Whisper: Whisper series, #1

Prologue

1513

THE SMELL OF DEATH hung heavy in the morning air. The child ran through the forest, snatching quick glances over her shoulder as the Gogoku Elder followed, crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit. She veered to the left, ducking under a gnarled, overhanging branch and hopped over a protruding root as she tried to put some distance between herself and the Elder. Her bare feet were bleeding, but in her fear, she barely noticed. Her only concern was her pursuer and ensuring that he didn’t catch her. She angled back, heading to the village, her instincts driving her back to her home, even though she knew it had become a place for the dead. The Elder was closer now. She could hear him grunting as he drew near her. The girl snatched another quick look over her shoulder, and as she did, her foot twisted and sent her sprawling to the ground. The pain from her ankle was explosive, and although she struggled to get to her feet, it was too late.

He had found her.

The Gogoku Elder stood above her, breathing heavily and streaked with the blood of his fellow people. His eyes glared with fury from behind his painted face. The frightened child scrambled backwards, the agonising pain in her ankle forgotten for the time being. Her eyes were instead fixed on the spiked club held in the muscular Elder’s hand, thickly matted with sinewy clumps of flesh and slick with blood.

He followed her gaze and unleashed a bloody grin, his yellowed teeth filed to points as was customary for Gogoku Elders. They were supposed to be the village protectors, the guardians and hunters, but something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. A shallow breeze pushed through the trees and the Elder blinked, casting his eyes to the dense canopy, his brow furrowed as he listened.

The child also looked, the fear within her replaced by a brief curiosity at the absolute silence which had fallen over the forest. She glanced back to the Elder, her brown eyes filled once more with fear, horror and betrayal. The Elder looked back, and smiled.

He had done as they had asked of him, and now all, apart from this one child, were dead. Another breeze moved the trees, and this time, both child and Elder heard it. The trembling child closed her eyes and waited, as the Elder reared back and brought the club down hard with a guttural roar of rage.

1. HOPE

THE HOUSE WAS CALLED Hope, and Melody loved it as soon as she saw it. She threw her arms around Steve’s neck in the way she always did when there was something she really, really wanted. He smiled awkwardly as she released her grip and grinned at him.

It’s perfect. It’s exactly what we were looking for, she said, turning back towards the building.

Steve was not convinced. He wrinkled his nose, and gave the place a cautious once-over. The agents had said the house was early eighteenth century, and to Steve, it appeared that it hadn’t been repaired or renovated since. It stood like a faded white slab against a backdrop of orange and brown autumn leaves, leaving the surrounding trees looking bare and gnarled. The house looked tired and grubby, and Steve wondered when it had last been given a bit of TLC.

The single-lane private road which led to the house snaked through the trees, and as it wound its way deeper into the depths of Oakwell Forest, it narrowed so that eventually the overhanging canopy was close enough to brush against the roof of their blue Passat.

As they neared their destination, the road had opened up onto a driveway of sorts, which then turned into the front yard area of the property.

The house was set a little further back behind an overgrown garden abundant with weeds which, like the house itself, looked tired, unloved, and in some way forgotten. At the periphery of where the forest and the property boundaries began stood a rickety awning that was miraculously still standing despite its dilapidated appearance. A sign hung limply from its underside: it bore just a single word, carved in an old, swirling script.

Hope.

Steve’s hope—as he eyed the sagging, patchy roof and rotten window frames—was that it wouldn’t cost a fortune to repair or to keep the place warm in the winter months— if they decided to make an offer on it at all. He supposed he could do a lot of the work himself, but by the obvious state of disrepair (evident even from some distance away), he could see it being more trouble than it was worth and now understood why the asking price had been so low.

A gust of wind made the trees whisper in unison, making him shudder involuntarily. It was certainly a unique selling point— a house in the middle of the forest— but as a city boy through and through he wasn’t quite sure that he was ready to make the huge leap from the concrete jungle to the literal one. The trees continued to sway, leaving mottles of diffused mid-morning sunlight shimmering across the ground. Melody turned to Steve and grinned, and he knew then by the excitement which shone in her eyes that he would be fighting an uphill battle to talk her out of making an offer on the place right there on the spot. He felt a pang of discomfort, a strange unease that stirred him as he looked beyond the house to the dense tangle of oaks and birches, seemingly stretching ever upwards in their quest for sunlight. He suddenly felt very small and insignificant.

The estate agent, a greasy, bird-like fellow by the name of Donovan, saw Steve’s discomfort and with the graceful ease of a serpent slithered his way over and leaned in close, invading Steve’s personal space.

Don’t worry about the trees. They just take a bit of getting used to, he said, nodding towards where Steve was staring, The last couple who lived here were in this house for many happy years before they decided to sell up and move to Australia. He flashed his wide, salesman grin.

Steve didn’t like Donovan, and only hid his contempt for the horrible little man for the sake of Melody, who he loved more than anything. He chose not to respond for fear of putting the gangly idiot in his place, and without missing a beat, Donovan saw this as his signal to continue his pitch.

It has everything a young couple could need, Mr. Samson. And of course, needless to say you won’t have any noise from the neighbours

Donovan said it with a chuckle, which he quickly killed when he saw that Steve wasn’t joining in. He cleared his throat and reverted to what he knew, which appeared to be grinning at Steve with a mouth that appeared to contain too many teeth. Melody called out from behind the house, her disembodied voice carrying on the wind towards them.

Steve, come take a look at this! she yelled excitedly.

Donovan rolled his eyes in a clumsy attempt to build some rapport. Two guys together, best pals to the end. Steve’s disdain for the man moved up a notch as he walked around to the back of the house to look for his wife.

The rear of the property was bathed in blazing sunshine, causing him to squint as he rounded a corner. Donovan had produced some cheap-looking sunglasses from the pocket of his even cheaper-looking suit, which only served to add to the general ridiculousness of his appearance. Steve saw the reason for Melody’s excitement and felt a dull gnawing in his gut he couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was just anxiety or the fact that he was out of his comfort zone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Melody would have laughed at him and called it the heebie jeebies, which was as good a description as any he could muster. Although he hadn’t been able to tell when they’d approached the impenetrable density of the trees by car, it was now clear that Hope House sat on the lip of a gentle sloping hill. The back of the house led on to a long, narrow garden, at the end of which was a wide, slowly flowing river which cut directly across the bottom of the boundary to the property. The view from the house was stunning, giving the three of them a beautiful panorama of the immense forest that seemed to have swallowed the house some years ago as it had spread outwards. Steve was not one to be easily impressed, but even he couldn’t help but draw breath at the view.

Beautiful isn’t it? Donovan said as he removed his idiotic sunglasses and slipped them into his breast pocket. Steve chose not to reply, but Melody could barely contain herself.

I love it! she said, as Donovan flashed his salesman’s grin at her. Steve also noticed that their slimy host helped himself to a quick glance at her chest before continuing with his pitch.

Your wife has impeccable taste Mr. Samson, Donovan said around the grin that seemed glued to his face.

And lovely tits!

Steve imagined the smarmy salesman adding, but Donovan kept quiet. Instead, the man helped himself to a second lingering glance at Melody’s tight t-shirt.

We haven’t even seen the inside of the house yet, Steve said, content to ignore Donovan’s ogling for now.

It will be perfect, I just know it! Melody exclaimed over her shoulder as she walked down the garden to the river for a closer look.

You hear that Steve? said Donovan, clapping his hands together. It seems your lovely wife approves.

Steve nodded, noting that Donovan seemed to think they had now switched to first-name terms.

He smells the sale, Steve thought, watching his wife explore the garden. He had a sudden desire to take her in his arms and hold her close. To protect her from—what exactly? Donovan? No. Donovan was an asshole all right, but he was harmless and certainly not Melody’s type. He couldn’t place it but something bristled: he wanted to shield her, to keep her safe. Steve studied her as she brushed her hair away from her face, and he knew without doubt that she wanted the house, and if that was the case, he would go with it. Not because she would kick up a fuss if he didn’t—he knew that she wouldn’t force him into the decision—he would agree to it because she wanted it badly, and if he could give her something that made her so happy, then he would do it without question. As if reading Steve’s thoughts, Donovan leaned close.

How about we go and see the rest of the house and fill out some paperwork? he said smugly, walking away before Steve could protest.

Steve glanced up at the house and couldn’t shake the feeling that it was scrutinising him. Shrugging it off, he waited for Melody to join him. Then, arm in arm, they followed Donovan as he led them to see the inside of the property.

2. A FRESH START

THE NEW YORK APARTMENT that Steve and Melody shared was in disarray. Boxes of their belongings were half-packed, the taped containers marked with Melody’s hand-written instructions about their eventual destination.

Steve lay in bed watching the news. He had grown increasingly concerned over the last couple of days at how certain Melody was that the offer they had made for Hope House would be accepted. Donovan’s asking price was ninety-seven thousand, which was already at the very top end of their budget. Steve had put in an offer of eighty-eight, arguing that they would need to earmark some funds for the repair work that was needed. Donovan had squirmed around behind his slimy salesman smile, but in the end had agreed to submit their offer to the so-far anonymous owners.

The reason for the low-ball offer was twofold. Firstly, the house did indeed need extensive work. The window frames were old and rotten, definitely needing replacement, and in the oval sitting room, a huge, ugly crack ran down the full length of the chimney breast, exposing the wooden slats beneath. There were other issues too. The roof had a hole in it, leaking water into the upstairs bedroom, and the kitchen plumbing was rusted and barely operating.

There was another, deeper reason too. One that he had no intention of telling Melody.

Part of him, deep down, hoped that their offer would be rejected. Not only because of the work needed to make the house habitable, but also because of how Melody was behaving.

She was always so thoughtful and considered every action before she did anything, yet had seemingly fallen completely in love with the tired old house and made no efforts to hide it from Donovan, who saw her enthusiasm as an excuse to try to push the price up.

Steve stared at the television screen without really watching, and as much as he hated himself for it, he couldn’t wait to get the call saying that their offer had been rejected, so they could move on and look for something a little less —

Creepy.

He could hear Melody singing to herself in the kitchen as she made breakfast. Even though it had been almost a week since they’d made the offer, and had so far received no word from Donovan, Melody was convinced that it would be accepted and that Hope House would be theirs.

He tried to warn her that it was far from a done deal, but she had been adamant and had insisted on starting to pack everything. He had initially refused, and they’d had a rare argument. He’d later backed down, but there was still something that he didn’t like about the place. He surmised it might have been because it was in the middle of nowhere, and he was used to the concrete comforts of city living, or maybe it was just the change in personality that he’d seen in Melody since they’d gone to view it, but whatever it was, he wasn’t feeling entirely comfortable.

He was broken from his train of thought by the sound of Melody running down the hallway to the bedroom. She burst into the room, a vision of long hair and ecstatic grin as she leapt on the bed and kissed him hard which, although surprising, was very welcome.

We got it Steve. We got the house! she said as she came up for air.

We don’t know that for sure we—

—I just got off the phone with Donovan. They accepted our offer. Baby it’s ours!

Steve smiled, even as his stomach sank a little. He tried his best to hide the disappointment.

That’s great news!

The lie wasn’t that good, but in her excitement, he hoped she hadn’t noticed.

He said we can move in anytime from the end of the month, so we’d better hurry up and pack the rest of our stuff.

He nodded behind his not quite sincere smile as he chewed over the finality of the situation.

Remember we can’t move in until all the repair work has been done, he said cautiously.

She frowned, her smile briefly fading, and then reverted to its glowing glory.

We can sort all that stuff out later, come on lazy, get up! We can drive out there and have another look at the place.

He didn’t want to see it again, not really, but he saw how excited she was and couldn’t think up a plausible excuse to get out of it. Besides, he decided that he had better get used to the place since he was going to be living there.

Okay, point taken. I’ll get up. Who needs sleep anyway?

She smiled and kissed him again, and he returned the gesture, pulling her towards him. She playfully pushed him away, and grinned.

Plenty of time for that later, she said, kissing him once more softly on the lips before leaping off the bed. She grabbed the covers off Steve and tossed them to the floor.

Hey! he complained, breaking into a grin.

Now get up, we have a lot to do! she said with a grin of her own before disappearing out of the room.

He lay there for a moment, his smile as false as the realtor’s had been now fading from his lips. He knew that he should be happy that they were finally buying a house together, somewhere to hopefully start a family of their own, and yet his stomach still churned with that subtle anxious uncertainty. He wondered if perhaps it was simply fear of the unknown, or even fear of change. Both of which were perfectly normal emotions ahead of such a huge life-changing step. But deep down he wasn’t so sure. He had a problem with the house itself. Something about it bothered him, something in its atmosphere. Either way he was now committed to the move, and would do it without complaint for Melody’s sake. He was sure it was nothing anyway, and the least he could do was give it a chance and see if his second impression was different from the first. With a sigh, he climbed out of bed and dressed.

3. IN THE BEGINNING

June 14th 1809

JONES WATCHED THE HOUSE being built, the Negro slaves’ wiry bodies slick with sweat as they toiled in the intense summer heat. They in turn watched Jones through nervous and fearful eyes as they worked, making sure to give that little extra effort when his steely gaze fell upon them.

Jones was Michael Jones, and he owned a reasonably successful construction company along with his brother Francis and their business partner Alfonse Schuster. He was a large man, with huge jowly cheeks and sandy hair. He didn’t care much for the Negroes. They worked hard only under constant supervision, and he was sure that if he were to turn his back, they would put down their tools and rest, and that was something he would not allow in spite of the oppressive, burning heat of what was turning out to be a scorching summer day; the kind of day when just standing still would bring sweat to the brow, the kind of day where the air felt hot and sticky.

As he looked at the house from his vantage point by the river, he could see a thick, wispy heat haze shimmering off the ground. Despite this, he would not allow the workers to rest. Four of them had already passed out from exhaustion, and had been quickly revived and set back to work. His company was known for delivering on time, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to finish the house as soon as possible — especially with Alfonse looking for any possible way to pull the plug.

He sighed and squinted at the sun which continued to burn without mercy. With a grunt, he walked towards the construction, angry and not really knowing why. The workers saw him and increased their efforts. Jones stood and watched, glaring at them even as they did all they could to ignore his stares. One of them stood and approached him, his eyes half-lidded and skin drenched with sweat.

Mr. Jones suh, said the worker in his deep southern drawl, lowering his gaze.

Jones said nothing. He simply glared and waited. Hesitantly, the worker went on.

Mr. Jones suh, we are tired, and would very much like some watah.

Jones shook his head slowly. That’s the trouble with you niggers. Just plain lazy.

Please suh, we workin’ hard.

Really? said Jones with a mocking smile. How about you run back on over there and tell them they can stop working when the job is done and not a second sooner. You are here to work, not drink and take breaks.

Yes suh, said the worker, about to head back to his duties when Jones spoke to him.

Do you have a name?

Isaac, suh.

Isaac? A typical nigger name. Well, Isaac you see that tree over there?

Jones jabbed his thumb over his shoulder to the immense willow overhanging the road.

Yessuh.

I want you to cut that down and then make me a sign. A sign in honour of my easily frightened partner.

Jones nodded towards the awning where the dirt track opened onto the boundary of the land. Isaac looked from the awning and then to Jones, who was watching him intently.

I uhh, don’t like the heights suh.

That is no concern of mine, I want you to do it, and do it now.

Isaac opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, and then closed it. He could see the venom in Jones’ eyes and knew better than to push his luck.

Yessuh. Right away suh.

Jones dismissed Isaac and watched as he hurried to the tree and picked up an axe. He shook his head, wishing he could get out of the heat and wondering why he was suddenly in such a foul mood. He supposed it could be the pressure he was under. The project had been one problem after another, and even though he would never admit it, he would be glad to see the back of it. He turned back to the house and the on-going construction, ignoring the aggrieved and fearful glances of the workers.

He deliberately took a long drink from his water bottle, enjoying the desperate, thirsty glances of his workforce. He didn’t care. He wasn’t there to be liked, but to get the job done, and as soon as possible. He had learned that in order to obtain results, he had to be seen as a harsh man, a man to be feared. He couldn’t let them see that he was different away from the pressures of work. Even so, it was more than that.

It was this place.

He didn’t like to think that Alfonse might be right, but there was definitely something in the air, some unpleasant flavour to the atmosphere that made Jones’ skin crawl. As much as he hated to admit it, the place disturbed him, and that alone made him want to get the job finished quickly. If that meant treating his workforce with cruelty to ensure it, then so be it.

A gentle breath of wind touched him, causing the treetop to sway and sing. He half-imagined that the trees themselves were speaking to him, calling his name, but he dismissed it. He was just tired. The good news was that, based on the current rate of work, he could expect the job to be completed in another week or two. Another delicate breeze moved through the trees, and again, he almost believed that he’d heard his name buried somewhere amid the natural sounds of the forest. The warning words of his business partner reverberated in his skull, and he found that despite the heat he shivered and felt the gooseflesh pop up on his massive forearms. It was as if he was being watched, prompting him to look nervously about him.

All he could see were the trees, and the dark spaces in-between. He licked his lips and stared deeper into those twisted, darkened places, hoping to see what was making him so afraid. He watched intently, for the moment the worries of the on-going assembly forgotten. Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much. Seconds, minutes, hours: it all seemed insignificant. He shook his head and, unable to see anything, he slowly turned back to the building and tried to concentrate on the work at hand. He knew it was stupid, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being observed. It was difficult to ignore, but he managed to force himself not to turn around and look into the trees. Partly because he didn’t want to show that he had been spooked, but more because he was afraid of what he might see.

4.THE PURGE

1513

THE GOGOKU VILLIAGE WAS silent, its wooden huts now deserted shells. The blood-drenched Elder walked to the mound of bodies assembled in the centre of the village, and tossed the escapee child onto it, pausing to admire his handiwork. The earth beneath his feet was soft, mired with the blood of his people.

The trees surrounding the village swayed, and the words came to him in subtly devious tones. He saw the bodies of his children and his wife, their skulls broken and destroyed, their glassy eyes staring into oblivion. A brief sorrow overcame him, but the voices immediately drowned it out, guiding him and telling him what to do.

He walked through the blood-soaked earth to drier ground, and stood by the pile of kindling he’d collected earlier. He took a double armful and returned to the bodies, stuffing the branches and grasses deep into the tangle of corpses. The task took many hours, and whenever his strength waned, or he recognised a broken, misshapen face amid the dead, the voices in the trees would urge him on. The encouragement had long since become a warning, a fear-inducing threat which drove the frightened Elder to complete his task. He took the tree sap which he had collected under instruction from the spirits and poured it amid the huts, over the bodies and finally onto himself.

They told him what must be done, and the Gogoku smiled, for his mind was already broken. He crouched and struck a fire, using flint and dry grasses to light the torch. In the near dark, its glow made shadows dance and flicker on the his face as he touched the torch to the hovels, the flammable tree sap helping the fire