The Hidden Graveyard: The Whisper Investigations Trilogy Book 3 Page 2

  “We can manage that,” I said. “I don’t know if Jonas and I are really the spiritual types.”

  "My dears," said Deacon. "Everyone has the capacity for spiritual awakening. You just need to leave the correct breadcrumbs for them to follow."

  It was a good thing she turned away and left us when she did because otherwise, she would have seen the shock and horror on our faces.

  Could Deacon have written the note that led us to Deliverance?

  5

  Sleep felt just out of grasp, and the night was restless. It was as though we had been allocated the kind of beds designed to prevent sleep.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the last words Deacon had said to us.

  It couldn’t be her. It just couldn’t be.

  But at the same time, I had no reason to think otherwise. I was beginning to think that maybe Damian was right, and coming here was not the most brilliant idea.

  But Deacon seemed like an ordinary priest. Perhaps a little overzealous, but there didn't appear to be anything supernatural about her.

  As if in response to my thoughts, I heard the creaking of floorboards and the straining of age-old springs as somewhere in the dark, someone shuffled out of bed.

  I couldn’t see who it was, the dark failing to adjust to my eyes. I looked over at Damian’s bed. He was clearly fast asleep, the light snoring giving him away.

  Instead, I relied on my ears to paint the picture for me. I could hear footsteps shuffling across the room, unhooking the latch on the doorway and pulling the door open with a prolonged creak, as though the unseen insomniac was trying to wake the dead.

  Assuming the dead hadn’t awakened him.

  As the door opened, there was a flicker of light, faintly illuminating the previously-black sleeping quarters. I could make out the burly figure of a man, and with it, his face.

  His face was what unnerved me most of all. The way he gazed absently into the doorway… I tried to think of a better word than resignation.

  He shuffled into the corridor, every step dragging like a man on the way to his execution.

  He didn't close the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar. A part of me wanted to follow him, to place the source of his acceptance, but I had had enough experience of rushing into things without knowing exactly what I was getting into to stay put.

  So I stayed in bed and listened, trying to let my imagination paint the scene that may or may not be happening downstairs.

  I could hear voices. At least I thought I heard voices. One of the voices was Deacon's, but the other sounds were more like echoes. They could be coming from anywhere… or nowhere, as though they were seeping through the walls of the building.

  Now they grew louder, only this time not speaking in English, but in a language I couldn't place, rising in pitch and volume, taking on a guttural sound.

  And then there was a scream, exploding throughout the entire building, penetrating the air. It was a cry that carried the power of several decades’ worth of pain. I tried to think of every possible reason for the screaming, every vile thing on Earth that could prompt such a response.

  And yet I knew my imagination would fall short.

  The light was shifting in color, no longer a dim yellow, but a dark blue, almost ethereal, like a gas. There was something quite hypnotizing and beautiful about it. I could gaze into it for hours.

  But the spell was quickly broken by the sound of another voice. And this one haunted me like no other voice could.

  “Liam…”

  It was a voice I knew instantly. A voice that I had heard so many times before that no matter how long it had been since I last heard it, it would always be with me as clear as day.

  It was my mother’s voice.

  "Leave," the whisper pleaded, as though it was straining to speak.

  “Mom?” I said into the darkness, as though expecting a back-and-forth conversation.

  "Leave NOW!" my mom's voice rang out, taking on a lower pitch, becoming almost demonic in delivery. And suddenly, it felt as though she was right in front of me, her hands gripping my shoulders like she used to do to calm me down from an OCD-induced fit…

  …I sat upright in bed, screaming, my body soaked in sweat.

  My eyes darted around the room, trying to find the source of anything unnatural, but nobody was there—just a row of beds full of unperturbed sleeping forms.

  I looked over at the open door, the only physical evidence of the mysterious goings-on, but the door was firmly shut.

  My brain immediately started trying to rationalize what I had just seen.

  Maybe it had all been just a dream. After all, if something like that had really happened, surely it would have woken up the entire church. I glanced at Damian, still fast asleep in bed, none the wiser.

  Deciding it was preferable to dismiss the entire event as a dream, I settled back to sleep, trying to push the specter of doubt out of my mind.

  6

  We woke just after 7 am. Living a semi-nomadic lifestyle had screwed up our sleeping patterns, but at least we still possessed the discipline to rise early.

  Damian sat up in bed, yawning. "Sleep well?" he asked, utterly oblivious to my night-time experience.

  Part of me wondered whether I should tell him about what I had seen that night. Tell him about the man who left the room, the man whom, by my guessing, wasn't present among the risers this morning. Tell him about the blue light and the screams. If we were going to make it through this alive, I felt I needed to make him aware of the danger we were facing.

  But that would also mean telling him about mom. It would mean telling him about hearing her voice. And despite his dismissive attitude on the journey down here, I could tell Damian yearned for answers just as much as I did.

  But that longing could make him reckless, more inclined to take significant risks. And there was always the possibility of word getting back to Deacon. Whatever her involvement in this event, I felt that the less she knew, the better.

  “I’ve had better nights,” I admitted.

  We got out of bed and hit the showers. I let the lukewarm water run over me as though it would cleanse me of all I had seen the night before.

  We went downstairs into the main hall where Deacon was already setting up the church. She looked as fresh-faced as ever, not a hair out of place, as though this put-together appearance was in a permanent state of preservation.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," she offered courteously. "I trust you had a pleasant night's sleep?"

  "Very good, thank you," said Damian. His stomach made a loud grumble, prompting his next question. "I hope I'm not being cheeky, but you wouldn't happen to have any breakfast around here, would you?"

  Deacon raised an eyebrow. "Oh, we don't start the day with breakfast," she said matter-of-factly. "Here at Sainthood, we believe that a meal has to be earned before it can be enjoyed."

  “And how might we earn it?” I asked.

  "By joining us in the morning prayer," replied Deacon. "We commence in ten minutes." She took a few steps, attending to the altar, when she turned back and said, "Oh, by the way, gentlemen, I might be able to bring some business your way."

  “Oh?” I asked, caught off-guard.

  "Yes, we could do with a new vacuum cleaner for the church," said Deacon. "I'm sure you understand; cleanliness is next to godliness. So, perhaps you could show me a sample of your product. I assure you I will make it worth your while."

  Damian and I exchanged nervous glances. It was supposed to be a harmless untruth. Neither of us could have predicted she would pull the thread.

  Thankfully, Damian stepped in. "We don't have our stock on us at the moment," he said. "We have a supplier who ships them out to us when we're looking at making a profit."

  Deacon nodded slowly. “Fair enough,” she said to our surprise. “Assuming you’ll be with us for the next few days, I’m sure we can work something out.”

  And she turned away, continuing to prepare the church for the morning services. I wanted to pat Damian on the shoulder and say, "Well done" for thinking of something on the spot, but I didn't want to risk saying or doing anything that could get back to Deacon's scrutinizing eyes and ears.

  Sure enough, within ten minutes, the entire church was gathered in the main hall, with Deacon standing at the altar. Damian and I took seats at the back of the room partly to put some distance between Deacon and us and partly to give us a quick exit if we needed to head for the door.

  It wasn't until everybody was seated that we noticed the abnormality of the set-up.

  The entire church was seated on the right side of the hall, leaving the left completely absent. We both wanted to ask about this peculiar setup, but the service had already begun, and we didn't want to risk disrupting.

  "My people," said Deacon, speaking with the confidence of a woman who had shepherded thousands of souls over the years. "We are gathered here this morning to bask in the spiritual rewards bestowed upon us by the divine. They may work in mysterious ways, perhaps in ways that seem to harm us. But we must never lose sight of the functions of Sainthood. Wealth, Divineness and Prosperity."

  At this point, everyone in the church repeated the last three words en masse as though hypnotized. Damian and I exchanged looks. Neither of us was particularly religious, but we were expecting something along the lines of Christianity. Certainly nothing like this gathering.

  “But Divineness is a two-way road, and our riches would not be made possible without those who have crossed over to the other side.”

  She gestured to the left side of the hall, rife with empty seats. And then she began speaking to them with complete conviction, as though there was an entire audience of people sitting there hanging on her every word. "We thank you, oh bountiful ones, for showing us light in the dark, for offering us solace from the solitude we must endure on this Earth. We thank you for demonstrating the Divine Power to us so that one day, we may know such power ourselves. And in turn, we offer you our souls, oh bountiful ones, a bond between the two worlds that we intend to strengthen with each passing day."

  Every participant in the hall was looking at the empty chairs. I couldn't help but wonder if there was some magic trick occuring that I wasn't clued in to, a spectator being fooled. But Damian and I followed suit, knowing that the more effort we made to blend in, the less likely Deacon would suspect us.

  Except Deacon may not have been our only problem.

  Sitting about four rows in front of us, stealing a glance at us from time to time, was a man. And not just any man.

  It was the man who had exited the dormitory last night. Seeing him in the light for the first time was odd, but I would know that defeatist expression anywhere.

  But now, he was looking at Damian and me with a new look, one that sent chills running through my bones.

  Recognition.

  7

  We left the church later that morning, assuring Deacon that we would return later in the day. "I hope you found our service a spiritual one," she inquired. "One that left you willing to accept God into your heart."

  “Yeah, about that,” said Damian. “What kind of God was that meant to be? My religious education is a little rusty, but I don’t think I’ve ever come across a sermon like that.”

  "My dear fellow," responded Deacon. "God is a large, unwieldy, and encompassing subject. God provides his teachings through Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, and many more avenues. As a young girl, I believed that there was a specific God and only one way to worship him. But I have discovered over the years that God is ultimately interpretation."

  She looked at us speculatively, and then continued. "You look at many other establishments around the world and see that God has a very loose grip on these organizations. This occurs because people have deluded themselves into thinking they don't need God in their lives because God has been watered down by the varying faiths. My church combines them all. No one is exempt from Divineness. We won't turn away people based on background as we believe we are all truly God's Children. I didn't have much in the way of faith, until I was introduced to a Divine power with proof that God is working among us, sending his Sentries to do his bidding."

  “Sentries?” repeated Damian.

  “Those who have yet to pass on. Those who are still among us today. The spirits who were in attendance with us today.”

  I tried to control my facial expressions. "So, the spirits were seated on the left side of the church?" I asked, saying it out loud, hoping it would make sense in my head. But it only served to confuse me further.

  “Precisely," said Deacon. "Souls that have yet to pass by into the next world and have unfinished business to attend to. Many of today's service attendees all know at least one person who is not yet at peace. It is our job to help those souls find peace. I'm sure you both know somebody who was taken before their time and felt the flicker of recognition as they refused to move on, in part because they knew they still had to do right by you."

  I audibly gulped, wondering how much truth there was in Deacon’s words.

  Sensing my discomfort, Damian took me by the arm and said, "Well, First Minister, you've certainly given us plenty of food for thought. And we'll be sure to learn more from you upon our return. But for now, we need to go and check-in regarding our stock supplies."

  And with that, he led me out of the church. We could both feel Deacon’s eyes burning into us as she watched us depart.

  We didn't know where else to go. It was clear enough that Deacon's influence ran deep throughout the town. There didn’t appear to be anywhere we could go without the possibility of one of her followers getting back to her with word of our true intentions.

  “So, what are your thoughts?” I asked.

  “Either that woman knows how to spin a good yarn,” said Damian. “Or she genuinely buys into this spiritual crap.”

  “It’s not possible,” I said, feeling as though I was clinging to reason by my fingernails.

  “Liam, I think the concept of what is possible and what isn’t is in flux with us both,” said Damian.

  Knowing the immense risk I was taking, I took a deep breath and said, “Damian, last night… I think I heard mom.”

  Damian skidded to a halt on the pavement. “What?”

  "I heard her voice last night, along with a strange blue light," I continued. We stood on the sidewalk as I filled him in on everything that had taken place the night before.

  "And you're only telling me this now?" asked Damian, sounding affronted.

  “I didn’t know what we were dealing with!” I said. “For all I knew, it might have been a dream or something. It wasn’t until I saw the same guy in service this morning that I figured it had to be real. But I couldn’t say anything with Deacon hanging over us like an overgrown bat! I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to have seen!”

  “How do I know you’re not just saying this just to get me to stay?” asked Damian, his tone accusatory.

  “What do you mean?”

  "We both know that this whole adventure is for your benefit rather than mine. I told you it would be better just to walk away, forget the whole thing. But you seemed determined to stick it out, didn't you? So how do I know you won't say anything just to keep me on the case?”

  "That's bullshit!" I protested. "And if you get your head out of your ass, you'll work that out! I have never lied to you, Damian. And I never will. I want to find out what happened to Mom and Dad, but I wouldn't sacrifice you to get there!"

  Damian’s silence hurt more than anything he might have said in response.

  "My God," I said. "You actually think that, don't you? You really think I am so busy chasing after the family I lost that I'd gladly throw away the family I have left?"

  "Frankly, I don't know what you think anymore," said Damian and picked up the pace, leaving me standing on the street corner.

  "Where are you going?" I called after him.

  "For a walk to clear my head," said Damian. "I'll see you back at the church later."

  And then he disappeared around a street corner and out of sight. I wanted to chase after him and tell him that there was no truth to his words, but I held myself back.

  Another part of me wanted to stick this out, whatever it took. We were so close to finding out the truth. We might never get another shot at this.

  But before I could muse on these thoughts any further, someone approached me from across the street. It was the man who had been eyeballing us in the church.

  Seeing him standing before me, up close, he looked as though he had aged a decade in a matter of days, heavy bags under his eyes, his face gaunt, his hair an unkempt mess.

  “You’re Liam, aren’t you?” he asked in a shaky voice.

  Thinking it safer to play the fool, I responded with, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  “You don’t fool me,” said the man. “You look so much like Derrick.”

  “Derrick,” I repeated, no longer caring about any pretense, just feeling a deep hunger for the truth. “You knew my father?”

  “Years ago,” said the man. “My name is Arnold. We were friends… more or less. At least as close to friends as Minister Deacon would allow it.”

  “Deacon? Does she know anything about my dad?”

  But Arnold shook his head. “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you? You should not have come back here.”

  "What do you mean 'back here?' This is our first visit to Deliverance."

  "Listen," said Arnold, his voice a low whisper, as though conscious of unseen spies in the street. "I can't do anything to help the pair of you. But I'm begging you now. Find your brother and go home. Forget all about this place."

  "I've spent years looking for the truth," I replied. "And you're asking me just to walk away from the whole thing?"

  “It’s what your parents would have wanted. You do it for them if you can’t do it for yourselves. You were lucky the first time. You might not be this time.” And then he turned on his heel and took off down the street.