Whisper: The untold stories

by Bray, Michael

It was upstairs, the sound coming towards where he sat on the floor of the steps. He pressed his back against the table leg, staring up into the dark.

  Thump slide

  Thump slide

  Thump slide

  “What is that? Where are you?” he glared at the dead couple, their milky eyes betraying no secrets of Hope House.

  Thump slide bump

  Thump slide bump

  Thump slide bump

  The sound was coming down the steps towards him. A breeze pressed against him, a putrid, rotten smell of decayed flesh.

  A cackle

  A whisper.

  Words projected into his mind. Ideas and images of shadowy beasts coming to him from the corners of the house.

  “This is all your fault,” He said, glaring at the old couple. “This is all because of you.”

  Thump slide bump.

  Thump slide bump.

  Louder now. Loud enough that he should, at least, be able to see what was causing it, but the steps were still devoid of people. He didn’t know why he was so surprised, he was the only living thing in the house.

  He glanced at the bodies of the old couple and screamed. The woman looked to be smiling at him. Her writhing, maggoty grin the most horrific thing he had ever seen. He wondered how many of them were in there, how many were packed into her mouth and throat.

  The wind was starting to increase, whipping dry leaves against the windows. The shadows of the forest danced across the walls of the room, giving the illusion that the walls were alive with gnarled, grasping hands reaching for him. He imagined he could feel them, thin fingers digging into his flesh.

  The voices were in his head again, saying terrible things. He started to cry, great lurching sobs the likes of which he hadn’t let out since he was a child. He was broken.

  “Where are you? What do you want?” he screamed into the empty house.

  A creak of floorboard, a skitter of leaves gave him his answer.

  He looked at the old couple still on the floor where he had left them. The old woman’s imagined grin was gone. Now she just stared accusingly.

  He crawled over to her, still sobbing, a steady patter of blood pouring out of his wound and onto the floor. The voices in his head told him what to do. He rolled her over onto her back, disturbing the writing, feeding mass. He didn’t care. The body was bloated and starting to discolour, the smell was already repulsive. He retched, but the voices in his head drove him on. They told him what to do, where to look. Too afraid to disobey, he tore open her blouse and plunged his hands into the bloated flesh of her stomach. It gave with ease. The blood appeared almost black as it welled up around his hands. He was gibbering and screaming, blinking through the sting of his tears as he tore out the innards, searching for what the voices said was in there. They told him to dig deep, and he would find his answer.

  TEN

  It was fully dark when he was done.

  The old man and woman were spread all around the room, he sat cross-legged between them, drenched in blood, covered in maggots and viscera. He was trembling, the man he was before gone forever. In its place was a broken thing, a man with a mind shattered by the things he had been compelled to do.

  They had lied.

  The voices in his head had deceived him. He had searched the woman first, tearing everything out of her. The organs cold and slippery. After that, they made him do the same to the man. He repeated the process, willed on by the voices, cheered on by the army of shadows which flitted and danced across the walls. They even made him pluck out their eyes.

  When it was done, they fell silent.

  The trees stopped swaying, the winds died, and those awful voices left him.

  He was a trembling wreck, looking at his hands, unable to believe what he had done. He had killed before, but that was what he deemed to be a necessity at the time. This was different. He had been compelled to do terrible things that he knew he would never be able to forget.

  He tilted his head, listening to the house, waiting for instruction.

  There was nothing behind the silence. No creaking, no whispers. Just a sense of smug satisfaction from whatever had manipulated him so easily.

  His eyes went to the gun which he had dropped during his fall down the steps. It glimmered in the pale light of the moon which fell through the open curtains. He crawled towards it, ignoring the cold wetness of the things he crawled through or had to put his hands in. He picked it up, staring at it.

  It, at least, told no lies. It was a very honest instrument. He turned the barrel towards his face, staring into the dark eye at the other end of which was his escape, his way out.

  He knew he would never be the same. He knew even if he did escape from the hell he now sat in, it would always be with him. He would always remember those things he had done, always know that when he lay down at night, he would see the images of those terrible acts he had been forced to commit.

  He stared at that black, sightless eye and wondered how it would feel if he pulled the trigger. Would he hear the explosion of gunfire before his brain was reduced to mush? Or would it be blessed silence and emptiness, a black void where those terrible acts would be forever lost to him.

  He liked that idea. It appealed to him.

  He put the gun under his chin, clamping his jaws together, and breathing through his nose. His adrenaline spiked, already strained heart thundering along. He could feel it. He could feel everything.

  The wet mess he sat in, the pain in his side, the pulled muscles in his forearms where he had torn the poor old couple to pieces. The only truth was the gun.

  He held it with both hands, finger poised over the trigger.

  He didn’t have the guts, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with it despite what he had done. He knew he wasn’t the person that had done those terrible things.

  It was the house that was to blame.

  The house and the awful things that lived inside it. He envied anyone else who came to this place. There was evil there, evil beyond anything humanity could ever comprehend.

  He decided he wouldn’t kill himself because of them. He wouldn’t let them win. He would go away and at least try to learn to live with it.

  He relaxed the pressure on the trigger, just as the voice shouted in his ear. The word never made it to his brain, the shock forcing him to pull the trigger and blow the top of his skull away.

  He slumped to his side, blood pouring out of his head where he lay amid the mess.

  A heavy silence fell over Hope House, then it creaked and settled against its foundations. If anyone had been there to hear it, they might think it sounded like a contented sigh.

  THEY SHOULD BE SEEN AND NOT HEARD

  (When Whisper was first written, there were many more flashback scenes included that didn’t make the final cut. There were removed for pacing purposes and I understood the reasons for their removal. I always liked these little glimpses into the past, though, and hoped to let them see the light of day again. This is the first of those smaller self-contained little stories that showcase the history of evil that has resided in Oakwell forest and Hope House.)

  Hope House was bathed in midafternoon sun. It was spring— May 12th, 1822 to be precise, and George Holden was finally happy. His wife was with their third child, and his business— a paper printing company which was now turning over a healthy profit was thriving. He was shaving, his thin face covered in soap. His wife said he was handsome, but he didn’t see it. He was a tall man with sharp blue eyes and determination to succeed at whatever he turned his mind to. Eleanor, his wife was downstairs sleeping. As she neared the end of her pregnancy she slept often, and would on occasion wake with night terrors. He didn’t get angry, instead, he would stroke her hair and hush her and will her back to sleep.

  His children were the light of his life, Thomas was eleven and Helena nine, and both were already shaping up to be wonderful young people. Thomas was much like himself, already tall and proud and with a good head on his sh
oulders. Helena was more reserved and had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. He saw bright futures for them both. He could hear them playing in the circular room that fronted the house. It had initially been earmarked as an office for him to do his work, but as he travelled often, it had become something of a playroom for the children. He didn’t mind, for they were the light of his life. His only slight concern was Eleanor. His wife of seven years had appeared increasingly troubled. He had inquired as to her health of course, and she had assured him that she was fine; however something seemed to be bothering her somehow. He would often come home to find her sitting in the rocking chair by the fireplace, swaying back and forth with a distant, ponderous look on her face, her normally worry free brow furrowed into concentration. It almost appeared as if she were trying to hear a distant sound, or pondering something deep and complex.

  He heard hurried footsteps racing down the hallway and opened to door to see what the commotion was. Thomas was running in the way that only boys of a certain age can— arms and legs pumping with piston like efficiency. His sister gave chase, not quite able to keep up with her sibling. Thomas applied the brakes, just enough to swing towards the playroom when George called out to them.

  “Thomas!”

  The boy stopped, as did his sister. He was panting and watching his father with wide eyes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Playing chase,” said the boy breathlessly, his sister nodding in agreement.

  “It seems your sister almost caught you.” Said George with a smile.

  “He wasn’t running from me father,” Said Helena, pushing her blonde hair out of her eyes. “We were running together.”

  “I recall when I was a child that playing chase involved a chaser or else it is simply running.”

  “We are playing with the woodcutter daddy.” Said Helena with a smile.

  “Who?” George replied, a frown on his brow.

  “The woodcutter,” Thomas confirmed, seemingly eager to continue the game. “He lives here in the house. We often play with him.”

  “Thomas Holden, I do not appreciate being ridiculed by my own children.”

  Thomas frowned, and then looked at his sister. Both burst into laughter and then pointed to the hallway behind them

  “But he’s right there father.” Said Thomas, looking at his father as if he were insane. George looked to the quite empty corridor then back to his two children.

  “You two have quite the imagination. Go ahead and play with your woodcutter, but keep the noise down. Your mother is trying to sleep.”

  “Yes, father. We are finished playing chase now. The woodcutter is going to teach us how to fly!” Eleanor giggled excitedly.

  George smiled at his children and went back to shaving.

  “Well just make sure he teaches you quietly and doesn’t wake your mother.”

  The children smiled and hurried to the playroom, chattering excitedly as they played.

  George shaved and dressed then went downstairs. He checked in on Eleanor, who was still sleeping soundly in the rocking chair by the fireplace. With a smile, he went into the kitchen, then out into the garden. The air was crisp and the sun warm on his face. He walked towards the water at the bottom of the garden, hands in pockets. The water gurgled and swirled, and it was a sound that soothed him and helped him to relax and forget about the stresses of running his business. He glanced towards the house and froze.

  The upper bedroom window to the children’s playroom was open, and both Thomas and Helena were standing on the tiny window ledge, both grinning with excitement.

  “Thomas! Helena!” George screamed hoarsely. They waved and smiled, and then he was moving, running towards the house as fast as he could. But he didn’t have the grace or speed of his son, and with his long standing arthritic knee, he could only hobble.

  “Watch this daddy!” giggled Helena as she took her brother's hand.

  “No, back inside this instant!” barked George. He was still around fifteen feet from the house and knew that he wasn’t going to make it.

  The pair jumped a graceful, arching swan-dive. He saw it on their faces, the moment of recognition when they realised that they weren’t about to fly as they thought, and the whole thing happened so suddenly that neither child had time to scream.

  The sound of them landing was a sickening, dull thud, and as George fell to his knees and cradled them in his arms, he let out a violent, guttural scream which caused birds to take flight from the nearby trees.

  Thomas had died instantly, his eyes staring into the air, blood pouring from his ear. Helena was breathing, but it was laboured and shallow. He stroked her hair—now more claret than blonde and blinked at her through his own tears.

  “Why, why did you do that” he sobbed.

  Helena smiled up at him, her small teeth covered in blood.

  “The woodcutter…he said we could fly…”

  It was all she said. Her breathing stopped and her eyes became vacant. With his life in ruins, George began to scream. He didn’t think he would ever stop.

  THE POSSESSION

  (The second of the previously released standalone stories, this also involves another unfortunate family and their experiences at Hope House. This time, it is the children who feel the wrath of the spirits of Oakwell forest. I always think ghost stories involving kids are more frightening. I really enjoyed writing this one and hope you like it too.)

  ONE

  I was relieved when I saw in the news that the house had burned down. Although I hadn’t lived there for years, not since I was a little girl, just seeing its name in print made me cold and clawed up those memories I thought I’d hidden for good. I supposed I should know better, even though things are good now. I have my own life, a husband who I love more than anything and two gloriously amazing children. The scars of living in that place are still there, and every now and again give me that deep seated uncatchable itch that I so want to scratch. In my mind’s eye, I see myself tearing open those invisible scars and exposing the rot and maggots that still fester underneath.

  Somehow, I manage not to. I’d like to say it’s for my husband or family, but the truth is I do it for me. If I learned anything from that place it’s that I’m stubborn, a fighter. That’s right, meek old Vanessa Palmer (formerly Hamilton) a stubborn survivor, and hell why not? After all, that’s what I am. The things that happened in that place, the things that I saw, would be enough to change anyone. Look at what happened after, first with the people who lived there when it burned down, then later with the hotel they built around it. That place is death.

  I paused in the middle of writing this down to think about what I want to say next. My therapist says writing my feelings down will help me, (I wonder if that’s because she gets paid so well to tell people that) and the truth is since I saw about Hope House in the news, it has been playing on my mind. If my overpriced therapist thinks writing about it is a good idea, then write about it I will. The reason for my reluctance is when I consider how much to write. To have any benefit from this, I have to tell the truth as I remember it, but that then could open up questions about my state of mind and sanity. I want this to be a healing process. The last thing I need is for it to make things worse.

  I suppose the only real option is to just be honest. If I read this all back and it looks like the deranged scrawling of a crazy woman, then I’ll throw it away and be done with it. For now, though, I don’t see any harm in starting it at least. The kids are in bed and Robin is working nights, so I may as well make the most of having the place to myself. The age old question is where to start. Where does it all begin? The funny thing is, real life is different to the movies and to the way we expect things like this to work. Often in those mediums, it’s all sweetness and light, happiness and laughs, usually with some sickeningly gorgeous couple arriving at the home of their dreams, a place where they can finally be together alone. We the viewer, of course, know differently. We’ve seen the cover of the movie, we’ve r
ead the blurb, and we’ve spent our hard-earned cash to watch these people go through hell. The poor characters though are none the wiser. They arrive at said house and are all smiles and daydreams. The reason I mention this is that for me, it wasn’t like that. For me, even as a thirteen year old girl, I knew the instant we rolled up to the house that there was something wrong with it. Whatever it was, I felt it. I felt it the second I saw the place rolling into view through the trees.

  TWO

  “It’s not as big as it looked on the pictures.”

  Bill looked across the seat at his wife as she peered at the house through the car window. Its engine idled as they sat parked on the short driveway. “We haven’t even seen inside yet, Pam.”

  “These places are all the same, Bill. They make them look huge, like bargains, then you get here and they’re just overpriced and undersized.”

  Bill sighed, and joined her in looking at the house, to see if she might be right. “This place was cheap considering its detached.”

  “It’s just a word Bill, Something they use to draw you in and part with the cash. Besides, we both know well enough why the price is so low.”

  They looked over their shoulders into the back seat. Their daughter, Vanessa was paying no attention to their squabbling. She glanced briefly at them; her mother, hair permed and too much makeup on her narrow face; her father, overweight with a barrel for a stomach and four-day old whiskers on his cheeks. She dismissed them and looked back to the house. It looked old and dirty. Its windows were dark and hid whatever secrets lay beyond. She was sure it was full of spiders and rats, creeping, scuttling things that would love it in such a gloomy place.

  “What do you think, honey?”

  Vanessa looked at her mother, then back at the house. “It looks….old.” She wanted to say creepy but decided against it. She could sense the tension between her parents and didn’t want to fuel it any further.