Voices (Whisper Trilogy Book 3) (29 page)

“Isaac, come back!” Emma shouted, giving chase.

Dane and the others followed, heading into the night and whatever waited there.

II

Isaac headed for the bridge, sprinting in the effortless way children could. He knew it had been wrong to fake his headache, but it was something he’d needed to do so that he could make his escape. The voices were there of course, probing and thrashing around his head, but more pressing was the need to go to what he knew as ‘the bad place’. He charged into the trees, the moonlight snuffed out by the canopy. Even the dark didn’t stop him. He knew where every root and every rock was, even though he’d never been there before. Emma and the others trailed behind, tripping and stumbling, branches whipping into their faces. The wind howled, sending the trees into a never ending tango of moving leaves. The voices, which now lived inside his head, were screaming at him, using words he didn’t understand. When that happened, they showed him visually explicit images of what would be done to him and those with him if he didn’t follow their instructions. Pale and frightened, he pushed on.

Emma and the others were close behind, and as before, were being plagued in a more physical manner. Emma continued to be scratched, her arms a crisscross of bloody welts. Dane was also suffering the same fate. He grunted and stumbled, watching as a perfectly formed bite mark appeared on his forearm. The most affected was Truman. As a man who still didn’t believe in anything to do with the paranormal, and had mostly taken Emma’s words on faith, he struggled to understand the inexplicable assault he was under. Shadows danced on the edge of his vision, only to be gone when he turned toward them. Nonexistent fingers poked and prodded him. Worse were the words. Screams delivered with fury right next to his ear. He became detached from the group, falling further behind as he was tormented. Mrs. Alma was also troubled, her lips pursed as she endured her own similar horrors. She stumbled, her hands and knees hitting the ground, and Truman helped her to her feet, the two falling even further behind.

CHAPTER 37

Petrov stood at the entrance to the tunnel. “Looks like he’s expecting us,” he said, glancing at Kimmel. He had led them through the deserted first floor of the hotel, senses on full alert, waiting for the attack. He’d known of course, that the attack wouldn’t come, that it was just his way of avoiding the prospect of descending into the tunnels beneath Hope House, forcing himself to go on. Climbing down the ladder again after what had happened before had been one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do.

Torches had been placed down the length of the hall, showing them the way forward, flames flickering and making shadows dance on the low ceilings and uneven walls. They might have stood there forever if not for Kimmel, who took the first step forward.

“Wait,” Petrov whispered, showing him his gun. “Me first. Just in case.” The General nodded and let Petrov take the lead.

Petrov hesitated. The red fuel can Henry used to light the torches was sitting against the wall. “Grab that,” he said to Kimmel.

“Why?”

“We don’t know when the light will run out.”

“What about the torches? Should I bring one?”

“No. I don’t want him to see us coming,” Petrov said as he led the way.

Even though the air was frigid, Petrov was drenched in sweat.

“You realize how crazy this is, don’t you?” Kimmel whispered as they cautiously made their way down the passage. “Marshall could be anywhere, just waiting to pounce on us.”

“I’m trying not to think about it too much.”

They moved on, aware as they went deeper of that awful feeling growing stronger. The hostile malevolence was much worse down here near its source. Now, it was able to manifest itself in a physical way. Shadows flitting across in front of them. Disembodied screams and cackling laughter came from all sides. Subconsciously, they drew together as they entered the altar room, its stone altar devoid of decoration. It was here that Petrov had seen the part human, part animal tribute, but it had since been removed, leaving only the faint smell of death behind.

Kimmel looked at the four chambers leading off the main room. “Which one is it?”

“I don’t know. I never made it past here.”

“He could be in any one of them,” Kimmel said, eying the four entrances.

“Didn’t the army map this place out?”

“Our technology malfunctioned every time we attempted to do so. After what happened up in the clearing, we were never going to send people down here.”

“Alright, then I guess it’s down to us.”

Petrov led them to the first entrance, noting that the tunnel beyond had collapsed some time ago, the space filled with dirt up to the roof.

“That leaves three,” Petrov whispered, his breath fogging in the cold air.

The second door opened onto a square room. Kimmel drew a sharp breath as he took it all in. The room was filled with bones, or more accurately, skeletons. They sat in perfect formation, leaning against the walls. Many had long since collapsed and were now littering the floor, while others had retained some of their ancient flesh, the dry, leathery covering barely holding the bones in place.

“Jesus, what the hell is this?” Kimmel swore. “These bodies must have been down here for hundreds of years.”

“I don’t know. Look at how they line up, it’s like they were deliberately placed this way.”

“We should move on,” Kimmel said. “I don’t like how exposed we are here.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” They walked to the two remaining tunnels, neither betraying any hint of which they should choose. Unlike the other tunnel, there were no torches to light their way, the black secrets beyond remaining shrouded in mystery and darkness.

“Kimmel, give me that flashlight.”

Petrov switched it on, swinging its beam into the first chamber. A corridor, low and narrow, delved deeper into the earth, the torch beam barely penetrating the stifling void. As desperate as he was to find Henry, he wasn’t quite in the right place to venture into those black depths yet. He moved toward the other chamber, gun held at arm’s length with the torch beside it. He followed his training, keeping close attention to his angles as he shone the beam into the space beyond. Like the room filled with human remains, it was square, a concrete chamber around ten feet by twenty.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?”

“Graffiti, although it’s pretty spectacular,” Petrov muttered as he stood in silence, staring at the artwork adorning the entire length of the wall. Even though the concrete canvas had cracked and the paintwork had faded with age and exposure, it didn’t hide how talented, and possibly deranged, its creator was. It was, at first glance, a nature scene. Towering trees grew around what was plainly Hope House, which dominated the center of the piece. The artist had daubed sunlight in diffused patterns across half of the property, which was expertly painted in yellows, browns and greens. At first sight it was perfectly natural until the text daubed in sharp red font across the top encouraged the viewer to look deeper.

The trees curved toward the house, seeming to reach out for it with talon-like branches. The house itself also appeared off somehow, as if the angles didn’t quite fit together properly. It could have been forgiven as the artist not possessing a full grasp of perspective, if not for the flawless creation of the rest of the work. It seemed that, for whatever reason, the decision had been taken to give the walls of the property the kind of nauseating angles which made the viewer uncomfortable. A thin mist covered the ground in the scene, clinging to the trunks of the trees. Upon closer inspection, countless faces could be seen in the mist, some no more than vague forms painted into the curls and tendrils. Every one of the ethereal faces was screaming. Between the trees were animals. There was a lifelessness to the way they had been painted, eyes dead, slivers of red visible in the shadows under the beasts necks.

Most disturbing of all, however, was the bedroom window of the house. A light was on, casting its yellow glow out into the dusk, and a vague figure of a faceless man holding a baby under one arm could be seen in the room. It appeared at first glance that he was holding up the curtain with the other, perhaps to look out at the night. Either by design or some kind of optical trick, the scratchy way the curtain had been brushed made it resemble not cloth, but a sharp bladed knife being held above the child, perhaps ready to sacrifice it to whatever waited out in the dark. The writing above the piece fitted the image perfectly. It read:

‘The truth is no words.’

“I don’t like this,” Kimmel said. “I mean, who the hell would paint something like this? How? This place has been sealed up since our people left.”

“Unless there’s another way in,” Petrov replied as he stepped further into the room. He wanted to take a closer look, to examine the sometimes delicate, sometimes aggressive brushstrokes up close. His initial reaction had been one of repulsion, but now, the more he looked and saw the sheer depth of the work, the more he thought it was beautiful. He stepped closer, casting the torch beam fully onto it and was now able to see the artistry. It resonated with an energy of its own, as if it were something created just for him, something that had waited in the silence under the abandoned house for him to discover, and was only now showing itself in all its glory. He took another step closer, lowering his gun. He had a bizarre impulse to touch it, to press his hand or perhaps his face to that cold concrete wall, to breathe in the paint. He wondered if he would smell the scents of the things that had been painted: the deep richness of earth, the sweetness of grass and leaves, the copper tang of blood. Petrov reached out, tentative, unsure why he felt so compelled to put his hand on the mural. Palm flat, he touched it to the cold concrete. As soon as he did so, it was like he’d set off a trigger. A surge of information, an influx of knowledge, fired into his brain. He squeezed his eyes closed as it took on a more visual feel. Instantly, he understood exactly where he was and what the place they were in was used for.

CHAPTER 38

The Gogoku boy comes of age between his fifteenth and seventeenth year. It is at this time that their people hold an initiation ceremony, usually performed by the village Elder, the one who garners the most respect from his people. Such a group of boys now stand in the center of the village, huddled together and afraid. They know of course that many of them will not return from the ceremony. The village is small, its simple huts constructed of wood and dry grasses, the buildings arranged in a circular formation around the outer perimeter of the clearing in tribute to the god eye Rakh-Mon.

Eto, the village Elder, strides out from his hut. He has been in power for three seasons, and is feared by all. A broad man with powerful arms and legs, he is wearing his full initiation apparel: white paint on his face representing the passing of the dead, a red streak on his forehead drawn in the blood of a chicken. He stands before the five boys, looking at them. He speaks, the dialect of their language short, his teeth deliberately broken and filed into points, terrifying the children as he addresses them.

They, of course, know what is to come. The initiation ceremony takes place twice yearly, and this particular group have watched it take place enough times for their fears to be justified. The rest of the Gogoku come to the center of the village: older men, teens who had already been initiated, women, some with young children who would one day have to endure the same process. They stand and watch, even the mothers of those set to be initiated look on with curiosity more than love, wondering if their child will be strong enough to be deemed worthy of taking their place in the community.

Silence falls on the clearing. The Elder looks at the children, cold eyes on the fearful.

He speaks to them, telling them that not all will survive, and that some had already seen their last sunrise. He leads them away from the village, into the cool shade of the forest. The children follow, trying to hide their nerves as best they can. Eto leads them through the trees, moving silently. They reach the river and he takes them across, wading through the cold waters to the opposite bank. More trees slope up a steady incline, the peak of which is their destination. The children’s fear grows as they see the clearing made by the Gogoku men. Eto leads them into it. There, in the ground, is the hole. The children stand around it in silent awe. The trees around them hiss and groan, leaves shuddering even though there’s no breeze. Eto stares at the boys, eyes burning into each of them. He, of course, has already endured what they are about to. He points to the hole, offering no words, no encouragement. The children obediently descend, lowering themselves down by ropes tied to the surrounding trees. Eto watches as the last of them reaches the floor. He goes to each rope in turn, pulling them back to the surface, removing any means of escape. Elder and children look at each other, and then Eto turns and leaves them to their fate.