Whispering Bones (12 page)

“Can’t say I saw any either, now that you mention it. Although I was working quite a distance from the trees, so I may not have noticed.”

Now that she had begun talking about the island, Anna couldn’t seem to stop. “Do you know,” she said, “I think the old hospital on the island was actually an asylum.”

“Oh? Why do you think so?”

“I happened to go into the small building near the construction trailer. It used to be an office of some kind. The furniture’s still in there and the shelves are lined with books, all of them to do with the treatment of the mentally ill. And I couldn’t help noticing the windows in the main hospital were reinforced with lead.”

“Sounds like you might be right.”

“And the field...” She stopped short of telling him. “I don’t know. It just felt...odd.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. She let him.

“I can see how much all this is bothering you,” he said. “Would you feel better if we stopped in to see Falcone tomorrow morning before setting out again? He purchased the island from the city. If there’s any history associated with the place, he’d know about it.”

“Actually, I was thinking the same thing myself. And I’d be happy if you came along with me.”

“Then we’ll do it.” After a moment, he said, “One thing I did notice about the island is the unique composition of the soil—whitish, looked more like ash than earth. I think I’ll bring my kit tomorrow to take a sample. I didn’t see any soil analysis among the paperwork Falcone provided. One will to have to be done at some point soon, in any case.”

Anna had noticed the peculiar color of the soil as well, when she’d been on the ground in the field, hunting for her camera. “Good idea,” she said.

The waiter arrived, and Alejandro turned to her. “Would you like to take a stroll around the Basilica? We could take our coffee in the square.”

“Yes, that sounds good. And Alejandro?”

He turned back to her after getting the waiter’s attention.

“Thanks for listening.”

He smiled. “Any time.”

* * * *

A few hours later, Anna reluctantly tore herself away from the spectacular Basilica San Marco. She could have spent days admiring the opulent design, domes and spirals of the magnificent example of Byzantine architecture, but around midnight, she and Alejandro left the square.

When they arrived back at her hotel, she said, “Well. Thank you for tonight. I had a wonderful time.”

He made no move to leave and the two of them stood staring at each other for a moment.

He cleared his throat. “I should tell you, Anna, it’s been a long while since I’ve enjoyed a woman’s company this much.”

Anna met his gaze. The chemistry between them was undeniable. Even so, she hesitated in taking her cue. Why did she have to be like this? Here she was in one of the most romantic cities in the world with a man she genuinely liked and to whom she was clearly attracted, and yet... That same old feeling returned to haunt her, the sense that she was not meant to be happy. She wrestled with it for a moment, telling herself she deserved some happiness in her life, and in the end decided not to let those old feelings get in the way.

“I enjoyed your company too...very much. Maybe we could spend time together again tomorrow night. If you’d like to, that is.”

He gave her a smile that promised she wouldn’t be disappointed. Before she realized what he was about to do, he dipped down and brushed his lips lightly against her cheek. She could smell the fresh scent of his skin beneath his aftershave and her heartbeat quickened in response.

He pulled back and brushed away a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll look forward to it, more than you know. In the meantime, I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight tomorrow morning. We can walk over to Falcone’s office together before traveling to the island.”

As she watched him walk away, Anna knew in her heart she had not made a mistake. Alejandro, she felt strongly, was going to be someone special in her life.

Poveglia Island

1576

Isabella stared into the black night, hovering over the mass grave where her mortal remains rested, astounded by the changes death had wrought in her.

Who she had been in life, her physical appearance and her memories, had traveled with her to the other side, but they had thinned to nothing more than a veneer, a covering for the dark entity now residing within her. In death, she felt no pain, no sadness, only an all-encompassing black energy and the intensity of the sinister power she now contained. Only her strength of will remained, and her newly found thirst for vengeance.

On awakening, Isabella discovered she was not the only inhabitant of the island. Many other souls roamed here, hundreds of them, victims of the plague whose mortal remains were buried in the pit, like hers. They were the angry dead, those who had not been able to find or enter the light at their hour of death. Isabella did not fear the tormented and confused souls surrounding her. She quickly understood she was different from them. They had merely been unable to find their way. Isabella, on the other hand, had chosen to remain, and the choosing had imbued her with great power.

She seethed with dark forces she did not fully comprehend, but which she embraced nonetheless. Death had transformed her. Death had changed everything. From a helpless child, a potent force had emerged—a force to be reckoned with.

Isabella reveled in her newfound authority, knowing she had the means and the will to wreak her revenge, to fulfill the curse she had inflicted at the moment of her demise. There were scores to be settled. And there would be blood.

The other spirits crowded around and Isabella sensed they had been waiting for one such as her. They lowered their disfigured faces in supplication, acknowledging her primacy. Or perhaps it was the other residing within her whom they worshiped. It made no difference—she and the dark force inhabiting her were as one now.

Isabella smiled a terrible smile at the grotesque souls. She would help them remember what they wanted, even though they had forgotten. What the dead remembered could never really be put to rest, she knew. She was here now, to remind them, to help them, as they would help her when she required it.

“Speak to me!” she commanded. “Raise your voices. We are the dead. And we
will
be heard.”

The night air filled with the savage screams of the plague-ridden spirits as they found their voices, their energy made concrete in the physical world at Isabella’s command. The sound of their shrieking split the darkness and spilled across the black waters of the lagoon.

Isabella’s rotting lips formed a secret smile as she listened to the howling dead, knowing her reign on the island of death had begun.

* * * *

What had once been Isabella stood hidden in the shadows of the forest on the island, watching men digging a new pit in the field close to the one in which her mortal remains had been buried. The sight of the fresh excavation elicited unfamiliar but pleasurable sensations in her altered state of being. It meant the
pizzicamorti
would soon return, bringing more dead. There was one in particular with whom she had unfinished business.

It had taken some practice, but Isabella soon discovered she had the ability to dematerialize and rematerialize in another location at will. It required her complete concentration but, eventually, she’d learned to teleport herself, albeit only short distances. Twice she had managed to transport herself from the island to seek out her prey, the man named Tomaso, on the mainland. On the second occasion, she had found him and stalked him to where he lived. On neither occasion had she shown herself to him, although she had been sorely tempted to kill him on sight. She had wanted only to see his face, unmasked, to look into the eyes of her executioner. It would be more fitting to watch him die here, in the place where he had ended her life. He was, after all, the first―the first fulfillment of the curse. And the first, she decided, must be special.

She had remained patient. As it turned out, that patience was rewarded. She did not have to wait long. The evil man, Tomaso, appeared on the island the very next day.

* * * *

He wailed as he hung suspended by bound wrists from the limb of a poplar tree in the forest on Poveglia. Tomaso kicked wildly, his feet about a foot off the ground, his body swinging like a pendulum. Warm urine trickled down his leg as he studied the grim, decomposing faces of the corpses surrounding him. When they advanced on rotting legs, forming a tight circle around him, he became insane with terror and screamed loudly again. Tomaso kicked violently in an attempt to keep them away. Suddenly, the dead parted, and—

No. Oh, no... No!

He saw her, and understanding dawned.

No, it cannot be
, his mind screamed at him. The girl could not possibly have survived. And yet... It was her. The same child he had... Fear encased his heart like ice as he studied the dead child standing before him, her eyes as black as damnation.

Tomaso yelled at the top of his voice, screaming for help, even though he knew the others were long gone, having turned tail and run when the island creatures had shown themselves. The cowardly bastards had taken the boat, leaving him here alone with the dead. And with
her
, the girl he had...

“Please,” he whispered to the tiny corpse.

Something in her dead, obsidian eyes flickered for a second.

“Forgive me. Have mercy on me,” he babbled, his fear growing even more enormous.

The dead child covered what was left of her mouth with a decaying hand and tittered, a sound that sent prickly chills racing up his spine. His eyes bulged as he took in the malevolence stamped clearly upon her ruined face. When she spoke, her voice sounded gravelly, as if the dirt with which he’d buried her still filled her throat.

“Mercy.” She mimicked his fearful tone and laughed again, louder this time, a screech that scraped across his soul. Coming close to him, she lowered her raspy voice to a whisper. “Mercy is all I asked of you as well.”

“Please, I—”

“Silence!” Her black orbs blazed with dark fire.

Tomaso trembled uncontrollably when she spoke again in a voice not human. “Prepare to meet your end. And know that your children, and your children’s children, will fare no better than you.”

“No! Wait! I beg—”

With the slightest motion, she signaled the dead forward. They surged, descending on him like wild animals upon crippled prey.

Mind-numbing pain consumed him as the abominations slashed at his flesh, ripping it open with their filthy hands, with their decaying mouths and rotten teeth. But that was not the worst of it. The dark child suddenly flew up at him, landing on his chest like a bat. Her filthy hair, reeking of the grave, brushed against his face. He felt a sharp sting at his neck then blood cascaded from his throat, where she’d ripped it open. The creature latched onto the wound with her rotting lips and began to suckle, making disgusting smacking sounds as she drained him of his blood. Rendered silent by the atrocities being carried out upon him, his body swung back and forth above the ground. The dead ones continued to tear him apart while the demon child drank.

* * * *

When it was over, Isabella regarded the chunks of bone and flesh scattered across the forest floor—all that remained of her nemesis. Blood covered her face and hands, her tattered clothes were soaked with it. She had enjoyed the drinking of the man’s blood more than she had imagined, and she had imagined it many times since awakening. In any case, it had been necessary. Now that she had tasted the blood, she would easily be able to track down his offspring.

She had been pleased to see two children in the evil man’s house when she’d stalked him on the mainland, a girl and a boy. They were still too young, but they would grow, and bear children. When the time was right, she would take them, and their offspring, one by one.

Licking the blood from her fingers, she ruminated on her altered existence. There would be plenty of time to claim her victims—an eternity, in fact. The thought sent a shiver of excitement running through her. Tasting the evil man’s blood had served to sharpen her appetite.

Venice, Italy

1927

Rossi, sitting alone in the study of his home, filled a shot glass with grappa, the strong grape-based liquor he kept on hand for guests. Serafina had retired hours ago after putting the children to bed. His hand trembled as he raised the glass to his lips, enough that some of the clear liquid spilled down his arm. Rossi wasn’t a drinking man—never had been—but he needed a drink tonight. He needed one very badly indeed.

The grappa burned a path down his throat, its warmth spreading through him as soon as it hit his stomach. His shaking hand steadied slightly and he set the empty glass down. After a moment’s consideration, he poured himself another and downed it as well.

He’d seen something today on the island, something defying all explanation. For the past five hours he’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to rationalize his experience, his
encounter
, of that afternoon. Rossi scrubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the memory.

The clock on his office wall, he remembered, had just struck five o’clock. He’d been studying Carbone’s file, reviewing the written accounts of the man’s increasingly violent behavior since the failed leucotomy, when suddenly he’d had the sensation he was being watched. He’d turned to check the door, thinking an employee had entered the office, but no one had come in. Although alone, the feeling persisted. Before returning to his paperwork, he happened to glance out the windows overlooking the field. That was when he saw them—the dead.

The mere thought of those rotting, scarecrow-like creatures gathered in the field beyond his office started him trembling again. They’d just been standing there… Staring at him.

Ah, God, their eyes
... Sightless eyes. And yet, they had seen him. They had marked him. He knew it by the heavy fear that had formed in his stomach, by the angle of their decomposing bodies as they studied him. When he heard them call out, the guttural, rasping sounds had sent him stumbling for the door to escape. Once outside and running for the hospital, he’d turned around, his heart bursting with fear, convinced the terrible creatures were on his heels. But the field, when he looked back, had been deserted. Silent.