by Michael Bray
Not yet. But you will.
She felt sick and light-headed, and genuinely afraid now. Why somebody would choose to threaten her and how had they managed to get her number in the first place were things she was spared from thinking about for long, as the next message was even more terrifying in its simplicity.
You look good in pink. :-)
Terror
It overcame her with alarming speed, and this time she walked to the window directly and looked out. Everything seemed normal, but she felt her eyes drawn to the dense stand of trees and the fact that not only could anyone be watching her from within its tangled branches, but if they chose to try to get into the house, she was isolated and alone. She hurried to the door and locked it, her hands shaking as she went around the house, checking that all windows and doors were secure and then realising that it didn’t make her feel even the slightest bit safer. Her phone vibrated again, and even though she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help but read it.
Lol. Lock lock.
She felt exposed, and the atmosphere had changed. It now felt oppressive and heavy. She tried to compose herself, deciding that whoever this prankster was needed to see that she wouldn’t be intimidated. She walked to the window, putting herself in full view as she replied to the message.
You don’t scare me. I’m going to call the police.
She waited and watched, looking for any sign of movement outside, saw none and then wondered if perhaps she had managed to scare off whoever had decided to try to trick her. The reply came in, and she looked at her handset.
If you do, we will kill Steve. DON’T tell anyone.
That changed things, and the simple prank had taken a sinister turn. She opened a new message and hovered over the keypad, unsure what to say, then decided against it and turned the phone off, not even wanting to touch it. Even though it was only mid-morning, she closed the curtains in every room of the house. Then, unsure what else to do, sat back down at the kitchen table, waiting for both her heart-rate to slow and her hands to stop shaking. She wanted to call Steve, but didn’t want to turn on her phone for fear of what might await her. Instead, she stood and threw it in the bin. It felt spoiled now, and she knew she would never be able to use it again without feeling that horrible twist in her stomach.
An hour passed, and then another. Steve still hadn’t returned, but she already felt better. She thought that anyone who had serious intentions of harming her would have tried to come into the house by now, and although she was still shaken, she thought that she’d be okay.
She decided not to let it ruin her day, and turned her attention back to the telephone directory on the table. Mrs. Briggs’s number seemed to glare at her from the page and she hesitantly picked up the handset for the landline phone and punched in the number, still not even sure what she would say to Mrs. Briggs if she answered. She waited as the line connected, and felt a flash of both excitement and dread as she waited for the call to be picked up. She waited for ten rings, and then reluctantly hung up , not sure whether she were more relieved or deflated that her investigation had come to such a sudden stop.
She wondered if it might be possible that she was making too much of nothing, and the huge conspiracy she had crafted in her mind was, in fact, non-existent. Still, it niggled at her, in spite of her best efforts to ignore both it and the threatening anonymous messages. It dawned on her that moping around the house and dwelling on it wasn’t going to help anyone. She decided that she would wait until Steve came back and they would go and visit Mrs. Briggs in person at her home.
She finished her drink and showered, during which she heard Steve’s return from wherever he’d gone to. She dressed and went downstairs, expecting to find him in the living room or kitchen, but was surprised to find the house empty. A fresh wave of panic overcame her. She walked to the window and looked outside and sure enough, there was the car, parked in the maddening not-quite-straight way that he always insisted on leaving it.
She hurried to the kitchen, and found him there with two large plastic bags. “What have you got there?” she asked, surprised how calm her voice sounded.
“Just a few odds and ends for the recording studio, mostly boring wires and plugs..”
“I hope you didn’t overspend.”
“Would I?” he said, flashing his best winning grin. “I didn’t think you were here. The door was locked.”
“I didn’t want to leave it open while I was in the shower.”
He didn’t pursue it, but he did look around at the windows still covered by the curtains. “Dare I ask?” he said with a smile.
“Headache,” she said simply, wanting to tell him all about the the threatening texts but not daring to.
“Ah, okay. Well lucky for you, I’m gonna get out of your hair for a while and do some work on the studio. Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Actually, I’m heading out myself now. I’m going to go to the shops and buy us some actual food, unless you fancy cooking up some of your wires and cables tonight.”
“I could,” he grinned, “we both know I make a mean cable stew.”
Melody groaned and shook her head, then gave him a peck on the cheek and picked up the car keys. “I won’t be long. Can I trust you not to burn down the house while I’m out?”
“I think so,” he joked as he picked up his bags of purchases.
“Okay. Do you want anything specific to eat tonight?”
“I’m easy. Whatever suits you.”
How about the truth?
She almost said it, and for a split second was sure the words would come before she could stop them, but realised that she was doing a fair amount of lying herself now. Instead she managed to flash a warm smile. “I’ll pick something up. I won’t be long.”
Steve nodded absently as he sorted through the contents of his plastic bags. Taking the opportunity to slip away, Melody left, picking up the telephone directory on her way out the door.
He waited until he heard the car pull away from the house before he hurried outside. He didn’t want to have to explain to Melody what was happening, not yet at least. The wind rocked him as he made his way down the garden, which was now flecked with golden-brown autumn leaves.
The recording studio looked like nothing more than an oversized, windowless shed from outside. Steve set his bags down and fished in his pocket for the key, letting himself into what would be (when finished) his office. The studio was furnished in red, with a large multi-track mixing desk dominating the room which was split down the middle by a soundproof window leading to the as-yet unfinished live room. Several cables and half installed recording equipment units littered the floor. Steve set down his bags, flicked on the overhead strip light and closed the door, plunging the room into silence and dampening the sounds of the increasingly blustery weather.
He crossed to the large leather chair in front of the mixing desk and sat down, switching on the power. Bright red and green lights greeted him, the myriad of controls at his fingertips, which would be daunting to most, were as familiar to him as his own reflection. He assessed the situation, and thought that with his new purchases he could have everything up and running within an hour or so, two maybe? He switched on the computer, and whilst it coaxed itself into life, he began to empty the bags and sort the contents as he prepared to go to work. He felt suddenly cold, a vicious gust of winter wind rocking the little shed. Steve thought it was as if nature itself knew what his intentions were, and was keen to deter him.
He now wished that the soundproofing had been fully installed. For some reason, the sound of the wind was bothering him more than he allowed himself to think about. As he unpacked his bags, he could hear its incessant rage, and for every new gust and shake of the treetops, he was more certain that his theory was right, and that he would be able to prove it to Melody. The feeling of being watched crept over him, a slow and stealthy thing, and he had to force himself not to look over his shoulder as he connected jack to plug, male to female, w
ire to board. A heavy, ominous atmosphere had begun to descend, and even though he tried to ignore it, there was no denying that it was there. Something yet nothing, palpable but non-existent.
We see you.
Icy-cold shivers danced down his spine, and the hairs on his forearms stood to attention. He heard a distant rumble of thunder, and he toyed with the idea of running back to the house and forgetting the entire idea. He told himself that focus was the key, focus and concentration. The rain that had threatened since mid-morning had come, and he could hear the gentle probing tap of its fingers on the roof and walls. He ignored it as best he could and set about what he needed to do.
16. SEEKING PROOF
MRS. BRIGGS’S HOME WAS a semi-detached white-painted cottage with a thatched roof and a small, tidy garden which smelled of cut grass and roses. Melody walked slowly down the narrow path, and despite the rain which fell heavily from leaden skies, she couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of the place. The combination of birdsong and the rain was somehow comforting and, for a split second, she forgot the reason for her visit.
She paused by the door, blood red with an ornate floral brass knocker set in the centre. She reached out to knock, then withdrew her hand, asking herself for the umpteenth time if she really wanted to know whatever it was that was being kept from her. She couldn’t possibly fathom whatever it may be that Steve deemed so important as to keep from her. A wave of giddy uncertainty swept over her. She told herself not to be silly, and knocked on the door. There was no response and she was about to leave when the door to the neighbouring house opened, and a familiar head poked out. Melody struggled for her name, only remembering her as one of Mrs. Briggs’s drinking buddies. It came to her just before it became awkward.
Petunia.
The one who’d kept making eyes at Steve.
“She’s not in,” said the plump, floating head as it peered around the door.
“Oh, I was hoping to speak to her, do you know how long she might be?”
“She’s usually out most of the day on a Thursday. I would expect it will be late. Can I help with anything?”
“Oh, it’s nothing really, I just wanted to ask some questions about our new house.”
Petunia nodded, and stepped outside. Melody saw that she was wearing an oversized floral dressing gown and faded pink slippers, and looked infinitely more attached to her sobriety than the last time they’d met.
“Yes, Anne said that you might drop by, if you were curious enough.”
“She did?”
“Yes, although she says a lot when she is a little the worse for drink.”
Melody nodded, and looked hopefully at Mrs. Briggs’s red door, then back to Petunia. “I don’t suppose you know why she expected me? I mean I didn’t know I was coming over myself until I got here.”
“I couldn’t say,” Petunia said with an exaggerated shrug. “Whatever it was she didn’t share it with me.”
“Any idea where I might find her?”
“Hmm, you could try the greengrocer’s on Mercer Street, or failing that she might be in the café over by the green. To be perfectly frank, she really could be anywhere. Would you like me to take a message?”
Melody shook her head. “No, no it’s fine. I was just passing and thought I would stop by.”
Petunia nodded, even though they both knew it was a lie. “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. You should get out of this rain before you catch your death dear.”
“I will. Thanks for your help.”
Petunia opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. Melody watched as a troubled frown crossed her brow, and the old woman looked at her with an expression which was one part sympathetic, two parts concerned.
“You take care,” she said simply, stepping inside again and closing the door.
***
She chased all over town in search of the elusive Mrs. Briggs. For such a small community Melody had discovered that tracking down even such a distinctive person was proving difficult. Drenched and frustrated, she had given up and now, making her way carefully down the dirt road back towards Hope House, she found that she had more questions than answers. She pulled in and was surprised to see the house in darkness. There were no lights on and, in the half-gloom brought on by the storm, it looked like an abandoned shell and more than a little unsettling considering the day’s events. She hurried to the house and found the door open and unlocked.
“Steve?”
Her enquiry went unanswered, and she made her way through the rooms, switching lights on as she went, not really sure why. She remembered that he’d been planning to do some work in the studio, going to the kitchen window and looked out she saw a crack of golden light shining from under the studio door. Unsure why her nerves were so frayed but remembering that they had every right to be, she relaxed, went outside and headed down the garden.
He came out to meet her as she approached, and Melody instantly disliked the expression on his face. His eyes were wide, and he was wearing a grin which looked to be more afraid than happy.
“I wondered where you were—”
He cut her off by holding a finger to his lips. “Shh. I’ve been waiting for you to get back.”
“Why are you whispering?” she asked, trying to hide how afraid she was.
“I’ll show you. Come on inside,” he said, opening the studio door and ushering her over the threshold.
She entered, and couldn’t help but glance at the door as it closed and shut them both into the tiny room.
Melody had only been inside the studio a couple of times during its construction, but if Steve had done any work then she wasn’t able to tell. The place was in the same chaotic disarray as when she’d last seen it. Steve turned over a plastic crate and set it beside his chair by the computer.
“Come on in and take a seat. I have something to show you.”
She sat down, watching him carefully. His eyes darted nervously, and he kept licking his lips. She saw a notepad on the desk in front of him filled with scruffy longhand. “Steve what’s going on here?”
“You’ll see,” he said, flashing a grin which was more reminiscent of the husband that she’d had left in the house just a few hours ago.
“Are you okay?” she asked, genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine. I’m just… I don’t know. Excited, nervous… I can’t really explain,” he grinned and turned back to the computer, moving sliders and adjusting controls.
“What’s going on?”
“Just wait, and listen,” he said without looking at her.
He clicked an icon on the screen and pushed the faders on the mixing desk up. The sounds of the wind that had been previously blocked out by the soundproofed studio filled the room. Steve adjusted a couple of settings on his console and turned the volume down a touch.
“Steve — I don’t understand, I…”
“Shh, just listen,” he said as he adjusted a few more settings then turned towards her. “I set up some microphones in the woods.”
She didn’t like the way his eyes were wide and showing too much white, or the self-important grin etched onto his face.
“Steve, are you drunk?”
“Of course not. I know this seems bizarre but please, just humour me, okay?”
Melody nodded silently. She was frightened and worried, not only for her husband, but also for her own safety, which was crazy as he wasn’t the type to ever hurt anybody. “Why would you want to record the woods?”
“Just listen,” he said as he turned the volume up higher.
The room was filled with the stereo sounds of the bluster of the weather conditions outside, the angry roar of raging wind, the rustle of the trees swaying in unison.
“There!” Steve barked, making Melody’s heart leap into her throat. “Did you hear it?”
“Steve…”
“You must have heard it. Keep listening!”
She had never seen him like this. He was wild and manic, and she
felt very afraid of him. She watched him hunched over the computer, eyes staring at the screen and body taut as he waited for whatever it was that she was supposed to be hearing.
“There it was again!” he said as he emitted a short stab of laughter. “Can you believe this?”
“Steve, this is freaking me out. I don’t hear anything.”
“What? Are you deaf? Open your damn ears!”
Melody inhaled sharply, and Steve looked at her as the horrific grin melted from his face.
“Baby… I’m sorry… I just got carried away.”
“Well it would help if you told me what the hell I’m meant to be listening to.”
“The voices in the woods,” he said simply.
She smiled, and then realised that he was serious. She looked at him, trying to ignore her instinctive fear.
“Steve,” she said, taking his hands in hers. They felt the same as always, soft and smooth. “This is really freaking me out. There are no voices.”
“I know you love this place, and I know how insane this sounds but ask yourself. Have I ever done wrong by you before? Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”
Her lip was trembling as she shook her head “Of course you haven’t but…”
“Then please, just listen.”
Even though she was still afraid, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Let me play you something I recorded earlier. It’s clear and—well I don’t know what it is. I don’t normally believe in this stuff.”
She wanted to stop him, to hold him close and tell him his mind was playing tricks on him, that whatever he thought he could hear was no more than the sounds of the natural world, sounds that he’d never heard before having most of his life in the city. However, she knew him well enough to let him play it out, because once he had an idea in his head, she knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d seen it through to the finish. Although it was a trait she loved, it also worked against him because it made him too stubborn to see any opinion apart from his own.
