Whisper

  Silence.

  Utter and complete silence apart from the sound of her own exertion. The atmosphere in the circle seemed somehow wrong. The air tasted sharp, and the sick-looking yellowed grass swayed soundlessly and clung to her wet jeans legs. Even the wind had died off completely. Donovan’s eyes showed too much white as he glared at her, and yet he made no attempt to come into the circle. Instead, he stood and panted, his skin covered in a light film of sweat.

  She couldn’t fathom what reason Donovan could have for not following her, but whatever it was she was grateful, because she knew her energy was spent, plus now that she was standing still and, having time to acknowledge her surroundings, she was aware of the cold air on her skin.

  She looked carefully around her, all the time keeping a cautious eye on Donovan. The circle was as unremarkable as ever, and yet for its apparent blandness, she imagined that she could sense something in the atmosphere, a depth or…

  It feels dead.

  The thought frightened her, but was accurate in its starkness. Dead was a good term. The grass at her feet was pale and lifeless. She looked at the trees circling her, and noticed that even their limbs didn’t encroach into the perfect circle of grass. Their roots turned away at its edge and grew back on themselves in a way that was as disturbing as it was unnatural.

  She noted that like the last time she’d come, the usual ceaseless forest chorus of birdsong was strangely absent here, as if, like her, they too could sense the change in atmosphere.

  She shivered, and cast her eyes back to Donovan. He hadn’t moved, still rooted to the spot on the very edge of the circle, no more than a single stride away from joining her in its sun-bathed emptiness. He licked his lips, and slicked his blonde side parting back into place.

  “Fighting only makes it worse. Give them what they want.”

  He’d said it in a whisper, and yet she’d heard it, his words echoing around her as if coming from every direction at once. She realised instantly that all the fight had gone out of her. She was both physically and mentally exhausted, unsure of how much more energy she’d have if she needed to run again. There was an overwhelming urge to just sit down and rest, regardless of what would happen to her.

  But it’s not just you is it? she heard herself ask in her head. There’s another one to consider, remember?

  Of course there was. There was the baby. As yet, it was nothing more than a tiny cluster of cells, but before too much more time passed it would be another living, breathing human being. One that in spite of the horror of the situation and her own fragile state, she was prepared to do anything to protect. Defiance replaced fear, and she glared at Donovan. “What are you waiting for?” she screamed, her words seeming to fall flat in the heavy atmosphere of the circle.

  “Are you just going to stand there or come and finish what you started?”

  Her temples throbbed with rage, and even though she didn’t know what she would do if she did manage to goad Donovan into the circle, part of her—a rarely seen darkness that lived deep within—wanted him to do it. She saw herself tearing out his eyes, or straddling his cowering body, rock in hand and shattering his fragile skull as she rained down blow after blow.

  But Donovan didn’t enter the circle. Like a caged animal, he paced back and forth at its edge as if there were some kind of physical barrier keeping him from doing so. His grin was now replaced with a scowling mask of frustration and indignation.

  “Come on you prick. Come on in here and see what happens, I’m not running anymore.”

  She waited, praying for him to respond and at the same time clueless as to what she would actually do if he did. Donovan for his part looked as if he wanted to, but was still physically unable to transgress into the circle.

  This is what they call a Mexican stand-off, Melody thought distantly, more aware than ever that nobody was likely to come to her aid. Her options were limited, and she had just about managed to convince herself to head back into the woods in the hope that she could evade Donovan for long enough to get help, when he spoke to her.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you will keep this to yourself.”

  He was slick with sweat and, combined with his wide-mouthed grin, it gave him the look of a tall, venomous ventriloquist’s dummy. He gave a last glaring look at Melody and then turned smartly on his heels and walked away into the trees.

  Somehow, being alone felt worse. She waited, holding her breath and peering into the trees. The rational side of her was certain he’d gone, having slunk away to whichever rock he lived under, but the frightened, overstretched side of her said it was a trick, and that he would either be lying in wait, hiding in the trees for her to leave or, worse still, the idea that Donovan couldn’t enter the circle was a ploy and he would come bursting out of the woods from behind her, grimacing and leering as he closed the distance between them and….

  She pushed the thought aside, trying her best to be rational, to think like the Melody of even a few days ago—before the world which she thought she knew and understood had shown her a darkness which she was struggling to comprehend.

  She looked around the circle, trying to get her bearings and perhaps figure out what to do. It felt as if a lifetime had passed since Donovan had called unannounced to the house, but she was shocked when she checked her wristwatch to see that it had only been twenty minutes. Either way, she knew that she would have to make her move soon. She could just about make out the path that she and Steve had followed when they first stumbled across the bizarre and out of place circle of dead grass in the middle of the otherwise thriving woodland.

  She walked towards it, slowly and controlled at first, but soon the oppressive silence and the thought of Donovan lurking out there in the trees forced her to speed up and then break into a run. The second she left the sanctuary of the circle, the woodland exploded to life around her. Birds chattered, animals trampled through the undergrowth, and the wind tugged at her and pushed her, its whistling voice laughing at and mocking her feeble efforts.

  She broke into a sprint, ignoring the painful slap of branches and leaves on her face or the sharp jolt when her ankles twisted or snagged the uneven ground. She realised as she ran that it wasn’t even Donovan that she feared anymore, but the woods themselves. She felt cold eyes watching her from the deep, shadowed places buried under the greens and browns of the foliage. And she feared the wind, whistling and gusting, shaking the trees into an almighty rumbling din, which seemed to push against her, slowing her progress as she stumbled on.

  Time seemed to lose all sense of meaning and she wasn’t even sure if she was even heading in the right direction. Her luck didn’t last however, and her foot twisted painfully under her, making her stumble. She almost regained her balance and grabbed wildly at a wispy cluster of branches, but they were old and rotten and pulled free, and she fell heavily to the ground, hitting her head hard. She felt darkness envelop her, and as her consciousness faded, she imagined for a moment that she was by the ocean, hearing the ebb and flow of the tide. She realised as she lost rational thought that it wasn’t the ocean, but the trees, swaying and hissing their silent conversations.

  She was certain that they were laughing at her.

  23. CONFESSIONS

  Cold.

  IT WAS MELODY’S FIRST thought as she began to regain consciousness. She lifted her head slowly, great waves of nausea washing over her. Gingerly, she pushed herself up to her knees and looked around. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how long she’d been unconscious. It felt like only seconds, but she saw that the shadows had elongated and deepened, telling her that she had been there for some time.

  She was shivering, and looked at her grazed palms and filthy clothes. She got painfully to her feet and began to trudge down the snaking, tree-lined path leading back to the house.

  Her head throbbed with the intensity of a rotten tooth in need of removal, and it occurred to her that she may well have suffered a concussion. She was on familiar territory now,
hearing the steady gurgle of the stream as it made its endless journey past the bottom of her garden. Clenching her jaw to try to stop her teeth from chattering, she carefully picked her way through the undergrowth, taking her time and favouring her twisted ankle, which seemed to be throbbing in sympathy with her head.

  Golden sunlight enveloped her as she exited the woods and, exhausted and cold, she crossed the water as quickly as she could and hauled herself onto the opposite bank. It seemed whatever spell had overcome her was broken now that she was out of the trees, and it was then that the true horror of Donovan’s attempted rape hit home.

  She wanted to change and take a bath that she knew would be far too hot, but necessary if she were to try to wash the oily feel of his hands from her body. She supposed that the next course of action would be to call the police and tell them what happened. She could see it now. Donovan flashing that grin, the one that said

  ‘Trust me, I’m really a nice guy, and this is all a big misunderstanding.’

  And when she would protest and scream rape at him, she knew what would happen. He would flash that confident, smug grin at the police officer who was questioning him and say ‘Rape? Oh no, not at all. Mrs. Samson actually tried to instigate things. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so vile.’

  And when she told them about him chasing her through the woods, shedding his clothes as he went, that manic, sadistic grin still plastered to his face, she knew how it would play out. He would roll his eyes at the police officer, perhaps a second or third generation who had lived in Oakwell all his life, and then shake his head slowly and say ‘Oh no, that’s not how it was. I was just trying to explain that I wasn’t interested when she ran. I was concerned for her safety. If you ask me, it’s her fault. City folk coming here and mistaking our friendly nature for something it isn’t. They seemed like such nice people.’

  And then their lives would be ruined. They would be shunned, branded as liars and troublemakers.

  No!

  She wouldn’t do that to Steve. Not after everything that he’d sacrificed to make the move. She would keep it from him, because she knew that if he found out, it would change things forever between them. Either way there was a lot for her to think about, but sitting cold and wet on the grass wasn’t going to help anything. She would think about it later, after she had bathed and changed. Melody got to her feet, brushed the grass off her knees, and walked towards the house.

  The kitchen door was open.

  Donovan.

  She felt her stomach lurch violently, and knew beyond doubt that he was in there watching from the shadows, waiting for her to go inside and lock the doors so that he could finish what he’d started. She looked at the windows, hoping to see a flash of movement, a flicker of a clue that might alert her as to where he might be hiding, but the building betrayed nothing. It stood there, a huge, aged and brooding slab of white against a backdrop of browns and greens, its windows like black sightless eyes, the open kitchen door a mouth frozen in a never ending wail of terror.

  Maybe you just left the door open?

  She paused to consider it and, even though she had received a pretty nasty bump on the head and was still groggy, she was almost certain that she hadn’t. She distinctly remembered leaving via the front door, and hearing it bounce against its frame as Donovan followed her. The back door had been closed.

  Just run.

  The idea seemed sound enough, but at the same time redundant. Where would she go? They’d deliberately bought the house in such an isolated area so they wouldn’t be disturbed. But now, she would give just about anything for a neighbour to call on, someone whose door she could pound on and beg to be let in, so that at least she could feel safe. But the reality was that the only sanctuary was the house, and she would have to go back inside if she intended to call for help.

  She’d always looked upon Hope House as a beautiful period property, a rare glimpse into an age of gorgeous architecture and a refreshing change from the concrete jungle she’d become accustomed to. However she now saw it in a different light. It was a hulking sentinel, a sinister thing harbouring whatever had let itself in through the back door. She thought of all the dark places where somebody might hide, all the places where—if a person were so inclined—could wait and then cut her off with no means of escape.

  The urge to run was strong, but she was drawn to the house by an invisible bond that pulled her forward. She was now standing in it’s shadow, and found that her feet were refusing to carry her any further.

  She peered through the open kitchen door, but everything inside looked normal. She could see the counter-tops, the walk-in pantry and the edge of the dining table but still couldn’t move. Her self-preservation instincts had kicked in, stopping her going any closer.

  Well, you can’t just stand out here all day.

  Her mind agreed in principle, but her body remained rooted to the spot. She might well have stayed there forever, if she hadn’t spotted the knife block on the kitchen counter. Thoughts of running metamorphosed into thoughts of revenge, and before she’d realised she’d done it, she’d already stridden across the threshold, and grabbed the huge stainless steel carving knife.

  It was quite amazing, the way that just having an equalizer made her feel confident, and although she wasn’t about to go running around the house like some stupid bitch in a B-movie horror flick, she felt better.

  The plan was simple. She was going to walk quietly upstairs, grab her phone (replaced after telling Steve her original one was lost), come back down for her car keys and then get the hell out of there.

  Forget the phone! Just get the keys and get the fuck out of here!

  Now that it had found its voice, her inner monologue was desperate to make itself heard, and in this instance, she decided it was right. Forget the needless risk of a diversion upstairs, she would drive to the village and call for help from there. It was stupid to be in the house any longer than she had to be. She…

  She heard a stealthy thud.

  Her brain told her it could be any number of things. The house settling, perhaps an unbalanced book falling over or a million other perfectly normal things. However, that had been before Donovan had tried to rape her.

  She thought the sound had come from upstairs, but she couldn’t be certain. All she knew was that she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t sure how she knew—she just did. Maybe it was some kind of untapped sixth sense, or possibly those self-preservation skills making themselves useful. Whatever it was, she knew that she would be a fool to ignore it. That was how people got themselves killed.

  She inched forwards, eyes focused on the sitting room at the end of the hall. She could just see the edge of the small table by the front door where her car keys were kept, but to get there meant possibly revealing herself to anybody lying in wait.

  She heard it again, an almost inaudible noise. A subtle, dragging thump, which could have been anything or nothing. Tightening her grip on the knife, she walked quickly, keeping her eyes focused on the front door.

  She saw a figure out of the corner of her eye as she passed the staircase. It was on its way down, and almost clattered into her as she passed. She screamed and lunged out with the knife, registering that she had made contact even as she made to run.

  She stumbled, banging her shoulder painfully on the door jamb and by chance finding herself in the same position as she’d been during Donovan’s first attack. She would have screamed, but there was nobody around to hear her. Instead, she closed her eyes where she cowered and waited for the attack to come.

  “Melody?”

  The voice, however shocked, was familiar. She looked up, and her relief was immediate.

  “Steve!” she blurted, launching to her feet and hugging him tight.

  “What the hell’s going on here? I…”

  He held her at arm’s length, seeing immediately that something was wrong. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how she must look. If it was even half as bad as she felt, then she knew it
must be pretty awful.

  “What happened? Who did this to you?”

  She didn’t answer, and could only sob as he held her awkwardly by one arm, his other one cut across the palm where she’d lashed out with the knife.

  “Melody, talk to me. What’s going on?”

  Although she’d already decided not to tell him what had happened, the words were out before she could stop them.

  “I thought you were him, I …he. He tried to rape me!”

  He cupped her swelling face gently in his one good hand, and looked her in the eye.

  “Who did this?”

  “Donovan,” she said softly, and buried her head in his chest. He stroked her hair gently.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then I want to know everything.”

  It wasn’t a request, but a demand. She could tell that although he was trying as best he could to keep calm, the fury was burning and simmering just below the surface. She knew then that she had to tell him what had happened, tell him everything.

  Even about the baby?

  Maybe not everything. She decided that her pregnancy was one little nugget best left for a different conversation. For now, there was plenty for them to contend with.

  24. OUIJA

  ALTHOUGH SHE’D SHOWERED twice and scrubbed her body so hard it was pink and stung to touch it, she still felt dirty. She had expected to be the owner of a couple of black eyes from the force of Donovan’s blows, but it seemed that in that respect at least she had been lucky and, apart from a small swelling on her right cheek and a nasty bruise on her head where she’d hit it when she’d fallen in the forest, she was okay. Under the circumstances, she reckoned she’d got off lightly.