In a second, she was dead.
Melanie stared at the body in disbelief, her hand still attached to the blade that killed her. It was finally over. At last.
In the distance, an approaching siren.
Saved again, she thought.
And then slept.
***
Four days in the hospital.
Recovery had been touch and go for a while, according to the doctor. Blood loss was staggering. By the time the troopers brought Melanie in, her already pale complexion was paper white.
The police were dying to get at her with their questions, and the sheriff’s office had stationed men outside her room around the clock. No one was allowed to come or go without clearing it with them, and they watched every doctor and nurse with extreme scrutiny.
Melanie was grateful for this—the safest she’d felt in years. It was only awkward when she had to use the bathroom.
From the hall, nurses and doctors spoke casually, drowned out by the constant blip, blip, blip of her heart monitor. Her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant odor of antiseptics, as she faded in and out of consciousness.
At one point, she awoke to find Officer Jamie Galeberg in the room, standing at the windows with his hands folded at the small of his back. She sneezed and he turned around.
“Miss Holden,” he said.
Melanie greeted him but found nothing more to say. He pulled a chair bedside all the same.
They were similar in some ways—sole survivors. Melanie’s was the only account of what happened on the lake, while he was the only surviving member of Forest Grove P.D.
“I, uh, don’t know that we’ll ever understand why things happened the way they did. Forensic evidence from Officer Donnelley’s murder gives us Trish…looks like she pinned her father to a wall beneath the camp, and killed a teenage girl down there, too. God only knows why she snapped, but it happens. Especially considering that insanity runs in her family.”
Melanie remembered the girl’s yellow eyes in those final moments. What had the intruder offered that made her so willing to accept? She remembered how convincing the illusion of she and Brady’s picnic on the lake had felt, and assumed it had to be something similar. An offer of life with her husband once more, most likely. No way to know for sure, but that expression of madness would haunt her forever.
“I thought you should know that Captain Oviedo and his guys made some arrests in town the night everything went bad. People who live here. I still don’t know what to think.”
“They’re dangerous,” she said and couldn’t figure out how to say anything more without sounding like a lunatic. “If you saw the look on their faces as they set the cabin on fire…one of them willingly burned alive to make sure…”
“Take it easy, ma’am. We’re aware of what happened. I didn’t know Chief Brady as well as I might’ve liked, but I knew him enough to say he was a good man.”
Better than that.
“When you’re ready, miss, the sheriff’s office is going to have some questions for you. After that, I suppose you might want to say goodbye to Forest Grove for good.”
Melanie agreed to see the sheriff and he arrived a few hours later. An obese man with a receding hairline, he threw a catalog of questions at her. She fielded them with honesty, leaving only the intruder out of her responses. No reason to suggest her mental health had receded in the wake of her concussion.
Once that was finished, she met Galeberg in the hospital parking lot. He’d collected her things from Desiree’s and loaded the LaCrosse with a full tank of gas. She was packed and ready to go when he put an arm on her shoulder and gave a surprisingly violent tug.
“Don’t come back. Say everything you have to say in your book, but don’t you ever come back here.”
Melanie didn’t know how to take that, and it didn’t matter. She was planning to follow his advice to the letter.
The drive home was three hours, but it felt like six. Coming home always felt that way. She missed Lacey more than anything else, and couldn’t wait to get her hands on the little gray kitty. The only thing she could think about was wrapping her arms around her and listening to soothing purrs all night long.
Riley and Aaron wouldn’t be such a horrible sight for sore eyes, either.
Aaron answered the door and hugged her immediately.
“I can’t even imagine, hun. We pushed you into it, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be crazy,” she offered an unconvincing laugh. “I ran as far away from that night as I could. I had to go back eventually.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know.” If the intruder ever got out, there would be plenty to fear. That was a possibility she would worry about every day for the rest of her life. But anxiety wasn’t going to control her anymore. Life was too short for that.
They ate grilled chicken marinated in lemon pepper with asparagus on the side, while drinking Belgian ale that reminded her of Nate, and how badly she wished things might’ve been different.
Eventually, they talked about Forest Grove. Melanie kept most of the details close to the vest. There was the temptation to talk more about the intruder, but these friends—as good as they were—wouldn’t have believed her any more than the sheriff’s office.
That was her burden to bear.
According to the news, a small group of disgruntled residents were about to take the heat for every Connecticut cold case that could be leveled against them. The press was having a field day with headlines, everything from Connecticult, to ConnectiCUT had already been leveraged during reporting. The state was trying to spin the negative publicity into something positive by boosting their statistics, and why not? A lot of those cases probably had a lot to do with the Obviate.
After dinner, Riley packed Lacey up in her kitty transport and asked what she was planning to do about school in the fall.
She hadn’t yet considered it, and only shrugged. “Dunno. Quit, maybe?”
“You’re kidding,” he gasped.
“Why not? There are other ways of sticking it to Dennis Morton.”
“Sounds like the best decision you’ve ever made. But don’t listen to me, I’m the guy who told you to go back and face your fears.”
“Oh, I’m never listening to you again. But you weren’t wrong. And I’m still going to write that book. I already owed Bill and Jen that much. There’s just more people to add to that list now.” Nate, Desiree, and even Trish. In the end, she must’ve loved Brady more than anything for as readily as she accepted that demon. And wasn’t it her fearlessness most of all that enabled Melanie to find courage in her own actions?
She hated that she couldn’t blame the woman. In those final, horrible hours, it was obvious that the Bradys were in love. ‘Till death did they part.’
Riley handed the cat to Melanie. Between the plastic bars, Lacey purred a little welcome home song for her. She hugged the cat’s babysitters and wiped allergic tears from Aaron’s eyes. Then she brought kitty out to the car and headed home, surprised by how relaxed she felt.
True, there were things in this world worse than Cyrus Hoyt. But the intruder was bound to Trish’s body, and would likely stay that way for years. And the Obviate were still out there, but she guessed they were in in hiding and would wither on the vine as soon as they realized the whispers had gone silent.
She swung into the driveway and sat there for a long and quiet moment. In the kitty crate beside her, Lacey whined with impatience—sensing they were close to home, perhaps.
Home, she thought, as if this were the first time she had truly returned from Forest Grove. Once she quit her job tomorrow, she’d get started on the book. She’d also look around to see if any nearby schools might be more appreciative of her talents.
Or maybe I’ll sell my house and make for the city instead.
Any city.
Her options were wide open and she contemplated them all with a smile.
For the first time in her adult life, she felt free.
WHISPERED VOICES
The whisper never truly faded.
After all this time and mileage, Zohra heard it. Its hissing tongue was little more than an echo most days. Harmless reverberations that reminded her of a life once lived. Every so often, its influence came in faint whispers, just as it had come over the grove’s treetops in the years following Abblon’s death.
But today it was especially loud.
The courtyard view, a perimeter of freshly clipped hedges and an expansive, bubbling fountain, was calming. Zohra shifted in her wheelchair while staring at it, remembering a time long ago when she was more than just an invalid.
The Priestess was gone, but today the whisper demanded her return.
“Zohra…it’s time.” Doctor Van Dyce stood in the doorway, checking his watch. “May I escort you down?”
She’d been dreading this ever since receiving the news: her husband and daughter had both been taken from her in the span of one cruel evening.
If they hadn’t forced me into this place, that never would have happened.
It’s true that she was older now—frail and arthritic—but the Obviate needed their Priestess more than ever. They were a serpent with a severed head, writhing without direction just as they had been for the last two decades. She did not fully know what had happened in the grove, but it was their carelessness that had almost ruined everything.
It was hard to believe it even took this long.
“Zohra, I know this is difficult. If you are not up to the task…”
“We can go now, doctor.” She swallowed the words with grim resolve. This was the day she never hoped would come.
Ron, you fool. Why did you let her go back?
Pride had always been her husband’s greatest sin. Leave it to him to believe he was in control of a situation so far beyond him. He thought he could protect his little girl from anything.
Doctor Van Dyce took the wheelchair and guided her through a hall of pale and desolate faces, weaving around the less sentient patients. At the end of the corridor, an orderly thrust an oversized key into an elevator interface and unlocked thick sliding doors. Once inside, the metal slipped shut amidst a blood-curdling scream from the treatment room down the hall.
“I’m alone,” Zohra said—the thought dawning on her for the first time.
“I am sorry for your loss, but you have to know that is not true. The grieving process will take time, but it’s not something you will endure alone. The friends you have made here care about you very much. They will help if you let them.”
Her first reaction was to laugh, but Doctor Van Dyce didn’t need to see her emotions fall out of check. That would lead to more sessions than she could stand. How many times was she supposed to take responsibility for her failings, when it was the whisper that was accountable for her past?
It was closer now, crawling around in her head the way it used to.
The doors re-opened in a part of the hospital she hadn’t seen once in her twenty-five years here: a clinically white hallway with dirty brown floor tiles. Her chair bumped over the grouted rivets as they pushed through double doors that lead into a spacious morgue.
Her eyes went to the small white sheet resting on the center slab.
“Can you identify this body, ma’am?” the morgue attendant asked. He pulled the sheet down without waiting for a response.
It was Trish. And she was peaceful, at least at first glance. Slipshod work had been done to mask the entry wound on her neck, and there was some kind of rubbery protuberance on the tip of her nose. The make-up was unconvincing, like it had been attempted on the ride from Connecticut to New York.
But when she angled her head and caught her in exactly the right light, Trish was her sleeping beauty once more. She used to peer into her bedroom in the middle of the night just to make sure all was well.
What happened to you, my little tulip?
She wanted to cry, but felt only anger.
Zohra asked to know what happened in Forest Grove, but the doctors wouldn’t say much, only what they felt she could handle—which was almost nothing. Even now, Doctor Van Dyce stood at the edge of the room, stroking his salt and pepper goatee while observing her reaction. It didn’t matter what she did, she was going to answer for it in their next session. Didn’t cry enough. Cried too much. Everything was indicative of failing mental health, and he would use that in his quest to keep her committed until her dying days.
So she shook her head and spoke. “She hadn’t visited in a while. But this is her. This is my Trish.”
The last time she’d seen her was right before her move back to Forest Grove. Zohra was appalled by the news—especially after finding out that relocating had been Nathan’s request. She didn’t know if Nathan was dead, but the news couldn’t have been good if they hauled her body to upstate New York for identification.
Ugly words had been exchanged the last time mother and daughter spoke—the kind often reserved for bitter enemies. Before storming out, Zohra screamed that Trish was getting what she deserved by going back to that hellhole.
I should have been honest with her. Told her about the Priestess. She never would’ve gone back then.
That regret echoed through her mind as she looked at the colorless body laid out on the slab. She never wanted Trish to think of her as a freak, but the looks her daughter gave during visitation were painful—like she pitied her mother more than loved her. She would often ask Trish to bring Nathan on the next visit, but her daughter would barely acknowledge the request, and certainly never fulfilled it.
The morgue attendant pulled the sheet back over her. “She’s going to be buried in Forest Grove with her father, unless you have any objection.”
“New York was her home,” Zohra said. “I know we are far from the city, but she would have wanted to be put to rest here.”
The attendant shuffled over to the doctor and they spoke out of earshot.
While they were occupied, she rolled forward and pulled the sheet back far enough to glimpse Trish one last time before throwing her head into her palms and weeping.
Doctor Van Dyce came over and put gentle hands on her shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said, sounding almost glad for this display of emotion. “This is good, you need to acknowledge this so that you can deal with it.”
“No,” Zohra screamed. The thought of this being the final goodbye was too much. “Please,” she said. “Just one more moment. This is the last time I will ever see my daughter.”
It doesn’t have to be, the voice whispered with so much clarity that she thought she was back in the Hall of the Arrival.
Then there was unrequited joy. It spread throughout her, pulsing like a familiar red light. She wasn’t alone after all, and never would be again.
Welcome, Priestess.
“She always wanted to be put to rest here,” she said, “but she never wanted to be buried…only cremated.”
“That we can do,” the attendant said.
The whisper was here, somehow. Inside her daughter.
Zohra’s friends would listen to her when she was ready to lecture about the end times—and what needed to be done in order to prevent it.
They would follow her lead and do as they were told.
She grinned ear-to-ear on the trip back to the elevator, not caring if the doctor noticed. There was nothing he could do to thwart her now.
Zohra asked to go back to her room.
“Of course,” he said. “You should get some rest.”
“Rest,” she agreed without really hearing him. Her thoughts were of the whisper. There was a lot of work to be done. She was about to be reunited with an old friend and had to look her best for the occasion.
The End
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A good chunk of my youth was spent prowling video store shelves for horror content, and I have to thank my father for his lax attitude when it came to letting me rent anything I wanted. Just as responsible for cultivating my love of
the macabre, however, and she may be surprised to hear this, is my mother. She nurtured my literary proclivities with a stream of genre paperbacks from yard sale tables and book swaps all over town. No better way to invest a child in reading than by giving him access to the things that entice him. My parents ensured that I carried writer’s tools into my adult life, and this novel was built using them.
An equally large “thank you” goes out to my early readers. Without their honesty and input, this book wouldn’t have been possible. From my great friend Shaun Boutwell, who is never afraid to tell me when something I’ve written isn’t working, to my colleague Adam Cesare, whose lead pipe feedback makes me a better writer, you gentlemen are rock stars. Last, but not least, there’s my amazing wife Michelle, who spends most of her life listening to me hash out plot points and character beats. Without her, Melanie might have read like a man in a woman’s skin, and that would’ve been creepy on a whole different level.
There are a lot of amazing people in my life. Without these folks and their support for my first novel, Feral, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to write a second one. Special thanks goes out to Mark Sieber at Horror Drive-In, not only for spreading the word about my little werewolf novel, but for more than a decade’s worth of friendship and camaraderie. The same goes for Brian Collins at Horror Movie a Day, who pimped my work on social media more than anyone should have. This is also true of Steve Barton at Dread Central. You gave me a place to talk about all things horror, and I’m eternally grateful for that, and also your tireless coverage of my work. Finally, thanks to Evan Dickson of Bloody Disgusting for being kind enough to include Feral on the site’s year-end holiday shopping guide in addition to covering its release. It’s tough out there for all writers, let alone first timers. Because of you folks, Feral found an audience, and I’ll always be grateful for that.
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