Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (2 page)

“Why does it matter? We got our guy for this. What’s the point?”

“Because something doesn’t add up. We know what Henry Marshall did, but we don’t know why. That bothers me.”

“Let it go. Let’s get out of this shithole town.”

“You know that’s not my way, Warren. It’s only gonna eat at me otherwise.”

“Alright, if that’s what you want,” Warren said, pulling out his cigarettes. “But for the record, I think you’re a crazy son of a bitch. We already closed the case. We don’t need to be doing this.”

“Come on, you know me well enough by now. I’m curious,” Petrov said, grinning. “Let’s get this done, okay?”

“Whatever, let’s just get this over with and get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps. Do I have time for a quick smoke?”

“No, Warren. Come on, let’s do this.”

“Goddamn it, Alex, why always me?” Warren grumbled as he put his cigarettes back into his pocket.

II

Torch in hand, Petrov stood over the hatch. He peered into the darkness below and wondered if Warren was right, that the best course of action would be to wait for the crime scene investigators to arrive. Even as he considered this, he knew he would never do it. He was too curious; too interested in discovering what had happened. He sat on the floor, his legs hanging over into the void. He eyed the ladder. Old rotten wood, rusty nails holding the rungs together, equally rusted hinges pinning it to the wall.

Warren followed his eyeline. “I wouldn’t trust that thing to hold your weight.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Want me to see if I can call one of the guys? See if we can get a ladder out here?”

“There’s no time. I need to get in there and check it out. Just stay close and keep your eyes and ears open.”

“There’s nobody else here. Who are you expecting to find down there?” Warren asked. He had been trying to lighten the mood, but Petrov was too tense and too mentally in the zone to acknowledge it.

“Just keep your eyes open,” he said, slipping the torch into his jacket pocket.

With nothing else left to say or do, Petrov lowered himself over the edge, testing the strength of the ladder’s rungs. Although they groaned in protest, they held his weight.

“Okay, I’m heading down. Keep a look out for the crime scene guys. If they get here before I’m out, don’t be afraid to yell.”

“Fuck it, just do what you gotta do,” Warren muttered with an exasperated sigh. He was more than used to Petrov bending the rules when he could sense a potential new lead. Hoping that the light, fuzzy feeling in his gut was just the vibe being given off by the house, he resigned himself to being a spectator, for the time being at least.

Petrov lowered himself down, taking each rung on the ladder carefully. He was desperately trying to concentrate on what he was doing while ignoring the idiocy of his actions at the same time. As his head dipped below floor level, he was enveloped in a cold shroud of air. The lights from above ground barely penetrated the darkness, and until he could reach the floor and take out his torch, he was entombed in pitch black. His every sense was alive, body tense, ears straining for the slightest sound. From floor level, the drop had appeared to be no more than eight feet, ten at most. Now, as he made his way deeper, he started to think his judgment may have been wrong. The small square of light over which his partner was peering seemed impossibly far away, and it took all of his will to continue his descent.

“You okay down there?” Warren shouted, the words echoing off the walls.

I’m fine.

That was what Petrov had intended to say as the rung of the ladder snapped under his weight. Gravity dragged him down, plunging him toward the ground as his stomach traveled in the opposite direction, feeling as if it were trying to leap out of his throat. He landed hard on the dirt floor, surrounded by broken pieces of the rotten ladder rung.

“Are you hurt?” Warren said as Petrov got to his feet, brushing dust and cobwebs from his clothes. He glanced up the shaft at his partner’s smirking face.

“I’m alright, but I changed my mind about that ladder. See if you can get a hold of one so I don’t break my neck when I need to come back up.”

“Where the hell do you expect me to find a ladder?”

“There’s a tow rope in my car. Grab that.”

“You coming up now?”

“Soon. I just want to take a quick look around down here first.”

“Alright, just don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll be fine. Just go grab that rope.”

Warren raised a hand in acknowledgement and disappeared, leaving Petrov alone. Without anyone nearby, the overwhelming silence was harder to ignore, as was the crushing psychological pressure of the weight of the hotel above him. He took the torch out of his jacket and switched it on, wishing the beam was bigger so it would penetrate deeper as he swept it over the chamber. It was roughly square, and looked to have been cut directly into the earth. Cobwebs hung from ancient beams which had been set at regular intervals within the space, and to Petrov’s reckoning, barely looked up to the task of keeping the roof from collapsing. He inched into the darkness, swinging the torch beam from left to right as he went, unable to shake the overwhelming feeling of being watched despite knowing he was alone. A doorway appeared in the wall, its black maw refusing to betray any of its secrets to the torch’s light. He approached the opening, automatically drawing his weapon and holding it below the light so the two of them moved in unison as he made his way deeper into the chamber. He tried to mentally map the surface area of the house, and was sure his geography must be off, as it seemed that, rather than staying within the foundations of the building, he had taken a path away from them. Indeed, as he approached, he noted that the ground sloped downwards toward where the river would be. His every sense was alert and focused on the darkness. He inched along slowly, shuffling his feet as he approached the makeshift underground door. Images of wet crawling things, slick and sightless, burrowing through the walls flickered into his mind, and for a moment, he was sure he was going to run and scramble back up the broken ladder, as unsafe as it was. His training, however, asserted itself. He placed one foot in front of the other, aware of the thunder of blood pounding in his ears along with the wheezing of his own breathing. He directed the torch beam into the room, his eyes soaking up the information beyond, his mind struggling to process it.

He heard Warren calling from the hatch, warning him that the crime scene investigators had arrived. The sound of his partner’s voice was different, distant, like it was coming from underwater. All of Petrov’s focus was on the contents of the room, which was cut into a rough circular shape. Large bricks formed the wall, and three doors were cut into the opposite side. In the center was an altar of some kind, a course stone table upon which stood a filthy, brass-framed mirror. Candles of various sizes lined the rear and sides of the altar’s surface, their melted bodies awaiting the light of flame to bring them to life again. Beside the mirror was some kind of object which Petrov couldn’t quite figure out. It looked like a domestic cat, or had been at some point; its withered, rotten body was displayed upright, standing on its hind legs. The wings of a blackbird had been stitched to the cat’s back, pinned in the open position as if it were about to take flight. In place of the cat’s head was one from a human; brown and dry, skin cracked, lips pulled back from yellow teeth, hair stringy and wispy. In the light of Petrov’s torch, the eye sockets were twin voids of absolute black, giving the illusion of something ancient staring in defiance at him for encroaching on its territory. Behind the macabre display, written on the wall in what looked like blood, was a statement, perhaps the philosophy of those who had created the room.

The Blood shall feed the earth so that the dead need not feast.

Petrov let his eyes take in the words, committing them to memory, before looking back to the despicable creation on the table, its form as shocking as it was disgusting. As more and more of the room was revealed under the sweeping light of the torch, symbols appeared, adorning the walls, accompanied by words which he didn’t understand, written in a language he had no comprehension of. Something snapped in him then, perhaps from a combination of the mental strain together with the visual horror in front of him, and Alex Petrov lost his nerve. He turned and almost fell, then ran back toward the hatch, grateful to see the rope waiting for him. He grasped it and climbed, unable to shake the feeling that those crawling things from the walls were burrowing into his skin, or the human-headed abomination from the table was half running and half flying as it gave chase. He scrambled up the rope, dirty and breathless, as Warren and the crime scene officers looked on. Not content just to be out of the chamber, Petrov stumbled outside and into the car park, where he threw up by the wall, stomach lurching as his lunch hit the ground. Around him the trees groaned in the wind.

CHAPTER 2

A flash of silver as the blade touched the boy’s throat. He could feel it, cold steel against his skin. As confused and afraid as he was, the boy couldn’t take his eyes off his dead father, or the blood pooling on the ground around him. Isaac looked to his mother, who was sitting on the ground, and knew she couldn’t help him. The man at his back pushed the blade a little harder, almost enough to split the soft, delicate skin. The knife didn’t concern him, and the words being exchanged between his mother and the man went unheard. Isaac was instead listening to the other voices, the ones drifting in and out of his head. He couldn’t understand the things they were saying, but was frightened nonetheless.

What happened next was a blur. A hazy flash of bright light and warmth after which the man was gone, leaving him standing alone. In his dream, the man at his back remained, and dragged the knife across his skin, severing nerves and arteries, spilling his precious blood onto the ground. It was at this point he always woke, screaming and thrashing in his bed, smothered and confused until he kicked the blankets off and gulped in fresh air.

Melody hurried into the room, hair a knotty tangle, eyes dark and tired. She sat beside her son and held him, stroking his sweaty, matted hair as she tried to calm him from the nightmare. He grew quiet, comforted by her presence. She stroked his head until he settled back down, drifting off to calmer waters. Soon enough, he was asleep, arms thrust out at his side, mouth open as he snored gently.

The routine was the same every night. She stood and picked up his duvet, untangling the Ninja Turtles on the material and covering her son. Going to the door, she paused at the threshold and looked at him for a moment. Her seven year old son meant everything to her, and yet she could no longer deny that he was having serious problems dealing with what had happened.

She closed the door gently and made her way to the kitchen, slippers padding softly on the wood floor. After grabbing a glass from the drainer, she lifted the bottle of whisky from the top shelf of the cupboard and headed back to the sitting room to try and figure out what she was going to do. She set the glass and bottle down, and poured herself a generous shot, trying to ignore how much her hands were shaking, and how thin and leathery they’d become. She perched on the edge of the sofa and glanced toward the empty chair. People said it would get easier, yet she knew well enough that it didn’t. If anything, it became more difficult. It had been almost six months since the massacre at the hotel when she’d lost her husband. Although she’d been sure it would never happen, she had already started forgetting little things about Steve. The way he spoke; the way he laughed. She scanned the room, hating the fact that she had no photos of him. Like everything else of their lives together, they’d been destroyed, and he had refused to take new ones after the fire, which she completely understood. Even so, she would have given anything to have just one picture, one memory of the time before they’d moved to Hope House and inadvertently changed their entire futures. Even though it was over, she still felt the intense burden; the guilt that she was still alive and healthy, while Steve had paid with his life in order to save her.

There was a knock at the door.

She didn’t move at first. She never had visitors, especially so late. Memories of Donovan and his wide, white grin flashed in her mind, and she shrank against the seat. Knowing he was dead made no difference. He still lived within her, haunting her in death as much as he had in life.

Another knock, louder this time. She couldn’t face having to put Isaac back to bed if he woke, so forced herself to get up, pausing to drain the glass of whisky, which simultaneously burned and soothed. She walked to the door and looked through the spyhole, feeling ridiculous for being so afraid. She slid back the deadbolts and unhooked the extra chains she’d had installed before turning the doorknob.

“Are you okay? I heard some commotion?”

Melody nodded. “I’m fine, Mrs. Richter. Isaac was just having a bad dream.”