Whisper: The untold stories

by Bray, Michael

  WHISPER:

  THE UNTOLD STORIES

  Michael Bray

  Copyright © 2017 Michael Bray

  WWW.MICHAELBRAYAUTHOR.COM

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  CONTENTS

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  THE VISITOR

  THEY SHOULD BE SEEN AND NOT HEARD

  THE POSSESSION

  THE PROBLEM WITH WILLIAM

  THE EXPLORATION

  WHISPER: ALTERNATIVE ENDING

  VOICES: ALTERNATE EDITION

  ANOTHER NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  When I first wrote my novel, Whisper back in 2013, I never imagined it would go on to sell as well as it did, or spawn two further books taking the story into places I never anticipated would be possible. When you take into account that the first book started out life as a short story intended for inclusion on Dark Corners and that the first complete draft of the novel had a very different ending that would have made any future sequels next to impossible, the fact that I’m still here in 2017 writing about that universe says a lot. Incidentally, that alternate ending to the first book is included within this book at the end for those who want to see it.

  So what are the untold stories within this book? The idea had always been to expand the Whisper lore beyond the initial trilogy. Not so much in a sequel as I feel the trilogy was well rounded and ended in a satisfactory way. What I did want to do, though was tell other stories about other people and their experiences with Hope House. Initially, I released two standalone stories set in the same universe to test the waters titled THE HOPE HOUSE CHRONICLES. The problem was that because I didn’t brand them as part of the same Whisper universe, it missed a lot of its core audience. As a result, those stories were pulled from sale and repurposed for inclusion in this which I suppose is technically the fourth book in the whisper series. These are individual self-contained stories set in the whisper universe and although the people are different, the evil in hope House is the same.

  That’s not all you get in this book, though. You get something that I never intended to see the light of day at all and has been locked away for the last couple of years. Let me explain!

  Back when I was working on the third book in the series, Voices, I turned in a version of the book which was massively different to the one which eventually hit the shelves. Instead of picking up in the immediate aftermath of the second book, this incarnation featured a much older Isaac Sampson who was nearer to his teens and plagued from years of being ferried from foster home to foster home as his mother tried to find him to protect him from the evil within Hope House. There was a very different dynamic between them, one built on fear and hostility. After turning this in, the ever honest owner of Horrific Tales publishing, Graeme Reynolds said he didn’t quite feel the tone was right or the direction of the story. I realised this wasn’t something I could write my way around as it rendered around ninety percent of the book unusable, so I did the only thing I could.

  I started again from scratch, eventually arriving at the storyline which made it to press in the final retail edition. That first version which is different in almost every way has sat untouched for a couple of years now. When putting this book of untold stories together it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to bring you some of the alternate timelines to you so you can see the differences. The first of these comes in the form of a subplot removed entirely from the final edition of the story featuring a group of urban explorers who (in the alternate timeline remember) stumble on the overgrown remains of Oakwell ten years after the events of Echoes and have a run in with Henry Marshall and the Oakwell spirits that none of them will forget. I reworked this into a brand new story called THE EXPLORERS which you will find when I eventually stop rambling! In addition, I’ve also included a long removed storyline from the first draft of the first book where the much older Isaac is struggling to come to terms with what happened to him and his encounter with Henry Marshall which is very, very different to the version you saw in the final release of the book. There are also various other self contained tales, some shorter than others which fill out the history and backstory to Oakwell and its inhabitants. Along the way, you’ll meet new characters with brand new stories to tell. You’ll also encounter old friends with different versions of their ordeals to share. I really hope you enjoy reading these tales. If they prove popular, there are many more stories to tell. These are the first of those previously never told before.

  Michael

  March 17

  THE VISITOR

  (This was the first standalone story written in the whisper universe about one of the many previous occupants of Hope House. Initially released as a standalone title, this story is set in the golden age before mobile phones and the internet when an unexpected visitor who turns out to be trouble finds out first hand that he may just have picked the wrong house to rest up in and help is very much out of reach.)

  October 7th, 1955

  As soon as they saw it, the Mirfields knew Hope House was where they wanted to live. They were certain they would never be able to locate a property with the right combination of the solitude they craved and the oneness with nature they craved. Some of the homes they viewed had combinations of one or the other, but only Hope House had possessed both. When they had first viewed it, both of them instantly fell in love with the unique styling, the way it was almost like a secret buried in the depths of Oakwell forest, its white walls standing out in beautiful contrast against the surrounding greens and browns around it. There was no question of them not making an offer. The house was the perfect place they had been searching for to spend their retirement.

  Both in their fifties, the Mirfields were ready to reap the rewards of the work they had done. Edward had spent his career working on the docks, moving crates and shipments. Over the years, he had worked his way up to supervisor, which meant more money and less physical labour. He had saved carefully, ensuring that when the time came to move on and retire, the financial backing was there. In the winter of ‘54, the time had come. He had decided that he had seen enough of dirty dockyards and heard too much foul-mouthed chatter from the young men who worked under him doing the same physical tasks he had himself spent so long performing. Although they had talked about it for some time, it was the first time Edward had been determined to see it through. He had told Joan to leave her job at the laundry, and they set out to find the perfect place.

  Finding and living in Hope House had been some of the best years they had experienced. They loved the nature, loved the isolation. It was as if they had their own world away from everyone else, and were able to spend some time with each other. Eventually, they fell into a routine. Joan would get up early and go into the kitchen, where she would bake cakes and bread. Edward would go out into the forest to hunt rabbit and deer, before returning at dusk with whatever he had managed to kill, ready to strip down for them to eat. He loved the isolation, loved being surrounded by the trees, their thick canopies enveloping him in their embrace. It was during one such walk when he saw the man.

  He was lying on his side, curled up beside an overhanging oak. He could almost have been asleep, his head resting on a blue canvas bag. At first, Edward was sure he was dead. His face was pale and waxy, blue eyes vacant and glassy, hair, jet black like oil was a frazzled mess on his head. There was also b
lood. On the man’s hands, on his shirt, which was stained through and dark with it. Edward ran to him, dropping his gun on the floor.

  “Are you alright? What happened to you?”

  The man didn’t reply, he stared at Edward, blinking and numb.

  “Can you hear me? Are you able to walk?” Edward repeated.

  The man groaned and nodded, then tried to sit up. He winced, clutched his side, and lay back down. Edward moved the man’s hand. The shirt was torn, the flesh beneath it ravaged and split.

  “How long have you been out here? How did this happen?”

  The man blinked and groaned, and Edward knew it was pointless to keep trying to make conversation. It was clear the man was exhausted. He was also badly injured and dehydrated.

  “My home isn’t far from here. I’m going to take you there and help you. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded, and Edward helped him to his feet. The man groaned and pointed at the floor. “My bag…my bag….”

  “I’ll get it, don’t worry about that.”

  With his free hand, Edward scooped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He put the man’s arm around his own neck and walked him back towards the house, pausing to pick up his gun on the way. The man shuffled along, head low and muttering as they made their way through the trees. Edward wasn’t sure if he would make it, but he had to help as best he could

  TWO

  He was floating in a black emptiness, an experience which was not unpleasant. The pain in his side was a distant thing, something irritating more than agonising. Like scattered jigsaw pieces, the memory came back to him. Who he was, what had happened to him. But not where. Where was still a mystery. He opened his eyes, light exploding into his brain and banishing away the darkness.

  A face, lined and weathered by time.

  A woman.

  Kind blue eyes, silver hair flowing. A stranger.

  He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. The woman brought him water, cool and soothing.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “Where am I?”

  “Relax, young man. You’re safe now, here with us. You are in our home. My husband found you out in the woods. We didn’t think you were going to pull through.”

  “Did you call a doctor?” he asked.

  “No, not yet. We don’t have a car and the village is quite a walk from here.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days. I dressed your wounds as best I could. The bleeding has stopped now.”

  “Thank you again.” The man said.

  “What should we call you? Young man doesn’t seem appropriate.”

  “Anthony,” the man said, smiling at the woman.

  “My name is Joan. My husband, Edward is out on his morning walk but will be back shortly. Do you feel up to eating?”

  “No, I’m not hungry. Does anyone know I’m here?”

  “We didn’t feel it was right to go through your things. The bag you had with you is over in the corner there. This bedroom isn’t used, so you have it for as long as you need until you are well. My husband will be heading into town tomorrow. He can get a doctor to come out to.”

  “No.”

  “I mean, there is no need. You’ve done a great job with my injuries. I wouldn’t want to waste the time of a doctor when it’s not needed, thank you anyway, though.”

  “Are you sure? It might be best if you had a doctor come out. I’m no expert.”

  “No really, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the hospitality. I’ll be on my way in just a few days.”

  Joan hesitated, watching Anthony carefully. “Alright, if you insist. You get some rest now. I’ll bring you some food later.”

  “Thank you, for everything.”

  Joan smiled as she headed for the door. “Not at all. You get some rest now.”

  THREE

  He dreamed.

  There was fire and screaming.

  Anthony stirred in his sleep and murmured as the terrible imagery continued to play out in his psyche.

  He saw a man, brutish and heavily muscled. He wore a necklace of shrivelled human tongues, and his eyes burned behind the white makeup streaked on his face. The man said nothing, but a single word projected itself into Anthony’s mind nonetheless.

  Gogoku.

  The man walked to the head of the line of terrified villagers. They were on their knees, heads bowed, hands bound behind them. The village at their back hissed and spat as it burned and the Gogoku elder’s people raped and pillaged, eating the flesh of the villagers, and indulging the rage and lust which lived within them. The massive elder simply paced in front of his terrified captives, eyes glassy as he waited.

  The surrounding trees swayed, singing their secret songs. A steady hiss, a sly whisper of foliage decipherable only by him.

  It was the signal he had been waiting for. He walked to the start of the line, where he unhooked the primitive axe from his side. Its handle was smooth with wear, the blade sharp and encrusted with matted hair and dry blood. He smiled, his teeth filed to miniature daggers adding to his already horrific appearance, then he walked, swinging the axe, each cut with the blade true and severing the heads of those who cowered in a single devastating blow. Hot arterial blood sprayed his legs, yet he didn’t break pace. When he reached the end of the line, the river of hot blood running over his feet, he turned his head to the skies and listened to the secret song of those demonic things which inhabited the trees.

  They were pleased with his work, yet he knew he was not done. This, he knew wouldn’t be enough. They would want more. It was always the way it had been.

  Anthony woke.

  He almost screamed but swallowed it down, instead uttering a short yelp. It was night, and his sheets were twisted and tangled around his legs. The wound on his side ached, and he could see a few spots of blood seeping through due to the thrashing of his nightmare.

  He lay in his bed, staring at the shadows of the trees where they danced on the wall. Unlike most dreams that faded, this one had stayed with him, the imagery fresh and vivid. Although he wasn’t a man easily scared, the dream had disturbed him. He listened to the house, to the sounds it made. The creaks, the groans.

  He half smiled, a gesture born more of nerves than amusement. He could imagine that given enough time, those sounds could easily be mistaken for voices.

  A creak of tired footsteps on the wooden staircase snapped him from his musings. He presumed it would be the old woman, perhaps coming to see what all the thrashing and noise was about. He waited as she approached, feet padding on the creaky boards. They stopped outside his room. He waited, staring at the door, hoping she had brought the food she promised.

  Nothing happened.

  He lay there, staring at the door, waiting for it to open, but there was nothing but silence.

  “Hello?”

  It came out as a whisper, a croaked half said thing. The atmosphere was such that for him to make a sound was almost sacrilege. The house was making its own noise, speaking its own language, and he was afraid to interrupt.

  “Hello?” he said again, unable to ignore the bunching of his skin, the icy terror that brought out ripples of goose bumps across his arms.

  Silence again greeted him, and he felt a shift in the atmosphere. It became heavy, charged like the air just before the onset of a wicked storm. The air felt clammy, dirty, even. He knew then that whoever stood outside his door, it wasn’t the old woman. He was convinced that whatever waited for them wasn’t human at all.

  He got out of bed, bare feet cold against the floorboards. He felt incredibly exposed, incredibly vulnerable as he inched towards the door. He had heard no more sounds. Whatever stood outside his door hadn’t moved. If it had, he would have heard the floorboards creak. It was still there.

  He wanted to pull the door open quickly, but couldn’t will himself to do it. He glanced at his hand, limp by his side and couldn’t force himself to open the door. He convinced himself it was becau
se the whole idea was stupid, but the truth was he was afraid of what he might see. The shadows of the trees dancing on the wall seemed to have increased in intensity, adding to the already hostile atmosphere. He didn’t like it. The way those shapes danced across the walls made him think of narrow, clawed hands reaching for him. He could even imagine how it would feel as those cold, stiff fingers curled around his warm flesh and dug into the skin.

  He reached out for the brass doorknob, hand trembling, that awful heavy atmosphere weighing down on him. His fingers brushed the cold metal, and he pulled away. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Instead, he put his ear to the door, straining to hear through the thin wood to try and get an idea of what was on the other side. He was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. Part of him could hear only oppressive silence, yet beyond it, buried somewhere within it, he thought he could hear something else. A small child’s giggle, perhaps enjoying how easily he was unravelling. Anger flashed through him, and he grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open.

  The hall was deserted. There was just the faded yellow wallpaper in front of him. He looked down the length of the hall, half expecting to see something there in the shadows, but it too was deserted. He walked to the top of the steps, wishing that awful feeling would go away. Any thoughts of it being the old woman who had been outside the room were dispelled. He could hear her downstairs talking to her husband. Anthony turned back towards his room, trying to make sense of what had happened, trying to rationalise what he had experienced. No explanation seemed to make sense, and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that something unnatural had happened. He returned to his room, gently closing the door. Those shadows were still thrashing against the walls. He walked to the curtains and pulled them closed, banishing them from his room. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, still thinking, still trying to find a solution that made sense. Eventually, he lay back down, staring at the ceiling and the ugly glass light fitting. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but his exhausted body gave him no option. He drifted into a restless dream-free sleep.