Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (30 page)

The children walk down the tunnel, close to each other, the dim torchlight their only company. The smell is pungent, a sickly stench of rot. They inspect the markings on the earthen walls, the clawing desperation to escape of those who had come before.

A rumble is heard through the dark. They know what has caused it, and some are already being changed, their eyes glazing. The others do nothing to help them. They know the more of their kind that die, the better their own chances of survival are.

The group enters the altar room, the walls adorned with crude paintings left by the Gogoku men in tribute to the thing that lies below. On the altar is a boy of their age, or more accurately, what’s left of him. White ribs poke from rotten flesh; milky eyes are turned to the heavens as if in prayer. He has been hacked into a pulpy mess and left for them to see.

The group huddles closer, or at least those who haven’t begun to feel the chamber’s strange effects do. The others stare blankly, eyes glassy, mouths agape. Those are the weak, the ones already infected by the things that speak to them.

They file into one of the sub-chambers, an annex of the main one, and line up along both walls. As one they sit, shoulder to shoulder, arms touching. This is where they will wait and either live or die.

The room vibrates, and the thing living deep in the darkness below calls to them. The weak, those already affected, go first.

Two of them stand, wordlessly leaving their companions. They stumble to the tunnel entrance and descend into the void, called by the thing they are already slaves to.

It goes on. Hours blend into days. The tributes continue as the voices whisper and scheme, corrupt and cast doubts. Each of them has brought only a small amount of food, and as the mental and physical toll of their torture begins to wear them down, more lose the battle of wills and venture into the tunnels below.

Four days pass, and of the original fifteen, only seven now remain in the holding room. Weak and exhausted, drained and close to death, they wait to see if they will be called.

One by one, they begin to die, too broken and weak to fight. The last of them, a boy of fourteen, desperately fights the coming death, fights the voices that even now try to corrupt and convince him to go into the dark. He resists, his shallow breathing becoming labored. He can’t fight anymore. He inhales.

Silence.

Death brings serenity to the chamber. Soon, the eight who went into the dark emerge. They are no longer afraid. They have become one with the thing below, and have earned their right to live. Silently, they begin to remove the bodies, taking them to feed their new master. When it is done, they return to the chamber, pausing at the tribute. They understand its purpose now. Sometimes, one of the chosen attempts to flee, refusing to give themselves completely. This is what they become. This is what no boy wants to become. They file back toward the entrance, squinting as the first sunlight they have seen for five days touches them. Eto is waiting; watching. He lowers the ropes and they climb, no longer boys, but men.

Eto says nothing to them as they ascend, weak and exhausted, but alive. Later, the villagers will host a feast in their honor. The last of them clambers onto the surface and begins the short walk back to the village. Eto hesitates for a second, then follows, knowing that for now, their master is satisfied and peace will exist until it demands sacrifice once more.

Petrov inhaled, staggering back from the painting, dropping both weapon and torch. The glass lens of the torch smashed on the ground, plunging them into darkness for a second before the light flickered back on.

“What was that? What the hell just happened to you?”

“I know what this place is. I know what happened here,” Petrov gasped, senses reeling. Now that he knew what the purpose of the place was, the voices swirling around in his head took on a whole new meaning.

Kimmel grabbed him by the arm. “What is it? What’s got you so spooked?”

Petrov tried to explain, to give Kimmel some kind of answer, but his throat was dry and the words wouldn’t come out.

“The room with the bodies,” he managed at last. “None of them were suitable, Kimmel. None of them fitted the bill. That’s why it made them attack their own. That’s why the village burned. That’s why they were cursed.”

“What people? What the hell are you talking about?”

Petrov ignored him. The voices in his head filled in the blanks and missing spaces that making contact with the painting had missed.

“They tried to make amends. That’s why they raided the neighboring villages. That’s why they took the children, so they could feed it. So they could satisfy it and stop it torturing their minds.”

Kimmel backed away, cautious of the wild look in Petrov’s eyes.

“It was never enough. Never enough to make them stop. In the end, Eto burned them all. Every last one of them, then threw himself into the flames. But it still wasn’t enough.” He laughed; a short bark, which had no place in such a hostile environment. “It demanded more. Always more. Always more. That’s why that animal was down there when I first came here. The cat with the wings. Donovan and Annie Briggs… They tried to please it. Tried to make it an offering.”

He laughed again. “It was never going to be enough. Not some cobbled together animal. Not for its needs. Not by a long shot.”

“Goddamn it, pull yourself together!” Kimmel shouted, shaking Petrov by the shoulder, but his words came without conviction. There was no denying it. Here in the dim, flickering light of the torch beam, he was as afraid of Petrov as he was of the environment they were in.

“They built the house in the wrong place. Too close to this thing. Too close,” Petrov muttered, glancing back at the painting. “Jones knew. He thought filling the hole in would be enough.”

“Jones? Are you talking about Michael Jones?”

Petrov nodded. “He never told anyone what he’d found. He wanted this place. Had already committed to building here.”

A noise came out of Petrov then, a pained whine. “If he’d just let the forest take this place back, it could all have been avoided. All of it. Why did you have to build here?”

He glared at Kimmel and shoved him. “Why did you have to build it here!” he screamed.

Kimmel backed away, holding his hands up. “Just relax, take it easy. This place is doing something to you. You’re not used to it.”

“Even when it was sealed it could still get to them… in here.” He tapped his temple. “It was only when Donovan dug it out and opened the tunnels that it was able to reach out. That it could further its influence away from the clearing.”

“Detective, I think we need to get out of here.”

“You started this,” Petrov said, eyes glazed as he turned toward Kimmel, seeing what the voices told him to see. “This is all your fault, Michael.”

“I’m Kimmel, goddamn it, pull yourself together.”

Petrov grinned and picked up his weapon, firing off three shots at Kimmel.

CHAPTER 39

Isaac was first to reach the clearing. He stood at its edge, unsurprised by what awaited him. The others caught up and stared in fear, while Isaac simply waited, completely calm.

Henry Marshall stood in the center, lit by a pale moon. Melody stood in front of him, his filthy hand on her shoulder. Isaac began to walk toward him, but Emma pulled him back, throwing a protective arm around him. Henry showed them the nearest thing to a smile his broken mouth would allow.

“I knew you would find me,” he said, staring at Isaac before letting his eyes drift to those behind. The grin slid off his face. “I don’t know why you brought these people with you.”

Dane stepped forward, but wasn’t quite brave enough to venture into the clearing.

“I’ve come to help you, Henry. To take you out of here. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

“I don’t need your help. For once, I’m doing something on my own. Something you can’t do better, or quicker. Something for me. Something that’s mine.”

“Henry, you can’t escape. The police are on their way. If you don’t want them to shoot you, then you need me.”

“I don’t care if they shoot me,” Henry snapped.

“Henry, please—”

“This doesn’t concern you. This is about the boy and me.”

“You’re alone here, Henry. You can’t stop us all.”

Henry looked at Melody, head down and crying, and then at the group by the clearing. “What makes you think I’m alone?”

Sounds came from behind them; chattering, heavy whispers and grunts. The group stared down the path as gravel crunched, branches broke, and the echo of disembodied footsteps lurched toward them. It was an involuntary action. The weight and hostility of the atmosphere forced them into the clearing. The instant they were within its perimeter, the sounds stopped, plunging them into an absolute silence which was somehow even worse. They huddled together, frightened and unsure of which was worse: Henry, or the things that surrounded them.

“What do you want?” Emma said, breath fogging in the cold air.

“He wants me,” Isaac muttered, pulling free of Emma’s hand.

Emma and Mrs. Alma glanced at each other, the older woman giving a barely perceptible shake of the head.

“No,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not happening.”

“How about an exchange?” Henry said, enjoying the unfolding events. “One Samson for another. Mother for son.”

“No,” Emma said more firmly. The trees around them hissed in defiance, pushing them closer together.

“You know what they’ll do to you if you refuse?” Henry said, looking at each of them in turn. “Did you really think you would be able to stop them? A confused lesbian slut, an old spiritualist whore and the descendant of a nigger slave. What a joke.” Henry leaned over Melody’s shoulder, bringing his other hand up toward her throat. “She came here thinking she could stop them until I showed her. Look at her now.”

Melody flinched away from him, head down, trembling.

“You might think it’s me she fears, but it’s not.” He looked to the trees, enjoying the theatrics. “It’s them.”

Dane reached back, going for the gun tucked into his jeans. Mrs. Alma touched his arm, stopping him. Dane let his hand fall back to his side as his brother went on.

“None of you will be allowed to leave here alive unless you hand over the boy.”

“That isn’t happening, Henry,” Dane said, taking a cautious step forward. “I know you better than anyone. You don’t want to do this.”

Henry grinned, a monstrous image which caused his brother to flinch. “You knew the man I was. You don’t know the monster I am now.”

“So what do we do? The boy stays with us, Henry. Nothing is going to change that.”

Henry considered it for a moment, licking his tongue against his broken teeth. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I misjudged you all. Maybe, if an exchange is off the cards, I don’t need the boy’s mother. Maybe I’ll tear out her throat right here in front of him. How would that be? Both parents killed by the same hand.”

“No!” Isaac screamed, pulling free of Emma and running toward the center of the clearing. Emma tried to follow but was pulled back. At first, she thought it was Truman, or maybe even Mrs. Alma, but as she was thrown to the floor, she realized whoever had grabbed her had no earthly presence. She sat in the dirt, still able to feel the pinch of the invisible fingers gripping her, holding her fast. The rest looked on as Isaac sprinted forward, standing just ten feet from his mother and her demonic captor.

“Please… don’t hurt her,” he pleaded as he stared at the man who’d plagued his dreams for so long. He tried to look at his mother, but she had her head down, silently sobbing and shaking as she dealt with the trauma of whatever Henry had shown her.

“They don’t want her. They want you,” Henry said, leaning his chin on Melody’s shoulder. “Walk to me and I’ll send her toward you. An exchange.” He whispered.

“You promise you won’t hurt her?” Isaac said, forcing himself to look Henry in the eye.

“Oh I promise,” Henry said, stifling a smile. “I won’t hurt her at all.”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Isaac said, glancing back to the others at the edge of the clearing. Their mouths moved as they gesticulated and shouted, yet he could hear nothing. He turned back toward Henry. “I’m coming over,” he said, taking a step toward him. He wanted to run, of course, but felt like he had no choice but to comply. The probing things in his head were in a frenzy now, screeching and wailing as they urged him on, warning him that those he was with would suffer slow, painful deaths unless he did as they said. He walked closer, his feet acting independently. Henry shoved Melody toward him, barking at her to walk. She flinched at the sound of his voice, but did as he asked. Mother and son crossed, and for a second locked eyes. Isaac took a sharp breath. Something in his mother had broken. He could see it even in the pale light of the moon. Her eyes were unfocused, indifferent. Her face pale, mouth slightly agape. He wasn’t even sure she recognized him as she moved past, trudging toward the opposite end of the clearing as Isaac took the last few steps toward whatever awaited him.