Echoes (Whisper Trilogy Book 2)

  ECHOES

  Michael Bray

  Echoes by Michael Bray

  First published in 2014 by

  Horrific Tales Publishing

  This edition published March 2015

  http://www.horrifictales.co.uk

  Sign Up to our Mailing List for a free Ebook

  Copyright © 2014 Michael Bray

  http://www.michaelbrayauthor.com

  The moral right of Michael Bray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  eBook Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Back when I started work on the first book in this series, I could never have imagined how popular it would prove to be, let alone go on to be a best-selling novel. Working on the sequel was both a pleasure and a challenge which was daunting. I truly hope this book lives up to expectation and sits well alongside the first. I think it does, but then again, as the author and I would say that!

  Even so, without a lot of other people this entire project wouldn’t have been possible. Huge thanks have to go out to Graeme Reynolds at Horrific Tales Publishing. He saw enough in the first book to take a chance on publishing it and I was thrilled to link up with him again to bring Echoes to print. Thanks also to Stu Smith for once again producing a superb piece of cover artwork, to Simon Marshall Jones, an editor who has a great knack of turning some of my more rambling prose into something much more readable, and Lisa Jenkins who again has done a sterling job as our last line of defence and picked up on a lot of errors that everyone else missed.

  In addition to this core team of people who worked hard on getting this book to print, I want to thank my family and friends, in particular the beta readers who looked over early drafts of the story and suggested changes which in hindsight were incredibly valuable.

  Lastly, I want to thank those who continue to buy, support and read my work. It truly is humbling and drives me on to keep working hard to bring you more stories to read.

  “At the midpoint on the journey of life, I found myself in a dark forest, for the clear path was lost…”

  — Dante Alighieri, Inferno

  “Nibble, nibble, gnaw,

  Who is nibbling at my little house?”

  The children answered,

  “The wind, the wind,

  The heaven-born wind,”

  — Old Woman, Hansel & Gretel

  CHAPTER 1

  Abandoned in the summer of 1987, Ridgewell Hospital for the Criminally Insane had been left to rot as the city grew and prospered around it. During its peak of service it housed eighty staff who had been charged with caring for its three hundred residents. Now, almost three decades after its closure, the building was a filthy, graffiti covered shell, its gardens overgrown with thorns and hip-high yellow grass, its once pristine whitewashed stone walls now broken and crumbling.

  Deep inside the bowels of the building, Dane Marshall crept through the darkened corridors littered with mildew-covered mattresses, discarded needles and empty cans left behind by the homeless wretches who had, over the years, taken shelter within the building.

  “Here we are in the recreational area, where at one time, the residents of the hospital would be left together to share in their madness,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at his cameraman, an overweight, olive-skinned New Yorker called Sean Lemar. Sean adjusted the camera on his shoulder, better framing the green-hued host in all his night-vision glory.

  “We here at Paranormal Truth are the only investigation team to have been granted access to the long forgotten corridors of Ridgewell Hospital, and we intend to attempt communication with the spirits of those who died here and still roam the halls in perpetual limbo,” Dane said quietly as the duo crept deeper into the pitch black hospital, their breath pluming in the freezing air.

  “We’ve heard reports this particular wing has been a hotbed of paranormal activity. And it’s here we intend to record our EVP sessions. Already tonight, we…”

  Dane paused, staring into the impenetrable darkness.

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered over his shoulder.

  Sean pointed the night-vision camera down the litter-filled hallway just in time to hear it again, a dull, barely-audible scraping noise.

  “Are you getting this?” Dane whispered, his eyes shining like twin lighthouse beacons in the glare of the night vision lens.

  “It seems to be coming from one of the treatment rooms. Let’s see if we can get another response.”

  He peered into the black void, speaking in a loud but clear voice which echoed around the narrow walls.

  “Is there anybody here who wishes to make contact with us? We don’t intend to harm you.”

  He paused, holding his breath. Just as he was about to repeat the question, he heard it again, a tiny scratching coming from the one of the rooms ahead.

  “Okay,” Dane said, turning back to the camera. “I don’t know how well this is picking up on camera, but we’re hearing noises coming from one of the rooms down the hall. As is our policy here on the show, we shall investigate without fear, all in the name of finding the truth.”

  The door to the treatment room loomed large, the windowless space barely betraying its secrets even to the camera’s night-vision lens. Inside, amid the masses of abandoned papers and empty drinks cans, a tattered treatment table dominated the room, its cracked faux-leather covering split, exposing its wiry stuffing. The duo paused at the threshold, Dane turning full on to face the camera.

  “We’re outside what seems to be some kind of treatment room. It’s here where we think we heard the noises, and we’re about to go inside. Remember, nothing on this show is pre-recorded. Nothing is done with edits. This is all shot in real-time in the name of truth. Are you ready Sean?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  “Okay, let’s go in,” Dane replied, turning back towards the room.

  “Okay, cut there.”

  Dane relaxed as the corridor became bathed in the artificial lights set up down its length and hidden from view. Sean lowered the camera and handed it to one of the show runners who hurried off to the editing truck. From the treatment room, another assistant clad in a jacket emblazoned with the show’s logo stood from his position behind the table, stretching his legs.

  “What did you use to make the scraping sound?” Dane asked as fresh script pages were handed to him.

  “Screwdriver. Did it pick up on the camera?”

  “Barely,” Sean cut in. “We might need to reshoot it.”

  “Nah,” Dane said. “We can dub it in later. I’m not hanging around this shit-hole any longer than I have to.”

  “Whatever man, I just shoot the footage. I’m gonna go grab a bite to eat. It’s late.”

  “Got it. Be back in half an hour and we can shoot the room interior scenes and get the hell out of here.”

  “Good show again boys,” said a thin man with glasses approaching Dane.

  “It’s goddamn freezing in here Fred,” he replied to the waxy-skinned South African as he handed Dane a cup of coffee.

  “Get some coffee in you, that’ll fix it,” Fred said in his distinctive accent,
standing beside Dane. “Besides, fogging breath only adds to the show, eh?”

  “Forgive me if I’m not as excited. Once you’ve seen one rotten old building you’ve seen them all. What episode number is this?”

  Fred referred to his script. “Two hundred and seventeen.”

  “Jesus, I wouldn’t think there were any more shit-holes like this left to explore.”

  “You alright buddy?”

  “Yeah, nothing a hot shower and a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Did you get all the shots you need?”

  “Apart from the room interior and a couple of pickups, we pretty much have it in the can.”

  “Good, it stinks in here.”

  “Do me a favor, walk with me will you?”

  “You have that look in your eye Fred. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what I hear?”

  The producer squirmed, and flicked his blue eyes towards the rest of the crew who were setting up for the interior shot.

  “Not here eh? Let’s go outside.”

  Dane sipped his coffee and shrugged. “Whatever you say. Anything to get out of this stink.”

  They walked towards the exit, the corridor looking infinitely less intimidating now it was lit by the high-powered lights.

  “The ratings have come in,” Fred said as they exited the building into the fresh air where their production trucks waited, each emblazoned with the show logo in gold. “They’re not good.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Dane said with a shrug. “People are getting tired of shows like this. They’re ten a penny now.”

  Fred opened the door to his trailer and ushered Dane inside.

  “Take a seat,” the South African said, pointing to the small kitchenette table. Dane sat as Fred took the seat opposite. In the light of the overhead bulb, the thirty six year-old producer looked aged beyond his years.

  “The network is thinking of canceling us,” he said, almost sighing the words as he poured himself a generous glass of brandy.

  Dane remained silent, sipping his coffee as he waited for the producer to elaborate.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” Fred said.

  “I’m not, not really.”

  “Why?”

  “Just look at what we’ve become. We’re chasing something we know doesn’t exist. A show like this was only going to have a certain lifespan. It’s the nature of the game. People get tired of seeing the same thing. Hell, I’m tired of seeing the same things. You can only spend so many nights in crumbling castles or rotting buildings before it starts to get tedious.”

  “What happened to you, Dane?” Fred asked while draining his glass. “Back at the start you were enthusiastic. You lived for this, for the opportunity to prove the existence of the paranormal. What changed?”

  “I learned it was all bullshit,” Dane replied with a cocky grin as he sipped his coffee. “See the thing is I’ve been everywhere there is to go. I’ve spent countless nights creeping around graveyards, murder houses, abandoned buildings and the like, not once have I seen anything to make me even remotely think there’s anything out there after death.”

  “I don’t think you really believe that, you wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”

  Dane grinned, and sat back in his chair, running his hand through his hair. “Come on, this stopped being about discovery a long time ago. It’s a job that pays well, which is about my only motivation right now. Besides, maybe it’s about time we stopped doing this. God knows we’ve milked it for a lot longer than I ever expected.”

  Fred leaned forward, the light overhead casting his gaunt face into deep shadow. “But what if? What if there really is something out there just waiting to be discovered?”

  “If there was anything out there, would we be resorting to faking these shows to boost our viewing figures?”

  “We don’t fake it, we enhance the experience for the viewer,” Fred said, glaring across the table.

  “Relax, I’m not some network stooge you have to bullshit. Let’s be honest about it at least. We lie to the viewer. We tell them we don’t cut or edit or overdub anything, when we both know that’s exactly what we do. And I get it, because if we don’t, there’s no show. Face it, Fred, this thing’s run its course.”

  “I need to ask you something,” Fred said. “A favor.”

  Dane shook his head. “I know what’s coming and I won’t do it. We’re friends, Fred, so please, don’t make me say no to you.”

  “Remember, I gave you your start, I gave you a shot when nobody else would. You owe me.”

  “I can’t do it, believe me I would if I could.”

  “Please, Dane,” Fred said, “I’m asking you as a friend. Call your brother. Ask him if we can investigate the Hope House haunting.”

  Dane shook his head. “I really can’t. The entire situation was a public relations disaster for the town. They won’t even talk about it, never mind authorize an investigation. It was big news and I think it’s still raw for them.”

  “Which is why we need to move on this. It could save our jobs.”

  “I remember last time I asked about it, I also remember the response I got. Our family is dysfunctional enough without getting into another dispute with Henry.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Seven years isn’t so long, let me tell you, they’re still having issues with people desperate to know what happened down there. A televised investigation is exactly what they don’t need. I’d forget about this one if I were you.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. Truth is we’re facing the chop here. Not just you and me, the crew too. People you’ve worked with for years. I’m not asking for guarantees, I’m just asking you to make the call and see what he says.”

  “Why are you so desperate to push this?”

  “Because when I have to line everyone up and tell them they’re out of a job, I can at least tell them I tried to do everything I could to keep us on the air. I’d do it myself, but every enquiry I’ve made so far has been stonewalled. You have the insider connections. ”

  The two were silent, Dane sipping his coffee while Fred poured himself another large brandy.

  “If I ask him,” Dane said quietly, “There will be no guarantee. Hell, less than that. There’s barely a chance, but I owe you this Fred if nothing else.”

  “So you’ll ask him?”

  “Yeah, I’ll speak to him. Just don’t go expecting miracles.”

  Fred relaxed, and even managed a smile. “This could be just what we need to keep us on the air. Even if they say no, we can at least say we tried.”

  “You know the stories don’t you? About what happened there?”

  “Of course we know the stories, it’s why we want to go there,” Fred said, the initial smile now a wide grin.

  “No, I don’t mean the stories in the press. Everyone knows those. I mean the real stories, the stuff kept from the public.”

  “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  Dane looked the producer in the eye, his brow furrowed as he spoke.

  “My brother only ever talked about it once. He was drunk, and probably doesn’t even remember he got so loose-tongued about it. The stuff in the press was bad enough, but the stuff they covered up was even worse.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing I’m willing to repeat. All I’ll say is what happened there wasn’t just confined to the fire. It goes way back. It’s funny, even after all the places I’ve investigated over the years, the Hope House haunting is the only one to ever make me really believe there could be something in it. I don’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  Dane grinned, a strained expression without humor. “Because my brother is the most uptight, straitlaced person I’ve ever known, and if what he tells me about the place is true, then we won’t need overdubs and quick cuts. Then again, we probably won’t get the permission anyway.”

  “Please, just…”

  Dane raised a hand to cut the producer o
ff mid-sentence.

  “I’ll ask him as I said, just be aware that if he says no, that’s it. I’m sure you found out when you looked into this yourself how he and the rest of the town council have tied the site up in enough red tape to make sure nobody is allowed within a mile of it. It’s either with his blessing or not at all. Understood?”

  “Understood. All I want you to do is ask the question.”

  “Leave it with me, I’ll talk to him.”

  “Thank you, thank you so much,” Fred said, the relief clear on his face as he finished his drink. “You can use my phone if you like,” he said, digging into his pocket.

  “I don’t think calling him at three in the morning on a Sunday is going to get the answer you want, Fred. Let’s finish these shots, so I can get back to the hotel, get some shut-eye and call him later this morning. Good enough?”

  “Sounds fantastic,” Fred said, getting to his feet. “You won’t regret this, I promise you.”

  “Maybe not, but you might.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he might yet say yes,” Dane said simply, pushing past Fred into the icy November air.

  CHAPTER 2

  A fresh November breeze blew golden-brown autumn leaves down Oakwell’s main street. The sky was a pale, cloudless blue, the cool air edged with the bitter bite of winter. Oakwell town hall was a medium-sized building of sandstone, and boasted an iron sculpture of a horse outside on the neatly trimmed lawn. Forty-six year-old councilor Henry Marshall strode towards it, briefcase clutched tightly in his hand. With pursed lips he looked down Main Street through narrow, green eyes. Much of the quaint town he remembered as a boy was gone. Over the last few years many local businesses had been forced to close, making way for modern bars with neon lights, as well as the McDonalds restaurant down by the theater which had put the Randall’s diner out of business. Across the street from where he walked was the paranormal souvenir store where the Bakery used to be, which was now just opening its metallic shutters, ready to greet another new batch of tourists anxious to get their greedy hands on some information about the Hope House haunting. The town had fought tooth and nail to oppose the opening of it, but had ultimately lost. Marshall scowled at the two spotty teens who were waiting outside, one of whom was eating an egg McMuffin from the very store which had put Henry’s good friend out of business and forced him to move away, while the other smoked and leaned against the wall. He half considered going over to give them hell, however he was already late and there just wasn’t time. Turning away from the boys, he strode into the town hall.