Whisper

  “Yes! The authorities. The two of them are close to breaking point. We can’t have them digging…”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Donovan spoke.

  “Don’t worry about the Samsons. I’ll take care of it.”

  The line disconnected before she had a chance to reply, and Mrs. Briggs set the handset back in its cradle. She watched one of the cats, a black-and-white tabby with mismatched eyes, as it tucked into its food from the blue bowl by the fridge. The cat was missing half its tail, a war-wound from a vicious attack by a dog when it had been a stray. Mrs. Briggs had taken it in, nurtured it back to health and had named it Stump.

  “Well Stump,” she said as she took another long drag of the whiskey, “I think the shit has really hit the fan this time, don’t you agree?”

  31. VOYEUR

  DONOVAN SLIPPED THE PHONE into his pocket, put on his black leather driving gloves and turned his attention back to Hope House. He knew that the Samsons were out, as he’d been watching and had seen them go. He peered through the trees, wishing he’d been able to bring the car a little closer to the house, if only to avoid having to walk cross country for the last mile and a half.

  He was dressed in the khaki army fatigues that he’d bought from a charity shop the year before, and had spent the night in the green army tent that he kept especially for occasions like this. Usually, he just liked to watch. He had a stressful job, and whereas some chose to unwind by going drinking or playing sports, he watched people. He liked to imagine being in their lives, living in their homes. It aroused him, and sometimes he couldn’t help but touch himself as he watched them going about their lives with no knowledge of his presence.

  This was different, however, and it was one of those occasions where he would be forced to get a little more ‘hands on’ than normal. Even so, the thought of what he was about to do excited him, and he had to force himself to be patient.

  He didn’t worry about getting caught. He was good, really good. He realised long ago that it was the little things that would throw off any police investigation.

  The little things that the average psychopath might overlook, like the boots. They were regulation army shoes, picked up at a yard sale in Portland some years ago. Donovan only wore a size nine, but deliberately bought his boots in a twelve and padded the toes with rolled-up socks, so that if he were ever questioned, he would have the perfect reason to be eliminated from any enquiry when the footprints didn’t match the size of his feet.

  His night in the tent had been uncomfortable, and the little sleep that he had been able to manage was plagued with dreams of malevolent, shadowy presences telling him to do things that even he would never consider. They were dreams of violence, and murder and rape. Rather than repulse him, as he would have expected, they had instead filled him with a restless sense of expectation that had fuelled the rage in ways that he’d never experienced. He cast his eyes back to the house, and went through the plan in his mind.

  Today would just be a dry run. He of course knew the layout of the property, as he’d seen it prior to the Samsons moving in, but he hadn’t seen it furnished, and later when he went ahead with his plan, he didn’t want something as trivial as tripping on something unseen in the dark to ruin things.

  So he would do as he always did. Go and examine the house, check the layout of the rooms. He had his camera, one of the best money could buy, so that he could photograph the rooms and study them. Forming a mental picture of the place so that later, under cover of darkness, he’d have no trouble getting around unseen and unheard.

  He wished that he’d purchased some night-vision goggles, for they would make his life infinitely easier. One of his favourite movies was Silence Of The Lambs, and he’d often fantasised of stalking around in the dark like Ted Levine’s Jame Gumb in the movie’s finale.

  How sweet it would be to do such a thing for real. He made a promise to himself to make more of an effort to find some just as soon as he could do so anonymously and without tying anything back to him.

  He moved through the trees on the grounds of the property, walking quickly towards the front door. This, he always found, was the most exciting part. The anticipation of doing something forbidden, something that he knew he shouldn’t. He reached the door, checking over his shoulder and listening for any sounds of approaching vehicles, but the only noises were those of nature, so he fished the spare house key out of his pocket and opened the door.

  It was a perk of the job. He found it unusual that people rarely, if ever, changed the locks when they moved into a new property. He had keys for hundreds of homes, and on those occasions when he chose to visit when the occupants were out, he was always amazed at how many hadn’t bothered to upgrade security. He didn’t complain, for it made things go a lot more smoothly. He couldn’t imagine something as crude as breaking the door, although he would do so on his way out when the job was done for real if only to sell the illusion of a home invasion.

  After all, he’d learned from experience that in order to get away with murder, one must know how the police think and be one step ahead at all times.

  Safely inside, he closed the door and held his breath, basking in the silence of the house. There was a faint smell of old wood and lemon polish; he looked around the room, taking it all in, and then took out his camera and began to take pictures. It never got old, which was the beauty of it. No matter how many times he did this, it was always fresh and exciting.

  He walked through to the kitchen, snapping pictures and looking at the possessions the Samsons had collected. He wasn’t impressed. Assorted crap, creature comforts which brought nothing but hollow joy. It was as pointless and unfulfilling as he suspected most people’s lives were.

  But not him.

  Even when he was a boy, he’d known he was different. However, that was a different lifetime. That was when he’d still been known as Freddy Briggs, before his mother had sent him to that place. She’d promised that they just wanted to check his brain, to make sure it was working fine, and that he would come right home after. But his mother had lied.

  Apparently, the quacks were concerned at little Freddy’s penchant for torturing and killing the local wildlife. He didn’t see the big deal. As if the world was going to miss the odd fox or rabbit or cat or dog. They had it in their heads that he might decide to do the same to humans. And even though he cried and screamed and begged to go home, his mother let them keep him at the hospital, and for months that was all he knew. They’d given him pills, and asked their questions, and when he had no more answers to give, they would ask again anyway.

  Donovan was upstairs now, and took a quick snapshot of the bathroom, paying attention to where things such as the light switches were. It would pay him to know the little details for when he cut the power, as he knew it was in human nature to make for the nearest switch and try it anyway. It would help him to know where to hide. He crossed the hall to the bedroom, and saw what he presumed to be the real Steve and Melody Samson.

  Here, there was no evidence of the pristine showroom style of the house on display downstairs. It was more… lived in. Clothes were strewn on the bed and on the floor, and the covers were turned back and the bed unmade. Donovan lay down on it, inhaling the sweet smell of Melody’s perfume. He picked up one of her screwed-up vests from the floor beside him, and inhaled deeply, revelling in her scent as he cast his mind back to those early years in the hospital.

  For what seemed like a never-ending cycle, they’d questioned him, made him take their stupid pills, and mingle with the crazy people. What kind of ten-year-old could cope with such an ordeal and worse, deal with it alone? Because his mother, the woman who claimed to love him, who, on those occasions where he screamed and pleaded to come home, told him she was only doing what was best and that he had to stay. Eventually, she stopped coming to visit him altogether. So he went through it alone. He’d started to wet the bed and, even now on occasion, he would wake from nightmares of that frightening place only
to find his bladder had let go. It appeared he would never be free, so was prepared for life as a permanent resident of Creasefield Institution when he happened to speak to Joey.

  Joey was older by three years, and had spent his life in and out of institutions. He had multiple personalities and Tourette’s to boot, but as a boy Donovan didn’t know that. He just thought that Joey was incredibly cool. He remembered his words well, even after all these years:

  “If you wanna get out of here, you have to start playing their game. Don’t tell them what you actually feel: these fuckers will never let you out. Start telling them what they want to hear. You’ll be out in no time.”

  As a lonely direction-less child looking for someone to look up to, he’d done as Joey had said.

  Yes, I feel fine.

  No, I don’t like hurting things.

  Yes. I feel bad for what I did.

  No, I won’t do it again. Even thinking about it makes me feel sick.

  Days became weeks, weeks became months. And all the time he waited. Waited and lived with his lies. He smiled when they spoke, even though he wanted only to tear out their tongues, and he thanked them for the medication, when inside he saw them lying in steaming pools of their own innards, their dead eyes glassy and staring.

  Eventually, they told him he was ready to go back into the world and live his life, and he smiled and thanked them. But his smile was not one of gratitude for being allowed to go home: it was a smile because he’d fooled them. Because despite their best efforts, he felt no different inside after their ‘treatment’ to how he had felt before.

  He got off the bed, and tossed Melody’s vest back where he’d got it from, crossed the room, and looked out the window. He could see the spot from where he’d been watching the house, and smiled. Everyone always underestimated him. They saw only what he chose to show them, which was just the way he liked it. He preferred to be the anonymous face in the crowd, the nice guy nobody paid much attention to.

  He absently opened the dresser drawer, and pulled out a skimpy pair of Melody’s pink underwear. He rubbed it against his cheek and his bruised eyes, to his mouth and nose. He inhaled deeply, hoping for a secret sniff of her womanhood, but instead got only the fresh smell of washed clothes. Even though he was disappointed, he stuffed the lacy underwear into his pocket as he walked out of the bedroom and into the large, circular room on the opposite side of the hall.

  It seemed that they had not allocated a purpose for this space yet. It was filled with boxes and other miscellaneous crap that they either hadn’t had a chance, or hadn’t bothered, to unpack. A smile found its way to his lips, and he knew that this was the room. This was the room where he would hide and wait until the time to strike was right.

  But! Not now.

  Now was all about the planning. Preparation was the key, preparation and planning. Donovan took out his camera again to snap pictures, making sure to get every conceivable angle. As he took them, his thoughts went back to the resurfaced memories of his childhood .

  He had gone into hospital as a slightly disturbed child, and had come out a confused and bitter fourteen-year-old knowing nothing of love, or remorse or compassion. His mother had met him at the gates, and he was shocked at how much she’d let herself go. She’d gained weight and, although he didn’t know it at the time, was already a hopeless slave to the alcohol she poured into her system just to get through the day.

  He had fully expected to go home, to return to his normal life (whatever the hell that was) but was met with news, which only served to deepen his isolation.

  “You can’t come home with me Freddy,” his mother had said as she’d wrung her hands nervously by the waiting car.

  “I have a reputation… the family name would suffer too much, and I don’t think I can cope with you.”

  He nodded, wondering if feeling nothing whatsoever was a normal reaction.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve arranged for you to go and live with your Uncle Donovan in Baskerville. It’s for the best.”

  He had simply looked at her, and couldn’t help but think she would look a whole lot better if her insides were on the outside.

  “I’m sorry okay? It’s just… it’s best this way. They’ll look after you.”

  And that was the end of the conversation. He went from one place where he felt isolated and alone to another.

  He had moved in with his Uncle and Aunt Donovan, but they were far from nice people. Uncle Donovan was a lazy drunk, and his wife was so out of it on drugs that she appeared to drift through the days with a goofy, half-asleep expression planted on her ugly face.

  He became a live-in slave. He would cook, and he would clean. And sometimes when Uncle D was really, really shitfaced he would be unlucky enough to find himself touched up. He would lie impassively in his bed whilst his red-faced, booze-smelling uncle tried in vain to get him hard: even though his uncle’s own excitement was obvious, Donovan never responded in the same way and the abuse stopped almost as soon as it began.

  He coped during this time by reverting to his secret hobby. He killed things, mostly rats, or if he was patient, he might snag a large bullfrog down by the pond, but sometimes he’d get lucky.

  He found a badger once, and although it had put up a pretty good fight, he’d won. And when it was subdued, he’d made it suffer. He made it suffer like no living creature ever had deserved, because although he felt barren and empty inside, there was always the hate. And the hate brought anger, and the anger fed the rage. They went together like ham and eggs, salt and pepper, sea and sand. And, because it was all he had, he embraced it.

  So his seventeenth birthday came, and his Uncle Donovan had decided that perhaps with age, he would have developed a liking for his own brand of sweaty palmed ‘affection’ and had tried his usual trick. But this time Donovan didn’t just lie there. He waited, waited until his uncle’s hand was just about to slip under the waistband of his shorts, and then he struck. The frustration poured out of him, and with the rage flowing through him, he quickly overpowered the old man. As he sat astride his terrified abuser, he took great pleasure in slowly, deliberately snapping every single finger on his disgusting, fondling hand. Every delicious snap, every whimper for mercy made him feel complete, made him feel powerful. It made him into something other than the anonymous boy who had been kicked and beaten by the world.

  He left the house that night, taking only the name, by which he would be known from then on with him.

  Donovan.

  He moved back to Oakville, and although his mother kicked and screamed and complained, they had agreed to live with no acknowledgement of each other. As far as the town knew, Mrs. Briggs’s son, Freddy, was dead. And in a sense he was, because the creature than was now known only as Donovan was a different breed.

  Over time, the lie had grown easier to live with. They moved in the same circles, after all in such a small community it was almost impossible not to. And yet in any capacity other than privately they didn’t acknowledge each other’s existence.

  Donovan often wondered if she knew of his secret activities. He suspected that she did, however, with secrets of her own to keep; she either turned a blind eye or was too afraid of exactly which skeletons would crawl out of the closet if she made her suspicions public. At the very least, he thought she suspected what had happened to the drifter who used to work with him. She’d never mentioned it, which in itself was as good as admitting her suspicion. After all, wouldn’t a normal reaction be to ask where the flirtatious slut who used to lead him on was these days? It would certainly have been a more natural reaction that the cold, icy stare that she’d give him. He hated that stare. Every time she flashed it at him, he wanted to pluck out her eyeballs and crush them in his fist.

  He snapped more photos, making sure to get every angle that he could. It was perfect, it…

  Someone walked past the door.

  He was certain of it. He’d only noticed it with his peripheral vision, but he had definitely seen it. Cou
ld they possibly have come back, and he had been so distracted with reminiscing about his history that he just hadn’t noticed?

  It was possible, but unlikely. He remembered that shit-box car of theirs and the tired spluttering sound of its pained engine.

  No, he would certainly have heard them. However, at the same time, he knew that he had seen somebody walk across the hall outside the door. The entire terrible history of the house tried to infiltrate his mind, and it took some effort to push it away. He was suddenly very aware of the absolute silence of the house.

  He walked to the edge of the door, and looked out. Steve & Melody’s bedroom was directly opposite, and he could see that it was exactly as he’d left it. To his left was a short length of hallway, leading to the staircase. To the right, the corridor ran all the way to the bathroom door, which was closed. There was no sign of anybody, although he could feel something.

  Maybe it was no more than a subtle shift in the atmosphere, but it was noticeable nonetheless. Whatever he saw had walked towards the bathroom. Part of him wanted to run, but he feared that if he was driven out of the house by something as simple as a trick of the light, then he might not be able to find the courage to come back later and do what needed to be done.

  He walked down the hall, trying to ignore the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, and the over-speeding rhythm of his heart as it drummed against his ribcage.

  Do I even believe in ghosts?

  He wasn’t sure. He supposed he’d learned that anything was possible. But he’d also had the privilege of seeing death first-hand and up close. He’d watched the life leave the body, and was pretty convinced there was no soul, no lingering life-force that went to whatever the individual perceived as heaven. However, he was always prepared to believe that there could be a first time.

  He reached the bathroom door, and was surprised to find that it took a supreme effort of will to force himself to reach out and grab the handle.