The Whisperers

By David W Bradley

a psychic thriller set in d'artagnan's gascony.three boys on a school trip are watched by the evil master of the malevolence bent on killing one of them for his powers. when one of the boys is abducted the other two and an american girl from a local market set off to find him. this modern day, fast paced fantasy is packed with suspense and tense,exciting action where no-one is quite who they seem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David W Bradley
• Release date: Feb 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458056610

David W Bradley

Born in Portsmouth UK, have lived in Ealing, Harrow and Maidenhead, Moved in 2005 to Auch in South West France. Married, professional artist / graphic designer, using pen name to keep artist career separate to my writing. Currently working on three projects - Follow up to the Whisperers, The Barefoot Detectives, and a sequence of children's short stories.

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The Whisperers

by

David W. Bradley

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

David W Bradley on Smashwords

The Whisperers

Copyright © 2010 by David W Bradley

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Chapter 1

Is this the train to Paris?

A young woman emerged from the train station rest-room clutching a small child to her chest. She spoke French with a strong English accent.

An old woman, dressed in black, squinted at the sign at the far end of the platform.Oui, Madame,

Merci.

The young woman picked up a heavy suitcase with her free hand. She struggled to carry it as she moved quickly towards the train.

May I help you, Madame? A man wearing a long, beige raincoat reached out his hand to take her case.

She jerked it away from him.

No thank you, Monsieur. I can manage.

As he watched her board the train, he nodded to an older man at the end of the platform. The older man waved and climbed into the last carriage.

Placing her son on a vacant seat near the window, the woman lifted her case onto the rack above her head with both hands and picked up her son. She sat down and placed him on her lap as the train pulled out of the station.

We will soon be out of this madness, Jean-Paul.

A tear trickled down her cheek as she watched the bright, orange roofs of Toulouse disappear into the distance. Although anguished at having to leave her husband, she reassured herself that she had made the right decision, if only for the sake of her son. She believed her husband would be well cared for at the hospital.

She was wrong.

* * * *

On the outskirts of Toulouse, a man sat strapped to a steel-framed chair in a darkened room with padded walls. He struggled against the leather restraints binding his arms and legs, knowing his captor would soon return to kill him. Summoning every vestige of his failing powers, he focussed his mind on his bonds. A glowing white aura enveloped his body. He clenched his fists and strained his wrists to wrench his arms free but the straps held fast. His chair trembled and shook until it lifted three feet off the stone, tiled floor. In the silence, it hovered for a moment, juddering, travelling neither forwards nor backwards, until the sound of footsteps outside the door diverted his attention. The chair crashed to the ground, pain jarring through his body from the impact of the steel legs bouncing off the hard floor.

The door swung open, beaming light into the room. He lifted his head as someone stepped inside. Dressed from head to toe in a long black cotton robe, a hood covering its bowed head, the figure pulled out a small silver staff from its sleeve. A large diamond at the tip of the staff sparkled in the darkness, reflecting a myriad of coloured lights.

Pierre Celier, the captive, spoke.

The Master of the Malevolence, I’d recognise that hideous staff anywhere. So Salador, you’ve come to kill me, have you?

The dark figure did not respond.

No conversation? No last words of triumph? Come on, Salador, speak to me. We’re old adversaries, after all.

Still silence.

Perhaps this will provoke a reaction from you! An aura of flaming red engulfed Pierre. His chair shook violently again before launching itself at the cloaked figure.

From the black robes, a hand shot into the air. The outstretched palm became an instant shield causing Pierre’s chair to halt as though it had hit a brick wall. Pierre’s head bounced backwards and forwards as the straps tore into his skin. He lifted his eyes and gazed into a face he recognised.

You? What are you doing here? You can’t be the Master of the Malevolence. Where’s Salador?

He’s dead, quite dead. The voice, deep and rasping, sounded sub-human.

What’s happened to your voice? You even sound like Salador.

I have the power to change it at will. The Master’s hand lowered, and Pierre’s chair descended to the floor.

Have you also inherited the power to change into the Grim Reaper? Pierre asked.

The dark figure nodded.

How wonderful for you, you always did have a taste for the macabre.

And you always let your heart rule your head, Pierre. Of all the Venerable Lords that have existed over the centuries, you must be the most foolish. Even a feeble old man like Salador would have found a way to defeat you.

I might have known you would be the instrument of my capture, he replied.

On the contrary, I can’t take the credit for your incarceration. And it wasn’t me who engineered your downfall. That was brought about by someone much closer to home.

Pierre glared. Hannah? I don’t believe you. She had nothing to do with this.

The black figure let out a cynical laugh. She couldn’t wait to have you committed to an asylum. Your wife is convinced that you are insane.

I’m sure she had some help.

Of course she did. My little servants were her constant companions.

The Master’s head lifted and scanned the room, Talking of followers, where are your little friends, the Whisperers. Have they deserted you too?

You know I can’t contact them. Your evil cohorts have made sure of that. Pierre’s head jerked towards the space above his head.

Three small creatures materialised, hovering above his shoulders. As they circled his head, one at a time they swooped down and whispered into his ears.

Their faces were those of celestial cherubs, their bodies slender plant-like stalks, fading in colour from a russet-brown to the most beautiful apple-green. Tiny arms, hands, legs, and feet protruded from their bodies. On their shoulders, light gossamer wings oscillated, suspending them in mid-air.

My Malefic are remarkable creatures, aren’t they?

The creatures bowed in homage to their master’s voice, before turning their attentions back to their victim.

They don’t need to waste this façade on me. Pierre wrestled with his bonds. I know them for what they are. Why do they disguise themselves?

In the unlikely event the Malefic are seen by their prey, they are more acceptable to the human eye in this form. However, if that’s what you wish.

The Master of the Malevolence raised a hand in the air and the creatures responded.

Their appearance transformed. Their perfect cherub-like skin became old and wrinkled. Warts covered their faces and bodies. Their petite mouths became hideous grins, stretching from one malformed ear to the other. Their plant-like bodies, now greenish-black in colour, became almost translucent, ravaged with pockmarks. Short, puny, malnourished limbs and large, claw-like hands replaced delicate arms and legs. Green pus oozed from their hunched bodies, trickling down their legs and dripping from their scrawny, deformed toes. The putrid pus fell towards the ground, vanishing above it as though transported into a different world.

That’s the Malefic I know and love, Pierre drew back his head in disgust.

Enough of this, I need to know the whereabouts of your wife and child.

Why? Pierre’s eyes widened.

So that I can kill them, of course.

Why would you want to kill them? They know nothing of this. You said yourself, Hannah had me committed. If she’s convinced I’m insane, how can she harm you?

She can’t, you’re quite right. She’s a mere mortal, but she will lead me to your son. And if he possesses the Venerable Blood, he may one day possess your powers. I cannot allow that to happen. It’s simple, I’ll kill them both, no future threat and no witnesses.

A thought flitted into Pierre’s head like a butterfly. He couldn’t stop it. He no longer possessed the will to block his mind from being read. The malevolent master saw it.

So, your wife is no ordinary mortal? She’s a Reaper. Your son will inherit all of your powers and maybe some of hers.The Master’s face contorted. Where are they, Pierre? Tell me.

I’ll tell you nothing other than they are well protected. You won’t find them.

You allowed yourself to be taken so that they could escape, didn’t you?

At least they’re both safe now. Nothing else matters.

The Master took a pace back and lifted the staff high into the air. You are a fool, Pierre, I will find them, believe me. I may not be able to break you, but I’m sure your conscious soul will be more forthcoming under torture.

In an instant, a brilliant flash from the staff lit the room. The air crackled and hissed as all the energy transferred itself into the large diamond. Fearful, the creatures surrounding Pierre retired to a safe distance as a mist formed around their Master’s body. As it thickened, the black cotton robe faded in colour to a wretched, soiled brown, decayed and ragged. The face inside of the hood wrinkled and burned. Thousands of white maggots appeared, gnawing at the skin and flesh until only white cheekbones remained. Dark hair thinned and receded, disappearing altogether. Eyes bubbled and sank into their sockets. Lips disintegrated and fell from the mouth exposing a jawbone set with decayed teeth, until finally, from the inside of the hood, a gleaming, bleached-white skull faced Pierre.

Robbed of his powers, he could do nothing but watch, mesmerised, as the diamond-encrusted staff transformed into a large, shiny, scythe. A beam of light exploded from the end, filling the room with a stark whiteness. Pierre’s eyes widened as two dazzling shafts of red light emanated from the scythe to circle his head like a fiery crimson ball. He felt his inner self, his very soul being wrenched from his body. His mind screamed in protest but he no longer possessed the strength to fight against it.

In an instant, the light from the scythe extinguished and with it a vital part of Pierre Celier’s life. His head bowed towards his chest.

The skeletal creature stood before him, its posture that of a judge pronouncing a death sentence.

My soul, you’ve taken my conscious soul, Pierre moaned. His body felt cold and empty.

Satisfied that its task was complete, the Grim Reaper returned to its original form.

Pierre slumped forward in the chair, his mind numb, his limbs bereft of feeling and his eyes closed. A hand rested on his shoulder, a human hand clothed in flesh and blood. With his last vestige of strength, Pierre raised his head. The scythe, once more a staff, emitted tiny coloured lights from its diamond tip. They danced across his eyelids as though trying to attract his attention. Pierre opened his eyes and stared into the diamond. To his horror, a face peered back at him. His own face, not a reflection. It stared at him in despair and yet it possessed more substance, more vitality than he now owned.

As the Master lowered the staff, Pierre’s sombre, green eyes followed the diamond, like a dog beguiled by a bone.

Come over to the Malevolence, Pierre. It’s your one hope. I can give you back your soul and release you.

Pierre’s eyes glowed with his last desperate shred of dignity. I would never join the Malevolence. I am better dead than a part of the living dead. And as for you, you are no longer a person, you have become a monster, an evil killing machine, living for pain and suffering. It will only get worse as time passes. The creature in you will take over until there’s nothing left of your mortal self, and finally it will destroy you.

The Master let out a derisive laugh.

Pierre continued. I’m right. You know I’m right. My life may be forfeit, but my conscious soul will resist you no matter what you do to it. Exhausted, he closed his eyes.

The Master studied the shell that remained of a proud, once-powerful man without mercy. Rest assured, I will torture your soul until it begs me for destruction. Once I’ve taken what I need, I will destroy it, and it will remain floating above the earth forever, empty and without form. You will know true oblivion, and I will grow stronger with every Venerable Reaper and Whisperer that I annihilate.

You’re insane, Pierre cried.

I’m not the one strapped to a chair in an asylum.

A noise came from the corridor outside.

I must go. You have an appointment with Doctor Lanvin. His lust for your venerable powers will mean your certain death. The Master started towards the door, hesitating for a moment.

I will give your wife and son your love before I kill them both. Die well, Venerable Lord. Au-revoir. The Master of the Malevolence stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Knowing it was his last chance, Pierre summoned the strength to shout,

I beg you, leave my family alone. Please let them live. Tears streamed down his face yet, even as he spoke, he knew his final words were in vain.

Their task complete, the three malevolent creatures above him dissolved into the air like breath on a cold day. For a few helpless moments, Pierre sat alone in the empty room. His eyes flickered open for a second as the Doctor entered then, realising all hope had gone, he allowed his head to fall onto his chest, closing his eyes for the last time.

Chapter 2

Twelve Years Later

In the sleepy village of Bassoues in South West France, four men sat around a square, oak table in the centre of a large, empty room. The faded wallpaper displayed a flower pattern, fashionable in a decade long past. Two small, framed black and white photographs depicting scenes of ancient rural life hung at either end of the room.

One of the men broke the silence.

You know he’s mad, don’t you? He smoothed his dark beard. I don’t think we should let him anywhere near the boy.

A middle-aged man with a long, curly moustache shook his head. I disagree, Michel. The Puppetmaster is a gifted individual. He should be the one to instruct the boy in our ways.

He may be gifted, Majolla, but that hasn’t stopped him talking to trees, Joel Relève answered. He was the oldest of the three, with straggling silver-grey hair.

That means nothing, replied Majolla. The Venerable Lord himself talked to trees.

Yes, and you know what happened to him, added Lucien Saronge, a bald man with small, clear-framed spectacles.

The other three stared at him, their faces stern with reproach.

The Venerable Lord wasn’t insane, Lucien. He was murdered.

Michel Valcroix shuffled in his chair. Oh come on, Majolla, no-one’s suggesting he was insane, but he did die in an asylum after his wife ran away with the child.

That’s all in the past now. If it wasn’t for the Puppetmaster we would never have found them again, defended Majolla.

I never understood how the boy could have remained hidden to us for so long, remarked Relève.

His mother is a Reaper. Although not aware of her powers, she managed inadvertently to block all mind probes from the Malevolence and us over the years. It took the Puppetmaster’s amazing intuition to bring him back to us. That is why I believe he should guide the boy, replied Majolla.

Valcroix rose from the table. Very well, but be it on your own heads. Should something happen to this boy, it will be the end for all of us.

Don’t you think I know that? Sit down, Michel. Nothing’s going to happen to him while he’s under our protection.

I wish I had your faith, replied Valcroix.

Majolla turned his head and stared at each of the others in turn. "We must all agree to this. Without a Venerable Lord, the Puppetmaster must now be our guide. How say you?

Relève spoke first. Aye.

I agree, Saronge added.

Valcroix sighed. Reluctantly, but yes.

Then it is unanimous. We must let the Puppetmaster know of our decision right away.

That’s not necessary. A voice spoke clear and loud in each of their minds.

Puppetmaster, answered Majolla. I forgot you possess the ability to break down the barriers of closed minds.

I must apologise gentlemen, I couldn’t resist eavesdropping. I promise you I will not fail you. The boy’s future means more to me than to any of you.

Then the meeting of the Venerable Council is at an end. Saronge stood up. Let us hope it is not our last.

The men filed out of the room into a hallway.

I heard they finally found the body of Salador. Saronge placed a black, cotton beret on his head.

Yes, they found him buried in a shallow grave behind the village of Mirande.

Well, at least it’s one less Malevolent Master we have to worry about.

It maybe ‘better the devil you knew’, Lucien, replied Majolla. I have a feeling there is grave danger ahead for all of us.

Chapter 3

I want quiet, and I want it now! boomed Mr. Rankin, the head teacher on the school trip.

Apart from a few mutinous murmurings, the coach fell silent.

Auch is referred to as the capital of Gascony. It is a town in the south west of France, which will be our final destination tomorrow, as you can all see from your notes. Mr. Rankin peered down the aisle. Have you got your notes out Grimshaw?

Sean Grimshaw dug into his rucksack. I think I’ve left them on the ferry, sir.

Fool, lean over and look at Moreau’s.

Sean rested his elbows on top of the seat in front, and peered at the notes over Michael Moreau’s and Roland Stiffan’s heads. He felt a little aggrieved. He and Michael had been best friends since they were very young but when Roland joined their class at the beginning of the school year, Michael had favoured the new, French boy. At first, Sean was resentful but realised that in order to remain friends with Michael he had to accept Roland.

Have you ever been to Auch, Roland? he asked in a low voice.

No, never, replied Roland.

Would you like to share something with us, Grimshaw? Mr. Rankin stood at Sean’s side.

No, sir.

How about you, the French boy, what’s your name?

Stiffan, sir. No, sir.

Then shut up, the both of you. Mr. Rankin raised himself to his full six feet seven inches and eyed them over the top of his half-rimmed glasses.

Auch is the historical capital of Gascony. I want you to read the notes marked ‘Historical’ on page two. It tells you all you need to know about the town and its background. He returned to his seat and sat down.

I’ve heard you live with your uncle, Roland, where are your parents? asked Sean.

They died when I was a baby.

Mike lost his father when he was young too.

Where did you lose him? asked Roland.

Michael laughed. I didn’t lose him, he died. Anyway, it’s Sean who’s lost his dad.

Roland looked back at Sean, confused. He is dead also?

No, he walked out on mum and me. He’s working in Scotland now.

How’s your mum taking it? asked Michael. He knew from experience that Sean’s mum had a habit of over-reacting to even the smallest of things.

Sean closed his eyes and shook his head. Don’t ask.

Roland offered a bag of sweets to his friends. How did your father die, Mike?

I don’t really know. He was French and working in France at the time. Heart attack, I suppose. Mum’s never talked about it.

How did your parents die, Roland? asked Sean.

A car accident. I was travelling with them, but I do not remember it.

So the guy who picks you up from school, is that your uncle. asked Michael.

Yes, that is my Uncle Sylvestre. He adopted me after the accident.

Sean started to unwrap his sandwiches.

Oh no! Not boiled egg again, Sean? Michael wrinkled his nose.

How did you know I’ve got boiled egg sandwiches?

Because they stink. And every time we go on a trip, you bring boiled egg sandwiches. You do it on purpose because you know I get queasy on a coach.

Not at all, I love boiled egg sandwiches. He didn’t have the nerve to admit that cold boiled eggs were the only edible thing he could find in fridge that morning. His mother had been laid up in bed for three days with a heavy migraine, brought on, Sean suspected, by the thought of being alone for a week while he was away on the school trip.

Mr. Rankin stood up. For those of you who have been patient, we will be stopping shortly at a picnic area for you to eat your sandwiches. For those of you that couldn’t wait, Grimshaw, you will remain seated until everyone else has left the coach.

Michael smirked. You see, even Rankin can smell your sandwiches, and he’s sitting right up the front.

The coach pulled into a siding off the motorway. Sean, Michael and Roland waited as their fellow students filed to the front of the coach to disembark. Two girls, Amanda Highsmith-Parks and Laura Holmes, paused in the aisle as they reached the row where Roland was sitting.

You can come and sit with us if you like, Roland, said Amanda.

Roland grinned. It would be my pleasure.

The two girls moved away.

Would you like me to come and sit with you too? Sean called after them.

Laura glanced back over her shoulder. She gave him a look that said, ‘Drop dead, Grimshaw,’ before continuing down the aisle.

Sean groaned. How do you do it, Roland?

I am young, I am good looking and I am French. I am every English girl’s dream.

Yeah, and you’re modest with it, replied Sean.

Roland gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and stood up to follow the girls down the coach.

It makes me sick. What’s he got that attracts the girls? Sean put his sandwiches back in his rucksack and stood up.

For a start he hasn’t got those stinky egg sandwiches. But he has got the looks and the accent. Girls go for tall, dark and handsome, or small and cuddly like me. Michael put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. I’m afraid you don’t possess any of these attributes, so you are going to have to do something else to attract their attention.

Yeah, but what?

That’s your problem.

* * * *

After dropping off the other students and four of the teachers at a dormitory in Auch, the coach continued past rolling hills to a remote farmhouse in the countryside. The three remaining students and a teacher climbed out and collected their cases.

Looks like we’ve drawn the short straw, said Michael, glancing up the long steep driveway to a red-roofed farmhouse. The nearest village was over two miles back and the nearest neighbours a fifteen-minute walk.

"Yeah, this looks a