The Hidden Graveyard: The Whisper Investigations Trilogy Book 3 Read online

  THE HIDDEN GRAVEYARD

  THE WHISPER INVESTIGATIONS TRILOGY BOOK 3

  MARC LAYTON

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  1

  When I came to, the first sensation that hit me was the feeling of cold dirt pouring into the shallow grave. After that, an avalanche of pain.

  Every part of me ached. My brain sent a signal down to my limbs as if to confirm that they still worked, but I could not will them into action.

  In some ways, the pain greeted me like an old friend. Not the physical pain, but the emotional kind that exploded tenfold in the past twenty-four hours, turning my entire world into hell on Earth.

  I opened my eyes and saw the glistening full moon partially visible behind the mass of trees. I wondered if werewolves were roaming about the forest. An absurd thought, but after everything I had uncovered, I wouldn't be surprised.

  There was a strange, haunting beauty to the world around me. It was as though now that there was nothing left to torment me, I could finally appreciate the world in what little time I had left.

  I tried to speak, to plead for help, but what passed through my lips was a series of rough, scratchy noises, as though my throat had been scraped raw.

  Another layer of dirt fell on top of me. Some of it landed in my mouth.

  I made the decision not to die here and now. I pulled myself up, the dirt falling away as I rose, looking my would-be killer in the face...only to see my brother Damian staring back at me.

  2

  Three days earlier…

  Neither of us had spoken for the entirety of the car ride. We were still going over the events of how our last case had ended in our heads, the sheer unbelievability of everything that had transpired.

  When we saw the road sign that said DELIVERANCE – 10 MILES, we knew we couldn't put it off any longer.

  "You know, we could always phone in for assistance?" suggested Damian, even though it wasn’t so much a suggestion as it was a cry for help.

  I chuckled, trying to insert some humor into the otherwise grim atmosphere. "Sadly, I never got around to checking out the Directory for Supernatural Shit. We try talking about this to anybody, and they will assume that we're either insane, high…or insanely high."

  "I know," said Damian. "That's why I've been thinking we need someone who has already been through the wringer. I thought that maybe we could get in touch with Meredith?"

  "No. Absolutely not,” I said, shutting down the idea then and there.

  "She understands better than anyone what we're going through," protested Damian. "She's the only person I can talk to who can help me make sense of all this stuff."

  "Listen to me, Damian," I said, adopting an authoritative tone, the age gap between us forgotten. "We're heading into uncharted territory. We have no idea what will await us when we get there. For all we know, this could be a suicide mission. I hope it isn't because I, for one, have no intention of dying in Deliverance." I glanced out the window at the grim landscape surrounding us. "If we're gonna die, I would prefer that we die somewhere more scenic.”

  "I think we're a little too young to be thinking of that," said Damian shakily.

  "Mom and Dad weren't exactly in the autumn of their lives, and they certainly didn't,” I said, instantly regretting my sudden harshness.

  Damian sighed, not appreciating that I wouldn't take the hint. "I know that I've been instrumental in setting us down this path, but I'm having second thoughts. Maybe we shouldn't be doing this, Liam."

  "Why not?"

  "Why do you think? Same reasons we don't want Meredith to get involved."

  My thoughts drifted to the mysterious note that had spurred this spontaneous journey:

  “If you want to know what really happened to your parents, you need to follow the breadcrumbs. Not everything is as it seems. 41 – 78.”

  "Damian. This is the only way we're going to get to the truth of what happened to our parents. We figured out that the 41 – 78 clue means Deliverance. We’re on the right path; I can feel it. We could finally get the answers we've both been waiting for." I implored, puzzling at his change of heart and needing him to want it as much as I did.

  Damian kept his eyes on the road, even though he looked as though he wanted to take his hands off the wheel and shake some sense into me. "Liam, I say this with a great deal of respect and love," he said evenly. "But have you ever considered the remote possibility that it might be better if we don't find out?"

  I blinked, disbelieving I was hearing these words from my brother of all people. "Have you had some kind of brain transplant or something? We both need answers, Damian. We can't go through life not knowing. We’ve tried that approach for the last few decades and look how well that worked out. I'm an obsessive-compulsive mess, and you struggle to hold down a job. We have both been scarred by losing mom and dad. Do you ever wonder what life could have been like had they actually lived? If they had shown us how to grow up? Gone through all the rites of passage a parent should do rather than leave us hurtling from one disaster to the next? Maybe we'd have turned out more well-adjusted. Maybe even have kids of our own. And, most importantly, we'd be able to go through life without having to see a single ghost!"

  "You know, I thought that, too," said Damian, his voice shaky. "I thought that getting all the answers would change everything, would give me and you proper closure. But when I look back on all those years we missed them, all those years not knowing what happened to them…I still had room in my heart for hope. But if we do this, we won't be able to hope anymore. We will have to live with the truth of it. And I don't know if we'll be able to."

  "You really think the truth is going to be that bad?"

  "Liam. Our last two cases involved mass cannibalism and a horde of missing children at a demented camp. You think that just because those families had closure, the nightmare was over for them? If anything, they now have to live with the knowledge that their loved ones died under horrific circumstances."

  I couldn't understand where this burst of pessimism was coming from. "OK," I said, trying to play along. "So, what exactly do you think is going to happen when we get there?"

  "Two possible things," announced Damian. "One: we won't find anything connected to mom and dad. That the cryptic note someone left us was little more than an elaborate hoax set up by some jerk with far too much time on their hands. Two: we will find out the truth, and it will provide the fuel for another decade's worth of nightmares."

  "Well, thank God you're here to keep things optimistic," I said sardonically. "You forget, Damian, that we've stared death in the face, not once, but twice. And unless this is hell, which looking around here wouldn't really surprise me, we are still very much alive. So, we must have been doing something right. Just think, after we solve this case, we don't ever have to go near another ghost, ghoul, or lunatic ever again. We can live normal lives. I've seen how close you and Meredith were getting,” I added teasingly. “Maybe there could even be the sound of wedding bells in the future.”

  "Last time I checked, you weren't a clairvoyant," said Damian. "Meredith and I like each other, but I don't think we're anywhere near that stage yet."

  "Doesn't mean you won't be," I said. "Just try to picture the idea of you two living a normal life, having all the things that people are supposed to have."

  "But Liam…" questioned Damian. "What if we're too screwed up to enjoy those things?"

  That question stopped me in my tracks. I had been asking myself that same question over and over, and I still didn't have a convincing answer.

  We continued the drive in silence, trying to push any thoughts of the future out of our heads and focus on the task at hand.

  As the town ahead began to take form, I couldn't help but wonder if we had actually died on one of our previous endeavors and were now entering hell.

  3

  The entire town reminded me of my dad’s old pocket watch.

  He said it had belonged to my grandad, and always used to carry it with him. Then, one day, it stopped, the hands permanently fixed at seven minutes past five. I had asked my dad why he had never bothered to get it fixed, why he seemed content to keep it as it was, permanently frozen in time.

  My dad had replied, "Because there's a certain beauty in things that never change."

  At the time, I was too young to appreciate what he meant by those words. Only when I looked back on them as a young man did I start to appreciate the sentiment.

  Deliverance had that look and feel of a town that had, like the watch, frozen in time. But there was nothing beautiful to be found here.

  As we drove into town, we saw crackling neon signs that wouldn't have looked out of place in the 1980s, but today, seemed like relics.

  The few people we glimpsed walking down the street were dressed in an array of fashions, as though they hadn't decided from which generation they had heralded.

&nb
sp; The sun had long since settled over the town, giving the buildings the look of a sea of grey stretching out down the road.

  "Any idea what we're walking into?" asked Damian.

  "Not particularly," I said, taking in the clashing aesthetics.

  "Well, I'm certainly not doing any detective work on an empty stomach," announced Damian. "I could murder a burger right now."

  I looked at Damian, feeling relieved. "That's the most sensible thing you've said all day."

  * * *

  It had been my mom that had started the burger routine.

  When I had first been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, I was too caught up in my own little world to care what other people thought of me, which made me an easy target for kids at school.

  I remember having a set of pencils lined up in a specific sequence, moving through the colors of the rainbow, or organized from smallest to largest. I found pride in those patterns.

  But the other kids caught on. First, it had started with them rearranging my pencils before snapping them in front of me, labeling me a freak.

  I remember having a massive tantrum in the middle of the classroom, which, while not unheard of for a six-year-old, was still quite extreme. Extreme enough for my mom to come to the school to talk to the teachers.

  After the incident, I had thought that she was going to scream her head off at me or tell me how disappointed she was.

  Instead, she had driven to pick Damian up from football practice and taken us to a local burger joint, buying each of us a double bacon cheeseburger. She then sat us down to talk about how things had been going for me at school and how we needed to get help for my diagnosis. Damian, ever my protector even then, needed no convincing whatsoever.

  And then Mom had said, "Throughout life, when you feel like life is getting on top of you, or there are things that you want to let out without screaming at the rest of the world, go and grab a burger. It'll be a good bonding session for you both."

  And that was a tradition that Damian and I maintained long into adulthood. Whenever we made a plan of attack for anything difficult, it always started with burgers and fries.

  We sat down at a local bar which was unlike anything we had ever seen. The entire bar was adorned with crosses and beads, containing what looked like trinkets from every single religion known to man.

  “Don’t think I’ve ever been in a religious bar before,” said Damian as the waitress delivered our food.

  "Deliverance is a very spiritual place," said the waitress, slightly perturbed as though insulted by Damian's statement. "The local church has been good to us, keeping us clothed and fed, ensuring that we are always wealthy. Our faith in their work isn't much to ask for in return."

  At that point, I noticed everyone in the bar was sneaking looks at us, the clear outsiders in this hive mind of believers.

  Trying to ease some of the tension, I asked, “We’re hoping to find a place to stay for the night. Do you think you can direct us to a decent motel?”

  The waitress looked at me quizzingly, as though I had just grown a third eye. “Oh, we don’t have motels in Deliverance.”

  “So, there’s nowhere we can stay?” asked Damian, now eager to tuck into his burger.

  “Oh, I didn’t say that,” said the waitress. “All visitors can find accommodation at the Sainthood Church.”

  “The Sainthood Church?” I repeated, unable to contain my bafflement.

  "Yes. Minister Deacon believes that all who come through Deliverance are lost souls looking to accept God into their lives and need spiritual guidance. There is no fee for a night's stay, for you cannot put a price on spirituality."

  “That’d make a good slogan,” said Damian, chuckling.

  The waitress smiled, but it didn't quite meet her eyes. "You can head over there when you're finished. But be warned. Minister Deacon will want to check you both to make sure that you two are… worthy."

  And she turned on her heels, leaving us both alone in the booth.

  “So, what are you thinking?” I asked.

  “Avoid eye contact and quote the Bible if confronted,” replied Damian, and I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.

  "No, I mean about accommodation. I don't like the idea of not having personal space."

  Damian shrugged. “Well, there is the car, but if the claustrophobia doesn’t keep us awake, my snoring definitely will.”

  “So…” I said. "Off to Sainthood. It would be interesting to hear what they do with sinners."

  4

  We parked the car down the street from the Church and headed towards the entrance, the cold night air biting at us, the idea of a warm bed in the Church becoming increasingly inviting.

  When we laid eyes on Sainthood, we weren’t quite sure what to expect. Given the somewhat-dilapidated state of the rest of the town, we were anticipating a church crumbling from within, showing its age.

  But, if anything, the church appeared to be the most well-maintained building in the entire town. The walls were a fresh cream, the paint glistening as though recently coated, the windows newly installed. For all we knew, the church could have been built just yesterday.

  We stepped inside and walked into the sight of a prayer taking place.

  But it was unlike any prayer we had ever seen. The practitioners kneeled on a stone floor, chanting in unison. It was difficult to grasp what language they were speaking, but it certainly wasn't anything Damian and I were familiar with.

  At the back of the hall stood a woman. She was dressed majestically in purple robes, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, with a face that appeared to be completely stoic, save for the eyes that glistened with manic energy as she took in the sights before her.

  Noticing us, she held up a hand, and the prayer immediately ceased. She walked down the center of the hall, her robes trailing behind her, giving the impression that she could have been gliding through the air.

  Finally, she came to a halt in front of us.

  "Good evening, gentleman," she said warmly, offering a hand. I took it, surprised by the heat generating from her, as though she had been living on a volcano. "My name is Debra Deacon, and I am the First Minister of this church. It is a pleasure to welcome you both to my domain. Are you here looking for spiritual awakening?"

  “Actually… we’re looking for a place to stay for the night,” said Damian, who clearly didn’t want to be roped into any prayers.

  Deacon's smile remained etched on her face, despite a notable twitch. Damian's words were evidently not the answer she had been hoping for but one she accepted, nonetheless.

  "In that case, welcome. I'll show you to your rooms," she said, waving a hand and beckoning for us to follow her.

  As we left the main hall, I noticed one of the practitioners, an older man in his seventies, looking at us quizzically, but he had disappeared from view before I could take anything else in.

  Deacon directed us up the stairs to a row of beds, a few already occupied by sleeping forms.

  “We have two at the end available for the night,” she said. “Might I ask your names?”

  I was about to reply when Damian said, "Jonas. And this is my best mate, Andrew."

  “Might I ask what you both do for a living?” asked Deacon.

  "We're traveling salesman," said Damian, and understanding the need to look authentic, I tried not to burst into laughter. "We travel the country convincing people to invest in our top-of-the-line vacuum cleaners. So, you could say we’re in the same line of work. We both sway people to our causes somewhat.”

  "I wouldn't make such a comparison," said Deacon. "What we do is for the good of the soul, to help people move towards the better versions of themselves. Now, there is no fee for your stay, but I must ask you to participate in morning prayers. Think of it as religious therapy."