resist it.” Still sneering.

  Victoria gasped for she had just noticed the bundle in its arms. The white blanket, or what she thought was a blanket, was something else entirely. It was stringy, many miniscule fibers wrapped around it like a demented mummy. The stringy material was unmistakable. The bundle, whatever it is, was wrapped in spider silk. Strong, pearl-colored and shiny. The stuff of a thousand cobwebs. Victoria hated spiders.

  She fell onto her rump, weakness ebbing her will to fight. Her jeans were soaked with hot blood, her legs tingling. Her eyes started to close.

  That’s when the Black Widow crawled out of the blanket, from the normal position of the head hole, and started walking over the boy. It climbed his arm, then his shoulder and stood rooted to the spot. “Don’t resist. You can’t resist.”

  The spider crawled into the boy’s mouth.

  Victoria groaned and vomited blood. She placed her fingers to her nose and winced. They came away bright crimson. Her stomach started to throb, to move. Something was inside of her. She knew this. But it was moving, tearing and shredding her insides. No. It can't be. What is it? No!

  The boy stepped forward, throwing the baby bundle in the air and reached for Victoria. “Don’t resist.”

  In that final second before Victoria collapsed, she saw the eye. The eye shone with pure unadulterated evil, like Satan had become a child and was now leaping towards her. The bundle unraveled in the air and became a thousand tiny white spiders. They formed and cascaded around her and landed in her hair and her mouth and eyes. One crawled in her ear, she felt it tickling her eardrum before a soft pop rendered her deaf in that ear. Several crawled through her hair, their tiny legs tickled her scalp. One bounced off her eyelid, a second grabbed on and crawled under her eye, beneath the skin.

  Several small fires erupted beneath her skin and she realized the spiders were biting her, consuming her. Pain was her new friend. It enveloped her, consumed her.

  From within.

  Victo
ria collapsed.

  Click. “Hello, this is a message for Ms. Victoria Bell. This is Doctor Vernon Macer, we spoke on the phone earlier this week. I’m calling because you missed your scheduled appointment with us this afternoon. If you could contact us as soon as possible to reschedule, we can book you in. Please call us on your normal consultation number.” Click.

  Victoria wouldn’t hear the message. Her home was filled with silence.

  Except for one noise. The clock had stopped ticking. The laptop had gone to sleep and no longer disturbed the ambience. The world was on hold.

  The noise was a constant drip.

  The dripping of blood.

  Victoria was dead. She lay on the kitchen floor, arms spread, torso slashed open by an unseen, hidden force.

  From within.

  But it wasn’t the scared expression in her mutilated eyes or the fact her blood-smeared face was frozen in a mask of pure, terrifying fear. The blood was coming from somewhere else.

  The gaping abyss in her stomach.

  The abyss where several white spiders now sat, content and happy and rested.

  Home.

  Fool Aboard

  Dave couldn’t move.

  An obstructive weight covered his back. It didn’t feel familiar.

  Placing his palms on the floor, he tried to push off the ground. Push-ups were never his strong point and they wouldn’t help here. His entire body was pinned under the weight. He rolled to the left and was immediately pushed back onto his front. The breath shot out of his nose, shrill and sudden, with a whistle.

  His eyes settled on the floor before him. The blue carpet was threadbare but stained with a dark red substance. It wasn’t a spill, the pattern was too random. Glancing at the wall, he noticed the substance had also stained the yellow, flowered paintwork with a diverse red spatter. He imagined some angst-ridden teenager flicking their paintbrush. Realization dawned all too quickly.

  Dave froze, his heart quickened and he closed his eyes. He tried to remain calm.

  It was blood, no doubt about it. Unmistakable.

  He didn’t know how or why but someone had bled here and quite heavily too. A prank gone wrong? A severe nosebleed? Dave realized he didn’t know where he was. Lord knows why he was here…but he didn’t make those decisions, Roger did.

  Clever Roger and his dimwitted schemes. Always getting them into trouble. Most recently, he’d been tied to a lamppost for seven hours on an ill-advised bachelor party. Now he was laying on a bloody carpet in Nowheresville, USA. For all of his flaws, Roger was very entertaining and you always got your money’s worth.

  Where the fuck was Roger anyway?

  No time for that now.

  You need to get out of here, he thought.

  Let’s get the weight off your back.

  Maybe this was another of Roger’s pranks. That’s it, has to be. Let’s take the cripple, get him hammered and leave him somewhere. You know what? Let’s scare the shit out of him too. Make it look like a crime scene. That’ll make him piss his pants.

  Sorry, Roger. Failed again.

  The weight had to go. Simple plan, roll back and forth gently, do it a few times, build momentum, and then push through. Once on your back, you’ll have a little more control.

  You can do this. He started rocking back and forth.

  On the count of three.

  One.

  Two.

  On three, he rolled and managed to slide under the obstruction and roll slowly onto his back. The floor beneath him was worn and hard, conditions brought on from thousands of feet over an extensive period of time. The carpet slipped beneath the palms of his hands. Dave’s body rolled slowly and he felt the weight passing over his side, the weight shifted slightly, the leverage pushing his torso through, working to his advantage. Priority was to get up and then find out what happened. Find Roger and kick his ass. He rolled onto his back and lay there. He breathed out and the mysterious weight started to settle.

  Roger’s dead visage slapped him in the face. Blood spooled in his eyes and mouth and splattered his forehead. Some hit the back of his throat and he retched. Several drips sluiced down his cheeks and into his ears. The stench of copper filled Dave’s nostrils. Roger’s left eyeball swung on its optic nerve and rested against Dave’s bloody cheek.

  He’d found Roger.

  Dave screamed and passed out.

  Roger was staring Dave in the face. As he opened his eyes, it took him by surprise. Dave took a second to remember why he’d blacked out in the first place.

  It all came back very quickly.

  Roger’s face was pale and slimy. The low light twinkled off the sallow skin and his eyes were dead, not moving. The right eye was bloodshot, and congealed blood coated his top lip and nostrils. Every few seconds a drop of blood would spot Dave’s cheek. The rogue left eyeball had twisted on the nerve and rolled away from his cheek.

  Phew.

  Roger’s expensive haircut was ruined, a huge gash in his scalp cut deep and revealed the skull, which was cracked and leaking brain fluid. The hair and epidermis hung off in a clump, dangling in the air like a flap of unwanted carpet. Dave could see the layers of skin in the flap and thought it looked like some kind of human cake. He fought back the rising vomit and looked away.

  It took all of Dave’s strength to remain conscious.

  Keep it together, Dave. Don’t panic.

  Dave shuffled to the side and slid out from beneath his dead friend. Unable to use his legs, he was sweating profusely after the exertion. He half expected Roger to grab him and feast on his flesh like some kind of zombie. He laughed at the thought.

  Don’t be stupid, there’s no such thing.

  Dave, finally free of the extra weight, pulled himself along the floor to the wall. He propped himself up against it and breathed out. Using his sleeve, he wiped Roger’s blood from his face. It smeared in places and he could feel his own skin stiffening under the coagulated blood. It itched like crazy.

  The warm sensation of tears pricked at the back of his eyes. He looked at the mutilated body of his best friend and tried to fathom just what had happened. Dave looked at his useless legs and, not for the first time, wished he could walk. He hadn’t been able to since the age of five but he yearned to experience it. Roger shared tales of football and tennis and hiking with him on a regular basis, and Dave always felt left out. He wanted to climb mountains and score a touchdown.

  Right now I’d settle for staying alive. Walking would be a major advantage. Of all the situations to be in…

  A noise diverted his attention.

  A clacking noise, several sounds combined, routine and distant. He recognised it immediately. Carriages bouncing off one another, couplings between cars groaning infinitely, oiled wheels gliding along smooth rails.

  Dave was on a train.

  A train? How did I…

  His brain surged to life, remembering his night so far.

  The Liberty Express. From Atlanta to Anniston. ‘Any bachelor’s dream, the train built for debauchery and a good ol’ time’.

  Dave remembered the slogan from the black and white poster, a poster promising strippers and sex and enough coke to put Scarface to shame. Dave remembered thinking it was a huge joke, he even bet Roger he was yanking his chain.

  He’d been wrong.

  And ten bucks down.

  Roger and Dave had boarded several hours ago to watch some strippers, do some coke, neck some Jack and, bonus permitting, fuck some hookers. He remembered the strippers, Candice in particular. Roger paid her to give Dave a lap dance and she’d agreed. She’d caressed his thighs, licked his cheek and straddled him several times. Her skin was a caramel color, tanned and perfect. Dave had made a mental note to get an encore before going home.

  That’s all he remembered.

  Dave had a feeling some vital information was missing. He didn’t have all of the facts. What killed Roger? Why was he on this train, lost and alone?

  Shit, Roger, what did you do?r />
  The train rattled along peacefully.

  Dave twisted his head and stared down the corridor. Several wooden doors adorned the inside wall. Windows, pitch black with the night outside, stood opposite, on his side and above his head. He shuffled to the door side.

  Trees flew by in the distance, scratching silently across the purple night sky. Several sparkling stars decorated the night, as if God himself had thrown a handful of diamonds across it. The hallway arched off at either end, allowing access to the adjoining cars. Roger was lying outside the third door.

  Let’s go.

  He started to crawl. The carpet was threadbare but slick with overuse so his body crept along smoothly. The carpet scraped and tore at his legs, warming the skin beneath his trousers. It took him five minutes to reach the end of the corridor and when he did, his hands were burning with carpet friction. Rubbing them on his thighs, Dave lay on his back and took a few sharp breaths. His forehead and hair were sodden with sweat.

  Before him stood a door. Dave read a sign on the wall that indicated the doors were automatic.

  You can do this.

  He crawled in front of them and they swished open. Dave crawled through the entrance and stopped dead.

  The smell of death was indescribable.

  He vomited in his hand, trying to keep the warm liquid from hitting the floor. It dripped and drizzled through his fingers. The smells in the room were foreign and putrid, but Dave knew one of them all too well.

  Is that barbeque?

  Cooked meat, that fleshy, butcher smell that makes you gag slightly if you inhale too quickly. It mingled with the strong odor of copper and metal. Whatever happened in here wasn’t an orgy.

  Dave peered into the carriage.

  What in God’s name?

  Candice, or what was left of her, blocked his way.

  Her head was rolling around in the aisle, jostled occasionally by the train’s rickety movement. Someone had viciously punched out the eyes with a sharp object, possibly a screwdriver. Several gashes and cuts bordered the new holes in her face. Her blonde hair was now stiff with black, dried blood. Dave could see the stump of spine protruding from her neck. A dried, white liquid rested on her forehead, some clumped in her eyebrow. Was that semen?