Whispers - Volume 3: A Third Collection, page 14
This better work.
Without a second thought, he ambled to his bedroom and kicked the door open. He flicked the light on and stared at his built-in wardrobe. Three doors long, one normal on hinges, the other two sliding doors – from where he emerged earlier – all white, non-gloss shutter board. He slid the doors aside and stared at the crushed bags of clothes and the discarded silk shirts. Nudging around, he looked at the golf bag and his emergency suitcase, neatly placed in the corner, out of sight and out of reach.
In the corner, where the walls joined at the seam, he noticed a slight indentation. To the naked eye, it looked like this part of the wall was a different style, not smooth but mottled, patterned, not plain, like one patch of wallpaper was different to every other. He squinted and realised that it was moving, no, distorting, swirling slowly.
Connor smiled.
"Got you now, you fucker."
He grabbed his golf bag and threw it onto the bed, not caring that it bounced and clattered to the floor on the other side. He tossed the suitcase into the wall too, angry now, frustrated at being a prisoner in his own home. He gripped the edge of the door and tore it from the hinges, resting it against the wall, exposing the back of the wardrobe. He stepped where the door sat mere seconds before and stood directly opposite the … whatever is was.
It was too small to pass through.
Well, it can't be, you came through it before.
Don’t fucking pussy out now.
Connor stepped closer and raised his left hand. He watched the abnormality in confusion and awe, watched it swirl like a freshly stirred coffee in the morning.
He stepped closer, now standing next to it. It didn’t make a sound.
He raised his hand and moved it towards the mysterious vortex.
Here goes nothing.
He adopted a sideways V sign and slid the fingertips into the vortex. They vanished, swallowed by the white mist. His fingers prickled at the cold sensation, as if he'd stuck his fingers into an open icebox. He froze, unsure of how to proceed. He breathed in.
That's when the vortex cleared, the mist vanishing as if blown away by an unseen wind.
He could see his fingertips coated in a transparent sheen up to the third knuckle, as if viewing them through a slimy window. His eyes widened and he froze in fear, the scream stuck in his throat. The hairs on his neck stiffened as he shook his head instinctively.
His fingers sliced apart finely, five times in a straight line, as if razor sharp wire had slid down and through the bone and muscle. The thin slivers of flesh wobbled and waved in the air, no blood leaked from them, but Connor could see the muscle and slick bone within, ten thin slivers of finger, five per, standing next to one another.
It reminded him of thinly sliced sausages, cut lengthways.
Connor gagged, the sight of his mutilated fingers inviting his stomach to empty its contents.
Then, the pain hit.
He withdrew his hand and yelled in agony, a white-hot pain shooting up his arm and shocking his brain. Connor watched in horror, as his fingers realigned and closed slowly, as if he was watching the slicing in reverse. He could feel the flesh healing, reforming, reattaching, the soggy slap of muscle and flesh made him shiver.
He stared at the vortex, which was misty once again.
He thanked the heavens he didn’t go face first.
He walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, snapped the light on and washed his hand in the sink. He stared at the bloody towel and watched the water gush over it, flattening the material immediately. No blood came from his fingers. Connor checked them in the light. He saw no marks, no indentations or lines, no scars.
He felt the rage build, boil over and he lost control within seconds.
He gripped the sides of the sink with both hands and yelled, screamed and howled, frustration getting the better of him. He kicked the wall furiously; anger wracked his body and made him buckle and thrash, the sink wobbling indeterminably between his rage-fueled, vice-like fingers as he tried to root it from its fixings. "Muthafucker, fucking cunting muthafucking cuntttt!"
Connor relaxed, his arms loosening and he started breathing heavily. He felt the fire of adrenalin scorch his muscles. Sweat dripped from every pore and he could feel it stinging his nose, trickling down his back, soaking his shirt. Tears of frustration formed in his eyes. He quickly wiped them away.
Right…
He ambled back into the bedroom and grabbed three iron clubs from the discarded golf bag. Placing two clubs on the bed, he swung the nine iron once, twice in the spacious bedroom, smiled, collected them again and exited. He strode to the front door full of purpose, his anger controlled now, his frustration fueling him to face whatever it was that was torturing him.
He stopped by the door and poised himself. The doorway was still dark, but he knew motion sensors controlled the lights. He tossed the first golf club out and heard it land amongst the shattered glass on the tiled floor. The lights flickered on and restored sight.
Good, he thought.
He took the second club and turned it around. The handle was made of rubber. He patted it against his palm and smiled. Aiming carefully, he tossed it hard through the doorway. The club bounced off the backboard of the mirror and landed on the tiles, skittering back into the apartment.
Carefully, Connor collected the club and ran his hand along the shaft, rubbing it, feeling it. The club was normal – nothing had changed. Connor turned his back to the doorway and grinned.
Gotcha.
He picked up the nine iron and swung it a few times in the air nonchalantly. After the third swing, he held it in both hands, turned, and sprinted through the doorway.
His shin shattered on impact with the metal rim of the coffee table. Connor stumbled forward, his face and hands smashing through the glass of the coffee table, his body collapsing to the laminate floor. Sliding along for a second, glass rained down around him, pricking at his skin.
Connor tried to scream, but his body wouldn’t allow it, the pressure in his lungs almost made him faint, the burning in his leg making him shake.
The white-hot pain made Connor shudder and flip onto his back. He felt the glass pushing through his shirt, cutting the skin, drawing blood. His eyes, luckily intact, roamed down to his left shin. The broken pink bone, hooked with shredded flesh and torn trouser leg, was pointing to the ceiling, aimed straight up. His foot splayed off to the left at a sickening angle. Seconds later, blood trickled into his eyes. Connor wiped his face with his forearm, smearing blood all over his shirtsleeve. He felt his skin ignite in small pockets of fire as the glass embedded in his arm tore at his face.
Connor lay back, breathed in and sat up.
Pain spiked his body from a hundred different places, somehow diverting the agony from his shattered leg. He closed his eyes, wishing to leave the gory sight out of his mind. He shifted his right leg sideways, sliding him to the sofa. He brushed his hands together gently, discarding any pieces of glass and prepared to hoist himself up.
That's when he noticed the apartment had changed.
Nothing subtle this time, no gentle unfamiliarity or unease.
Everything was different.
The lights were off, the only source coming from the bright moon outside, cascading in stair rods through the window. Not a cloud peppered the sky and the rain had ceased, leaving behind a fresh essence of coolness.
The duck egg wallpaper, normally light and neutral, now dulled with age, as if someone had sprayed the wallpaper with water or chosen a completely darker shade. Connor's eyes widened when he realised the wallpaper was also peeling, in small rivulets, as if someone with sharp fingernails was raking at the surface slowly and methodically. Fragments and specks fell to the floor silently, like expensive confetti.
The sofa was torn, shredded, holes punctured through the exterior, exposing its innards. Where the springs were mere months old, they were coiled and deep red with ancient rust. The flattened cotton around them was dead, no longer able to provide any comfort. One of the legs lay across the apartment, the sofa itself toppled at an angle, like a slope.
Even the floor itself was slick with mildew, the faded laminate flooring now warped and shriveled with damp. He lifted his fingertips and they came away green with mould and dirt. He picked a shard of glass from his fingernail, wincing in the process. Connor felt his eyes narrowing, his brain rejecting the sights before him.
The new apartment had aged forty years in an instant.
"No fucking way, not happening."
Connor turned, looking for his golf club, his only solace and protection. He didn’t like this. He breathed out and realised fog was emanating from his cold, blue lips. His body was shaking, the onset of shock threatening to overcome him.
He spun slowly to the door and froze.
The dark figure blocked his exit, its hulking shape a mere mist before the door. Connor could see beyond the figure, through the figure. The shattered mirror in the hall dropped to the floor with a crash, at an angle, no longer hooked to the wall. It toppled forward and lay still. The lights in the hallway flickered on and off, a low buzz filling the deathly silence.
Connor focused on the thing before him.
The mist was waving, curling in no particular pattern. One second it resembled a tall, muscular man, the next it resembled the textbook shape of a Halloween ghost. Connor laughed, his eyes betraying him, knowing no such thing existed. His body was starting to numb from the pain and he wondered how long it would be until he passed out. He wondered if his brain was reacting to his agony, and causing hallucinations.
That had to be it.
You saw it earlier, after you busted your nose.
Does pain cause hallucinations?
Has to be the reason.
If not … what was this thing?
The figure didn’t move, it simply curled and swirled in midair. Connor looked to the ground and saw nothing beneath it, no 'legs' so to speak. He'd noticed the rain had stopped and wondered if it was to do with time fast-forwarding. The smell of dank assaulted his nostrils. He shivered, readjusting his position.
Still, the figure didn’t move. However, the black smoky tendrils expanded to the wall and he noticed the rivulets in the wallpaper were forming beneath their 'touch.' He glanced around and noticed every wall in the apartment contained the same damage.
Had he passed out?
When? What the fuck?
Connor swallowed, out of options, and shivered. "What do you want?"
Nothing. It remained silent.
"If you're going to rob me, do it."
Robbery? Seriously?
Is it gonna steal your trousers and prance around in its haunted mansion somewhere? Alternatively, is this a race thing seeing as its black?
"Take whatever you want, please … just don’t hurt me."
Still nothing.
Can ghosts … whatever this is, hurt me? Maybe, if it smashes a DVD player over my stupid bonce.
"My wallet is on the side." Connor pointed to the side. "There."
The figure said nothing. It did move though, as if its head was twisting to seek the source of Connor's gesture.
"Seriously? You want my –"
"This isn't about your wallet, Connor."
Connor stopped speaking, his eyes widening. A dark pit opened in his stomach and his felt his heart lurch and fall through it. His bloody skin prickled with goose flesh.
That voice.
"This is about you."
He knew that voice.
The figure shrank and become solid, non-transparent, floating slowly to the ground. Legs formed, from the feet up, and the black mist disappeared. Now, it was a human shrouded in darkness, standing there, watching him, the right arm outstretched, scraping the wall. Other than that, it didn’t move.
Familiarity pricked his brain. "What do you want?" Connor felt urine spraying down his trouser leg again. A few drops splashed his exposed shin and he yelped, the agony pounding his brain, almost blacking him out.
"I think you know what I want, Connor."
The figure stepped forward, glass crunching and skittering on the floor, and into the pale moonlight walked Susan, his wife. "I want my husband back."
"You can't have me … not anymore."
"Why? In the eyes of the law, we're still married."
"In the eyes of the law, you're dead."
"You don’t see it that way. You still phone me every evening at five, to let me know you're 'working.' Well, most evenings."
"I'm getting less frequent at it," sniffed Connor, tears rolling down his blood-streaked face. He slid back an inch, finding a more comfortable spot, he grimace of pain obvious on his face. "I only called three times this week."
"It's only Tuesday, darling. If you think you're making progress, then you're sorely mistaken." Susan took a step forward, her frame still dripping in shadow. Half of her face was visible; her sunken blue eye pinned on Connor. He thought she was smiling, but with half of the mouth hidden, it was hard to tell. Her hair dangled over her visible shoulder. Her footsteps didn’t make a noise.
She's dead, he thought. The dead don’t make a sound.
"So, this is an upgrade? Nice place you have here." Susan didn’t move her head; her eye simply darted to several places before her.
Connor noticed and shuddered. "I like it…" Connor trailed off.
"You should have kept our house, you had memories there."
"Bad memories, memories of a failed marriage and a deceitful wife."
"I was deceitful? You're the one who fucked every whore and sundry behind my back. Business trips? You think I was that fucking stupid?"
"You lied too. With your alcohol and your addiction. I saw the bank statements. Who spends a grand on vodka in one month? Being married to an alcoholic is only going to end one way."
"Yes, with me wrapped around a lamppost. You know I was driving to your office to confront you, right. I found out about your … that whore. I can't believe you fucked her in our bed. I found her discharge on our sheets. You didn’t even have the decency to change them!"
"Well, we never used them for that. You never did the laundry when you were pissed. I didn't think you'd notice."
"What, that my bed stank of another woman's pussy? I wasn't wife of the year, but I had a brain cell in my fucking head."
Connor said nothing. He nodded.
"That it? Nothing to say?"
"Is there any point? You drove me away, pure and simple."
"No, you drove me away, drove me to my death."
Connor groaned. "I didn’t put you behind the wheel. I didn’t put Rebecca in the front seat without a harness. Any sensible adult would have resisted the urge to drive drunk, especially with a kid in the car."
"Control isn't really an option for many alcoholics, it's why they're alcoholics in the first place, you dumb shit. Addicts lack control, it’s a basic concept."
"You should have got help," Connor uttered, his teeth chattering. The temperature was dropping rapidly. The mist from his mouth was intensifying.
"I didn’t need help. I needed my husband." Susan took one more step forward. "I suppose there isn't any point though. Why argue, why relive our past, everything is inevitable anyway."
"What does that mean?" Connor coughed, blood peppering his front.
"I came for my husband. I'm not leaving until I have him. I'm not leaving until our daughter has her father back."
Connor gulped, the taste of copper making him gag. "This can’t be … I'm not having this conversation. You're dead … Rebecca is dead. I buried you both; I put you, both of you, in the fucking ground."
"How can we be dead? You won't let us rest. You relive your last conversation with us every single day and then dismantle your phone, every single time. I watch you do it over and over again, Connor. You know what people call that. Mental health issues. Talking into a dead phone and reliving the last moments of our lives is one simple sign of insanity."
"It's a coping mechanism."
"And you don’t even deny it. What is wrong with you? Would you have kept doing it when Alice moved in?" Despite a lack of smile, Connor saw Susan's lips twist into a look of utter contempt. Her eyes narrowed as they judged him, a familiar look.
"I won't come with you. You can't make me. I was miserable with you and Rebecca, it wouldn’t have worked out." Connor shivered, realising his leg was now numb.
"If you hadn't cheated on me, none of this would have happened. Anyway, seems it doesn’t matter. We're married, not divorced, the 'until death do us part' of our vows was only pillow talk and decoration. Even death can't separate us."
"Like I said, you can't make me."
"I don’t need to. Your impatience and stubbornness will be your downfall. Your insistence to leave the apartment, despite me not allowing you, has given me everything I needed." Susan stepped out of the shadows. Connor felt his heart expand in his chest as terror seized his already cold, shaking body. A scream caught in his throat, drowned by the vomit that was chasing it.
Susan smiled. However, the smile didn’t cease. The edge of her smile continued creeping, wider and higher, until it enveloped her face and the head itself toppled off the back of her shoulders. A black mist seeped from the neck hole, merging and twirling into the air. Her limbs snapped, extending out and high, like giant shadowy wings. The shadows grew, transforming into something terrible before his disbelieving eyes.
Connor shuffled backwards, cold sweat and blood itching his face. His fingers found no traction on the blood-soaked floor, the glass making it difficult to progress. His body was fatigued, exhausted. He looked down and noticed a dark red pool all around him.
How can I lose that much blood and live?
You can't, came the answer. Susan in his head, reading his thoughts.
"Fuck you," Connor uttered, his breath coming in gasps now, shock starting to consume his body. The black mist swirled around his feet, aiming for the hole in his leg. The plumes disappeared into the gash, making Connor groan in agony.
