Haunted Whispers E-Book

Joseph Mulak

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A university student doing a thesis on fear takes his research too far.

A man learns he is next in line to be the Grim Reaper, but does not want to give up his life.

An angel forces a man to relive his worst memory.

A former Nazi hiding in Canada is haunted by more than just his past.

A couple haunted by an unspeakable act committed with the best intentions, with dire consequences.

People haunted by whispers of the past try to forget and move on. But no matter how hard they try, how far they run, it waits for them... And just when they think they are safe, the whispers begin again.

This book contains graphic violence and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

HAUNTED WHISPERS

A HORROR ANTHOLOGY

JOSEPH MULAK

Copyright (C) 2015 Joseph Mulak

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CONTENTS

Introduction

In the Hands of an Angry God

Terror Eyes

Quality of Life

Fear Itself

Yesterday's Sins

Ancestors

Monster

The End of the War

Death Walks Among Them

Wounds

Little Angels

Story Notes

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About the Author

To my family for love, support, and encouragement, which may come to an end if any of you read this book.

INTRODUCTION

The book you hold in your hands is what Haunted Whispers should have been from the beginning. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible when this collection of short stories came into existence back in 2012.

At the time, I was young and had a few stories published. I had a few others sitting on my hard drive that were unpublished, probably for good reason. I decided it was time to put a book out, but the thought of writing a novel-length work seemed like a daunting task for which I wasn’t quite ready. A short story collection seemed more reasonable. So, I took the stories I had already written and wrote a few more to make the book a bit thicker and set about learning how to self-publish a book since I didn’t have the confidence in myself to believe a publisher would give it the time of day.

At the time, there was another author I had as a friend on Facebook who had self-published his own book. I decided to approach him and ask him how he went about it. By this time, Amazon’s Createspace had been around for about twelve years, but I’d never heard of it. It seemed like an author’s dream. No upfront costs. They just took a percentage of every book sold. With Createspace, I could make a print book and do an ebook with KDP. The only cost involved was the cover since a member of a writing group I was involved in a few years before was doing some work as an editor for a publisher, so he was kind of enough to help me with editing the book. Within a few months, the book was published and ready for sale.

The problem? Almost nobody bought it. A few of my co-workers purchased some copies directly from me. A couple of family members as well. Other than that, I don’t recall the book getting a single sale.

This was my fault. While I was spending time learning how to self-publish a book, it never even occurred to me to learn how to market it. I had no idea how to promote myself or my work.

So, the book remained for sale, even though no one was buying it, and I busied myself writing a novel. This time, I was determined to get it published by an actual publisher. I had become disillusioned with self-publishing and I wasn’t even close to ready to trying it again.

In 2014, I completed a novel called Flushed which is and probably will always be my one published work outside the horror genre. Horror is my passion but that book needed to be written. It was a form of therapy to help me through some tough times I’d been having. My first thought was to send it to an agent and hope for the best. But, another writer friend had put out a few books with a small publisher who was just starting out. At this point, they had been around for about two years. I asked my friend about her experiences with the publisher and she had nothing but nice things to say about her experience, so I sent them my manuscript. At that time, the publisher was known as Creativia but they have since rebranded as Next Chapter Publications, a much better name in my humble opinion.

Now, usually, when you send a manuscript to a publisher, a typical wait time for a response is anywhere from six months to a year. So imagine my surprise when I heard back within a week. They had a few questions for me about why I wanted to publish with them rather than self-publish, to which I responded by telling them about my lack of knowledge with regards to marketing and promotion. They told me they could help me with this and sent me a contract, which I read and signed. They worked quickly and the book was out within a few months.

I got to work on my next book, a horror novel originally called Burnt Ashes (yes, I know what horrible title it is), which is now Ashes to Ashes. The publisher of my first book picked this one up as well.

Within a few months of that one coming out, I was contacted by the publisher. They noticed I had self-published a collection of short stories and wanted to know if they could put it out under their banner. I was more than happy to oblige. The book got a complete overhaul. The publisher and I re-edited the book, they slapped a new cover on it, and I had now had three books published with them. Life seemed good.

But it wasn’t. Not entirely. Haunted Whispers weighed on me for years afterward. There were some good stories in it. Stories I was proud to have written and readers seemed to enjoy. There were others, well…let’s just say I wasn’t as proud of those. Two of the stories, Home for the Holidays and Consumed, were written for specific anthologies and both were rejected. I was too naïve to realize that perhaps there were good reasons why they were turned down. Also, I was always bothered by the violence in Home for the Holidays. The story was written for an anthology of extreme horror. Now, I do enjoy reading some authors who write some pretty extreme stuff, but it was never something I enjoyed writing. I’ve written three extreme horror stories, one of which was published. But looking back, I’m embarrassed by all of them. Another story, The Lost, was weak. It was a good idea when I wrote, but the execution of it was lacking. It was a story written specifically for the collection and looking back on it, I should have scrapped it. A Tad Bit Ghostly is a story I enjoyed writing and some readers have said it’s their favorite in the book. But it didn’t fit the tone. The book was filled with haunting stories, most of which did not have a happy ending, and there’s this screwball comedy at the end.

So, what was I going to do with this book in which I had no faith and could no longer claim I was proud of? I planned to pull the book from the publisher, give it a new title and cover, and pull the four previously mentioned stories and replace them with better ones written since the original publication of the book. I was going to self-publish it (yes, even though I had sworn off self-publishing for good. Trust me, I wasn’t happy about it). While discussing the idea of pulling the book and me getting the publishing rights back with Next Chapter, they said they were open to the idea of me swapping out some of the stories, adding this introduction, and adding in story notes at the end of the book. The compromise was, the cover would remain (which I’m okay with, I do love the cover), as would the original title. I could live with that, especially if it meant not having to venture into the scary world of self-publishing again. I’ve done it twice and fell flat on my face both times.

So, dear reader, here is the new version of this book. My preferred version. I think it’s a stronger book having made some changes to it and I hope you think so too.

--Joseph Mulak

Spring 2021

IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD

There are just a few of us left now. As far as I know, anyway. We’re so far away from civilization there could be millions of survivors still out there, but I doubt it. Things were bad when I left the city. I can’t imagine they got any better.

There used to be eighteen of us. Just a collection of people who managed to stumble on the same remote cabin over the last few months. Seven of us have managed to stay alive up until now.

Bryce is still with us. Dammit. That self-absorbed pretty boy never ceases to aggravate me. Even now I can’t look at him without feeling like I’m going to throw up. But he hasn’t killed himself yet. I guess that’s something I can say for him. I thought he would have now that he doesn’t have his looks to get by anymore.

Even the women in our group, the ones that fawned over Bryce’s handsome face and toned body, deny it now. They want to be seen as strong, independent, feminist women. In reality, they’re the exact opposite of what they pretend to be.

Cass is the worst of them. If she could talk, nothing intelligent would come out of her mouth and I’m sure she’d use the word “like” more often than is necessary for every sentence. I’ve never been so grateful for the silence. I mean, she still draws her eyebrows on. Who’s she trying to impress? Not Bryce. Not anymore.

Roxanne is the one person I can stand these days. Curtis used to be okay, but he’s become paranoid since Brad committed suicide. I can’t say I blame him. No one ever came out and said it, but I’m pretty sure they were a couple. Or at least sleeping together. I don’t know that for sure, but the way they acted around each other, they just seemed close.

But Roxanne, now there’s a woman with a good head on her shoulders. She can keep calm in any situation, and she didn’t show the least bit of interest in the pretty boy. Maybe that’s why I like her so much. In a platonic way, mind you.

The cabin is large enough for all of us. It was cramped at first, but since the herd’s been thinned out a bit, it’s a lot better. There are three bedrooms. I share a room with Curtis. Roxanne and Cass have a room together, as do Camille and Autumn. Bryce is on the couch. Before, when we more than doubled our current population, people were sleeping in chairs, on the floor, wherever we could find the space. I wouldn’t say I’m happy about the eleven people who killed themselves, but it is nice to sleep in a bed.

Curtis and I are in the living room. I have no idea where the others are. Maybe out for a walk in the woods. Maybe hunting for food. Maybe in another room in the house. Maybe dead. Who knows? I haven’t seen any of them all day.

I’m reading. The cabin came stocked with lots of reading material, otherwise, I would have gone nuts a long time ago and checked out like the others. Curtis is sitting in the chair across from me. When I look up, he’s writing on his notepad. It’s the little things I miss. Like the sound of a pencil scratching on the paper. You don’t notice these things until they’re gone. He tears out the sheet and hands it to me.

“Do you think this will ever end?” it asks me.

I shrug. No sense in writing something I can convey with a gesture. Paper is running low and I have no idea if we’ll be getting more any time soon. I’m thinking at some point we’ll have to find a way into town to get some supplies. Assuming there are any left. After a year, who knows how much has already been looted.

I hand the sheet back to Curtis and he starts writing something else on it before giving it back. “I miss Brad.”

I write, “I know.” And give it back.

“I miss the others too.”

I nod. I get the impression Curtis is like me in that he has very little respect for those who are left. He spends a lot of time with Roxanne, but he tends to avoid the rest of them as I do.

He doesn’t write anything else, so I assume the conversation is over and go back to my book. The pickings are slim these days. I’ve already burned through the thrillers and mysteries and I’m reading the classics now. War and Peace. I figured it should last a while but I’m not enjoying it. It’s dry and long-winded, but it’s a time killer.

I can feel Curtis’ eyes on me, and when I look up he’s staring at me, pleading. I don’t know what to do. He’s upset, I can see that. He’s alone and depressed and I have no way of comforting him. We’re screwed. That’s all there is to it.

But he won’t stop looking at me and it’s distracting. I have no idea what the hell he wants from me. Hell, I could use some comforting myself. Curtis isn’t the only one who has lost people. I had a family once. Back before all this started. I had a wife and an unborn child.

Now they’re gone and here I am with a bunch of strangers, most of whom I don’t even like. Funny how things work out.

Camille and Autumn walk into the room, startling me. I don’t hear their footsteps approaching. Of course I don’t. I haven’t heard anything in over a year. They’re both crying and I know before they can show us. I know we lost someone else.

The girls lead us outside to the back of the cabin where Roxanne had found a shotgun and killed herself.

Dammit. I was hoping it was Bryce.

But I can’t say I’m surprised. I can’t blame her. I think about doing the same thing every minute of every day. I don’t know what keeps me from going through with it.

I motion for the girls to go back into the house. Curtis and I grab shovels and start digging a hole. I can tell he doesn’t want to. He’s upset and shaking from holding back tears, but I don’t want to do this alone. I’m holding back tears too, but I hide it better.

It’s a difficult task. Not just the actual labor. But burying a body--a human being--never gets easier. I’m sure that someday I’ll be doing this for Curtis. And then I will cry.

We finish packing the dirt. I lean on my shovel and wipe the sweat from my forehead. I want to say something. Words of encouragement or my favorite memory of Roxanne. Something. But I can’t. I can only think what I want to say. Writing it wouldn’t have the same effect as if I’d said it out loud.

I go back into the house, but Curtis stays behind, staring at the spot where we buried our friend. I leave him to his grief.

The girls are in the living room, seated where Curtis and I had been earlier, both still crying.

Autumn takes out her notepad. Hers has a lot more blank pages than mine. She’s not much of a talker.

“Why is He doing this to us?” she writes, and I shrug. I ask myself that same question every waking moment and I have yet to come up with an answer. I don’t even have so much as a theory.

I wait for a follow-up question, but there isn’t one. We already know who is doing this. We just don’t know why.

I find an empty chair and sit. We all just stare at each other, trying to make sense of what our lives have become, why we choose to keep going on. But it’s a useless endeavor.

We stay there until the sun goes down. Curtis hasn’t returned and there’s still no sign of Bryce. I think about going outside to look for Curtis but I’m afraid of what I might find. Maybe Roxanne’s death was too much for him. The straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak. I can’t take too much heartache in one day. If Curtis is dead, he can wait until morning.

I don’t care where Bryce is. I don’t want to see him, and I hope he’s either dead or run away in search of something better. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but I don’t care anymore. Think of me what you will. I am who I am.

I start to feel tired and leave the room. I go to my bed and lie down since there’s nothing else to do. I spend a lot of my time sleeping. Or, at least, lying in bed trying to sleep. With everything going on, it’s hard. I toss and turn, unable to get comfortable.

Tonight is no different. I keep seeing Roxanne’s lifeless eye staring at me. Just the one since half her face was missing from the scatter of the pellets. I can’t get the image out of my head. I see it every time I close my eyes, so I keep them opened and I stare at the wall, hoping sleep will find me.

I feel someone in the room with me. I assume it’s Curtis coming back, but when I prop myself up on my elbow to look, it’s Autumn. She stands in the doorway for a few moments, as if trying to decide on something.

She walks over, slowly, and sits down on my bed, stroking my back.

I’m uncomfortable, but I can’t say anything.

She kisses my neck several times and I remember the first time I made love to Amber after the world was taken over by the silence. It wasn’t the same not even close. I couldn’t hear the sound of our bodies slamming together, her moans, her calling out my name.

It seemed empty.

I never touched her again after that.

When I found her dead in our basement, hanging from the ceiling, I thought it was my fault. I still do.

I can feel Autumn’s touch as she places her hands under my shirt but can’t hear the smack of her lips as she lifts it and kisses my chest.

Maybe that’s why I put my hands on her shoulders and push her away.

Or maybe it’s because I still have the image of Roxanne stuck in my head and it dampens the mood.

Or even because I know she’s looking for comfort and would seek it with any available man and I just happen to be there. But I know she would rather Bryce as he used to be, but she can’t have that now. Not ever again.

Whatever the reason, I stop her. She looks at me for a long moment, confused, trying to figure out if I’m serious.

Even I’m surprised. I’d be lying if I said I never looked at her with lust, sneaking quick glances at her thin body when I thought she wasn’t looking. Staring at her ass when she wore short shorts and the tight shirts that hugged her body and showed off her perfect breasts. I’d fantasized about this moment more often than I care to admit, but I just can’t go through with it. I know it wouldn’t be right.

She leaves the room and I’m left to wonder if it happened or if I’d imagined the whole thing.

In the morning, when I see her, neither of us can look the other in the eye. I’m searching through the cupboards looking for something to eat. It’s been a few days since I’ve had anything. I’ll have to go hunting later since we’re out of canned provisions. I don’t think we’re too far away from the nearest town. Maybe I can go for a walk later and find a store that hasn’t been picked clean.

Autumn comes up behind me and sticks a note in my face.

“Did Curtis come back last night?”

I shake my head and write my own note. “If he did, he got up before me. He wasn’t in his bed when I woke up.”

She looks worried. She likes Curtis. We all do. There’s a childlike innocence we found refreshing. I’m worried too.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” I write. “I’ll go look for him in a bit.”

She gives me a solemn nod and I can tell she’s not comforted, but there’s not much more I can do for her.

Bryce walks into the kitchen and I lose my appetite. That face. It makes me want to throw up every time I see it.

Autumn leaves as soon as he walks in and I see the hurt in his eyes. He knows it’s because of him, but he has no control over it. I won’t go so far as to say it’s not his fault. It is. It was his own stupidity.