Кей Хупер: Whisper of Evil

This one is for Mama

MAY…12 YEARS AGO

She didn't know which was worse, the nausea or the terror. One threatened to choke her, while the other was a cold ache deeper than her bones.

There was so much blood.

How could one body hold so much blood?

She looked down and saw a ribbon of scarlet reaching slowly across the wooden floor for the toe of her pretty shoe. The floor was old and out of level, just enough. Just enough. That was the logical reason, of course, the mind's understanding that the blood wasn't actually reaching out for her, it was just flowing along the line of least resistance, downhill, and she happened to be in the path.

Her mind knew that.

But terror pushed aside logic and all understanding. The blood was a crimson finger curling toward her, searching for her, slow, accusing. It wanted to touch her, wanted to… mark her.

I did it. I did this.

The words echoed in her head as she stared at the accusing finger of blood. It was almost hypnotic, watching the blood inch toward her, waiting for it to touch her. It was almost preferable to looking at what else was in the room.

She moved before the blood reached her, stepping to one side in a slow, jerky motion. Escaping. And made herself look up, look at the room. Look at it.

The room itself was a shambles. Overturned furniture with ripped fabric and scattered cushions, ancient newspapers and musty-smelling magazines tossed about, the few rag rugs on the floor bunched up or draped absurdly across an upended table. And everywhere, crimson smears darkening and turning rusty as they dried.

There was a red, desperate handprint on the wall near where the phone was supposed to be, though that instrument had been ripped from the wall and now lay in an impotent tangle near the fireplace. The pale curtains on the front window also bore a bloody handprint, and the rod had been pulled loose at one side, obviously from the futile attempt to signal for help or even to escape.

There had been no help, no escape.

No escape.

Death hadn't come quickly. There were so many stab wounds, most of them shallow. Painful, but not fatal — at least not immediately. The once-white shirt was almost completely red, glistening here and there where the blood was still wet, darkened to a rusty crimson where it had begun to dry. And the garment was ripped and torn, like the pants, both riddled with those knife slashes of fury.

Rage. So much rage.

She heard a whimpering sound, and for an instant the hairs on the back of her neck rose in the terrifying idea that the dead could make pitiful noises like that. But then she realized the sound came from her own throat, from deep inside where there was no language, only primitive horror.

My fault. My fault. I did it.

That's what her mind kept saying, over and over, dully, like a litany, while from the depths of her soul that wordless whimper quavered like some creature lost and in pain.

She looked around almost blindly, trying not to see the blood, the rage, and the hate, and a glint of something metallic abruptly caught her eye. She focused on that. Silver. A silver chain with a heart-shaped locket lying near the body, just inches from bloodstained fingers.

It took her several long seconds to recognize and understand what she was seeing. Silver chain. Locket.

Silver chain.

Locket.

"No," she whispered.

Numbly, she looked down again and saw the finger of blood turn suddenly, curl toward her with determination, and before she could move, it touched the pale toe of her party shoe. The thin material soaked up the blood quickly, the scarlet stain spreading, wrapping her shrinking flesh.

My fault. My fault.

I did it.

She moaned and lifted shaking hands to cover her face, unable to watch an instant longer. Waiting for the blood to cover her foot and then begin to inch up her bare leg, defying gravity in its determination to swallow her.

She waited for that cold, wet sensation. But it never came. The silence closed over her, thick and curiously muffled, the way a snowy morning sounded when the earth was insulated by inches of the white stuff. She realized she was listening intently, waiting for… something.

It was worse, not seeing. Her imagination saw more than the blood reaching out for her, saw a bloody hand, an accusing face streaked with scarlet lifting toward her, suffering eyes filled with condemnation —

She gasped and jerked her hands away from her face.

There was no body.

No blood.

No violently disturbed room.

She stared around at a room that looked as it always did: spare and a little shabby, the floral fabrics on the couch and at the windows faded by time and the sun, the rag rugs a cheerful attempt to bring in color and hide the bad places on the old wooden floor.

She looked down to find her party shoe pristine, not marked by blood or even dirt, because shed been so careful, so determined to look her best tonight. To be perfect.

Very slowly, she backed out of the house. She gave the undisturbed room another long look, then pulled the door closed with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking. She stood on the porch, staring at the door, and slowly the whimper deep in her throat bubbled into a laugh.

Once it started, she couldn't stop it. Like something with a life of its own, it flowed out of her, the sound of it high, so high she was sure it would fall to the hard wooden porch and break into a million pieces any second. She clapped her hand over her mouth and still the laughter bubbled out, until her throat hurt, until the sound of it frightened her almost more than the inexplicable scene she had witnessed.

Until, finally, it died away.

Her hand fell limply to her side, and she heard herself murmur hoarsely, "God help me."

MARCH…PRESENT DAY

It was late when George Caldwell got to bed, mostly because he'd been surfing the Internet looking for the best travel deals. He was planning a trip to Hawaii.

He was always planning something. He loved lists, loved managing details, loved making plans. Sometimes the event itself was less fun than planning it. Well, most of the time, if he was honest about it. But not this time. This was going to be the trip of a lifetime, that was the plan.

When the phone rang, he answered it from the depths of what had been a pleasant dream. "Yeah, what?"

"You'll pay."

Caldwell fumbled for the lamp on his nightstand and blinked when the light came on and nearly blinded him. It was a moment before he could focus on the clock well enough to see that it was two o'clock. In the morning.

He pushed the covers aside and sat up. "Who is this?" he demanded indignantly.

"You'll pay."

It was a low voice, a whisper really, without identifying characteristics; he couldn't even tell if he was speaking to a man or a woman.

"What are you talking about? Pay for what? Who the hell is this?"

"You'll pay," the caller breathed a final time, then hung up softly.

Caldwell held the receiver away from his ear and stared at it for a moment, then slowly hung up the phone.

Pay? Pay for what, for Christ's sake?

He wanted to laugh. Tried to. Just some stupid kid, probably, or a crank caller old enough to know better. Instead of asking if his refrigerator was running, it was just a different idiotic question, that was all it was.

That was all.

Still, Caldwell wasted a minute wondering who he'd pissed off lately. Nobody sprang immediately to mind, and he shrugged as he got back into bed and turned off the lamp.

Just some stupid kid, that's all.

That's all it was.

He put it out of his mind and eventually went back to sleep, dreaming once again about Hawaii, about tropical beaches and white sands and clear blue water.