Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (9 page)

II

Just a few days after returning home from Romania, Alex Brett waited for his stepmother to pass out. It usually happened a little after ten pm, however tonight, she had won at bingo and had started drinking early. As always, he had stayed in his room, waiting for her to fall silent and stop shouting at whatever she happened to be watching on the television. Just after nine, he went downstairs, moving quietly, heart beating fast.

It was like Groundhog Day, every single day that passed a repeat of the day before. She lay on the sofa, snoring lightly, greasy hair fanned over the pillow, filthy dressing gown pulled up to reveal her ugly, scabby legs. He stared at the television, which was showing a gameshow to the empty room. Quietly, he grabbed the remote and switched it off, bringing silence to the house.

The first moment of doubt entered his mind, and in immediate response, he heard them, those creeping whispering things which had never left his head. He had, of course, tried to deny them, to ignore them in the hope that distance would free him from their grasp. He knew, however, from the things they said and the images they showed him, that not only were they still there, but they were growing stronger. He wasn’t sure if it was him or them that had planted the idea in his head for what he was about to do, and he supposed it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the decision had been taken. He moved past his snoring stepmother, giving her a disgusted sneer as he went into the kitchen, then through the side door leading into the garage. This was his father’s space, and unlike the rest of the house, was clean and pristine. Cold and clinical, even. Spotless concrete floor, a rack of gleaming spanners on one wall, a workbench neatly organized against the other. The car was, of course, gone, and would be until his father finished work at the bar, busting heads at the door if anyone got rowdy. Alex absently wondered if he would still store his pickup truck in the garage afterwards. Quickly following that thought was another which said it didn’t matter.

He crossed the room to the workbench, moving aside the blue plastic drawers separated into compartments that contained all manner of nails and screws. What he wanted was at the back, hidden from sight.

The cigar box looked alien somehow, its yellow illustrations ill-fitting with the clean efficiency of the rest of the garage. Alex knew what it contained was as cold and clinical as the rest of his father’s possessions. He flicked open the lid, revealing the handgun inside. Underneath it were photographs of his mother. He slid the first picture out. The colors were faded, but the image was still clear. It appeared that Alex’s father had taken it. In the photo, his mother sat on a beach, feet buried in the sand, sun hat perched on her head. She was smiling for the camera. Alex was astounded by how happy she looked. He couldn’t remember much about her, apart from the times at the end when his parents were barely on speaking terms. It made him sad, and as if it were waiting for the right moment of weakness, the thing in his head spoke, reminding him that he was doing the right thing. That it would be better all round if he were dead. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he folded the photograph and slipped it into his pocket, then turned his attention to the gun.

It was a .38 that his father had purchased some ten years earlier and had never used. Alex wondered if he even remembered he owned it. He took it out of the box, surprised at the weight in his hand. It felt awkward, uncomfortable even, but incredibly real. The thing in his head guided him through, instructing him on how to load the weapon, how to ensure the safety was off. He followed its lead, doing as he was advised without thinking what the result would be, what it would mean when everything was ready. He disengaged the safety, and stood in the silence, weapon at his side, listening to the house. Apart from the hum of the striplight, there was absolute silence.

Kill the cunt.

It was a command, an instruction delivered to him that left no course for argument or negotiation. On legs that were out of his control, he walked silently back through the kitchen, and stopped at the head of the sofa where the dirty, snoring form of his stepmother slept. With absolute calm, he held out the weapon, touching cool steel to her temple, his finger poised over the trigger. It would be so easy, such a simple thing to do. Certainly, it would be better for his father.

Just pull the trigger. Go out in a blaze of glory.

Alex drew breath and pulled away. It wasn’t
his
idea at all, but the idea of the thing in his head; the tumorous mass which had festered and grown there since he’d first been exposed to it at the clearing in Oakwell forest.

Yes
.

It was definitely time to do what he had to in order to ensure he remained in control. With an extraordinary effort, he retreated toward the garage, longing for the cool, clean order of it all, desperate to be away from this woman who had been trouble since day one. Back in the sterile space, he closed his eyes and counted back from twenty, each number banishing something from his mind. When he got to one, he felt better, more in control. He opened his eyes, horrified to find that he had wedged the gun into his mouth without realizing he was doing it. It was behind his front teeth, digging into his palate, angled toward his brain. The thing in his head was delighted, filling his mind with visions of brain matter splashing all over the walls, of bone fragments hitting the floor, ruining the pristine garage. He started to think about his father, how he would respond when he saw what awaited him, and immediately decided it didn’t matter. There was no way he was going to change his mind now. It was settled. He wanted to be free from those awful manipulative things in his head. Squeezing his eyes closed, his last thought was of Emma, and how he hoped she would understand what he had done and why. The alien thing tried to speak, but before it could, Alex pulled the trigger, extinguishing his existence before he was forced to hear the vile things it had to say.

CHAPTER 11

Melody Samson couldn’t have imagined the cruelty life would throw at her after the fateful tidal wave of events at Hope House. Its horrors, and those which came after, had not only damaged her mentally, but had taken a physical toll. She had lost weight, and the laughter lines of her youth had deepened into their worry-driven cousins. Crow’s feet reached out from the corners of her eyes, which were dull, only showing the faintest glimmer of their former exuberance. Her hair, once thick and black, had thinned and started to gray. Worse than the physical and mental toll was the absolute loneliness she felt. When she lost Steve, she had clung to her son, thinking he would be enough to save her. Yet, like her, Isaac suffered with demons of his own. Plagued by nightmares of his ordeal at the hands of Henry Marshall and the sheer horror at seeing his father die in front of him, she supposed it was almost inevitable the nightmares would eventually morph into something worse.

Although she had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder just like Isaac, she wasn’t entirely convinced they were listening to the whole story. She’d had enough of the countless and mostly frustrating therapy sessions with the psychologists and doctors trying their best to tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about, especially when it came to the horrors she had endured at Hope House. She had tried to be patient, and explain as thoroughly and slowly as she could exactly what had happened; however, the therapists seemed less interested in what she had to say, and more in trying to tell her that she needed to start facing up to the reality of the situation and not hide behind the supernatural. They had prescribed her medication, and although she assured them she was taking it, the bottle remained unopened in the kitchen drawer. She knew that everything she’d experienced was real, and no matter who tried to tell her otherwise, she believed it completely. The weeks since she’d been ordered to seek help had been an endless void of misery. Her nights were sleepless, her days spent walking around her empty and silent apartment like some forgotten ghoul with nobody to haunt. It was only during her therapy sessions that she put on a mask of relative normality. She smiled and tried to be as casual and ordinary as possible, all with the goal of getting her son back in her care.

Melody sat once again in Styles’ office, knowing that his decision would have an overwhelming impact on the rest of her life. She tried to read him, to second-guess what was going to happen, but it seemed Styles was more than used to dealing with such cases, and his poker face held true.

“Would you like a glass of water, Mrs. Samson?”

She looked at him. Blinked. The reply stuck in the back of her throat. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

Styles nodded curtly, and addressed the file in front of him. “I see you’ve been attending the sessions. I’m glad to see it. How are you finding them?”

“They’re fine. Very helpful.”

He watched her, dark eyes probing. She imagined him sniffing the air, sensing her lie. “That’s good,” he said, turning back to the file. “Very good,” he added.

“Mr. Styles, please, can I see my son? I don’t even know how he’s been doing.”

“Isaac is doing fine, Mrs. Samson. He continues to show excellent progress. His night terrors are being controlled by his medication and he seems to be responding well to his new environment.”

“Does that mean I can take him home?”

“Mrs. Samson, the reports from your sessions show you to still be dealing with intense grief after the loss of your husband, which is quite understandable given the recent nature of such a traumatic experience,” Styles said, ignoring her question. “It seems you continue to persist with these very rich and vivid stories about supernatural beings somehow attaching themselves to your family. Indeed, these reports say you were quite vocal about this.”

She stared at her hands, spinning her wedding ring around her finger, which was almost too thin to hold it anymore. “I’ve been unwell. I was confused. Overtired.”

Styles held up a hand. “Please, let me finish.”

She shifted in her seat, sensing that things were taking a turn in a direction she didn’t want them to go.

“As I was saying, the subject matter discussed during your therapy sessions has, frankly, caused some concern. Although Isaac is showing good progress, you, unfortunately have proven to be less responsive. Now I know that trauma such as this can take a long time to recover from, even without the added stresses of life as a single parent. My job, and that of the state, is to provide the best and safest environment for all parties involved in any particular case. That’s why the therapy sessions we organized for you are so important, as they give us the opportunity to assess your progress ahead of any decision we make.”

“Please, I’m really trying to get over this.”

“I understand that, Mrs. Samson, and I don’t want you to feel like we are in any way rushing you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. In cases like this, children naturally seem more receptive to recovery than adults. This is just one of those cases where Isaac is making faster progress than you are. It’s perfectly normal, in fact, it was to be expected.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means that we have a very delicate situation here which has been the subject of much discussion and thought with myself, your doctors and Isaacs’s carers. As I said during our first meeting, our job is to provide the best care we can in assisting both you and your son in your recovery. With that said, I think it’s wise if, for the time being, you and your son remain separated, especially after Isaac has shown such good progress.”

“You can’t do this. Six weeks you said. Six weeks as long as I did the therapy.”

“No, I said we would review the case, which we have in great detail. Believe me Mrs. Samson, this isn’t a part of the job I enjoy. The board have decided that it would be in everyone’s best interests if we extended the current arrangement until you are more capable to offer Isaac the stability he needs.”

“You can’t take him away from me. You have no right. He’s my son.”

“And we have a duty of care,” Styles snapped. “Mrs. Samson, I take no pleasure in making decisions like this. I’m just a small cog in a very big wheel. Sometimes we agree, sometimes we don’t. In this case, the decision to keep Isaac in a settled home where he can be monitored and treated for his condition whilst also giving you the time to recover further is the best option for everyone. I’m sure you can understand that we aren’t your enemies here. We are doing this to help you. Both of you.”

“None of this helps me,” Melody shrieked. “You’re stealing my son. I won’t have it. I’ll go to the press, I’ll take legal action.”

If Styles was concerned, he didn’t show it. He closed the file and folded his hands on the desk. “Mrs. Samson, I think it’s important you look at the bigger picture here. The very last thing we want to do is break up families, especially when they’ve experienced the kind of terrible trauma you and your son have been forced to endure. At the same time, you must see the reasons for our concerns. There is a very real and valid concern that if you were to be given back custody of your son, he would regress to a similar state to when we first became involved. Not to mention the added pressure and stress of caring for him would hinder your own recovery and make your condition worse. I hope you can understand that that this is for the best. The long term goal is to help both you and your son recover from the ordeal you have endured.”