Darkness Whispers

By J.S. Nelson

There is a place where you can have it all: money, power, and prestige. A place to forget your cares. To imbibe in ancient elixirs and partake in games of chance. To laugh in the face of death. It is a place cloaked in mystery, magic, and masquerades. The price is easy to pay. Many gladly do.

'Come and see,' the Whispers beckon. 'We will only take your sanity.'

In the wake of her mother's suspicious death, twenty-two-year-old Milena Hargrave joins the city's notorious Secret Society, the Masqueraders. Infatuated with the seductive atmosphere, sadistic games, and singular nectar, she revels in oblivion. But something is off about the Inner Circle—something malicious and inhuman.

The deeper Milena's involvement grows, the stranger her discoveries become. Despite warnings from close friends, she moves onto the grounds with their leader, Logan. Milena begins to see her dead mom, explodes in violent outbursts, and loses entire pieces of memory.

Afraid of her own mind, and a fate identical to her mother's, she threatens to destroy the entire Society and its sinister purposes. If she doesn't succumb to insanity first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098384517

Book preview

Chapter One

August 1998

How do you develop an addiction to a person? Is it the same as substance addiction? A blend of specific brain chemicals firing across your synapses; tracing out pathways that, once deserted, call out with an unquenchable thirst? Do certain beings know how to cause that electricity in your soul? Do they get a thrill from this power? Is it a game to abandon once they grow bored?

Or is it a mystical spiritual occurrence? Auras intersecting in an invisible realm, forming their own mix of psychic addiction. Blurring your judgment as you float on clouds of euphoria.

Once a person expects this feeling, do they crave the drug of their fixation? Could such a fiend recover?

The withered figure ponders, hunched on an iron cot, staring at the blocks of textured concrete walls as thoughts whirl through the imagination.

The sensation of substances mental, physical, and soul-deep pour through memory; reliving the heights! And my downfall.

A smile dances across the cracked lips as the pen continues across the blank page.

Had I remained oblivious to that Mansion in the woods, the monstrosity of that rotting theme park… I wouldn’t be here in this cold, bare chamber with these deep, ugly scars. And I wouldn’t have done what I did. What any junkie would do to maintain a supply of their favorite poison.

Again the prisoner pauses, staring out the dirty window at the prosperous metropolitan City of just under two million situated on the six-mile-wide Lake, dubbed The Most Exciting Metropolis in America.

An amusement park abandoned since 1975 sits on the Lake’s opposite shore, swathed in wild, overgrown woodland; a stark contrast to the bustling sprawl of the City. There it has survived, untouched and steeped in superstition. Just above the remnants of what once made this City The Most Exciting, peer the watchful windows and crumbling remains of the Calais Mansion.

The figure quakes at the sight. Fragments of recollection flit about like errant Will-o’-the-wisps: Recollections of elaborate balls every Saturday night; riotous games in the adjoining garden Labyrinth; contestants fighting to the bloody death as the Calais’ watched in morbid fascination from those tall windows, eyes black as the deepest pit of horror.

The prisoner returns to the journal, curling knees to chest and hunching further.

I am a Masquerader. I was part of that secret society before the Calais’ banishment back to New Orleans. Before this City became a shopping mecca. Before the permanent mini-carnival was built onto the Pier; intended as a distraction, loud and bright, to discourage the wicked whispers of mystery beckoning from the other side.

I was there when the Park closed and the Calais’ cursed the City — when Hangman’s Row came into existence. I know many things; secrets best left in the dark.

They will not let me out. They certify that I am insane.

My last memory of the outside world amuses them: a carcass hanging on the Row, carnation pink ball gown contrasting with the natural browns and greens of the Forest. No sound but the soft creaking of a branch as it bears the body’s weight; a slight thump now and then as the limp foot connects with the trunk in the breeze.

Chapter Two

Hunched in a graveside chair, I stared vacantly at my mother’s casket as the minister read the words of interment. I fixated on the gleaming hardwood, smothered under the canopy in the humid day. The sound of her weeping fans angered me. As if they had claim to her! As if they knew her outside of stage and tabloid appearances.

Darius and Angela Wallace, Lisa’s foster parents, sat to one side of me. Poised and elegant as always, my aunt, Brit Hargrave, perched on the other. Nine years my senior, she was identical to Lisa. I envied their shared genetics: petite frames and golden hair. Just under five foot, pixie haircut emphasizing her dainty bone structure, Brit was one of those flawless hip women everyone wishes to emulate — French manicures, bangle bracelets, and shimmery, metallic eyeshadow.

Throughout the viewing, fans scoped me out, curious to see the scandal child. Other than winning ballroom dance competitions, I’d remained out of the news.

Yet no one forgot the headline announcing my birth twenty-two-years ago: Theatre Star Ousted From Billionaire Hargrave Mansion. Pregnant at Fifteen. The mystery of my paternity was never revealed, not even to me. The only thing I knew about him was the coffee-colored hair, brown eyes, and olive skin I saw in the mirror each morning. Clearly not a trait inherited from the blonde Hargraves.

Two months later, the tabloids blamed Lisa’s pregnancy scandal for sending her parents to an early grave. A picture of duo caskets underscored the headlines. I discovered it in Lisa’s stash when I was ten. She’d kept every tabloid featuring herself since the pregnancy. And there were many. It wasn’t a secret that she heard voices and suffered mood swings: sweet as pie one day, a monster the next.

Due to the circumstances of Lisa’s death, the City let it go. Officials ruled Hangman’s Row — the treeline on the City’s outskirts — and the old Calais grounds outside their jurisdiction. Superstition was too deeply entrenched in their minds. There would be no investigation and no questions, just as with the sixty-five bodies found there since the Park’s closing. The gossip columnists would first speculate, then pack it away as ‘another unsolvable.’

Across the casket, canopy flaps yawned, and I gazed through the gap at vehicles jamming the paved cemetery lanes. Gravestones covered the opposite hillside, some adorned with their own private garden; others empty — only shorn grass and a faded headstone. Several trees rose from the hill, spreading their high, abundant branches to the very tips, sheltering those laid to rest beneath their arms.

Large objects moved furtively among the timbers. Probably more of Lisa’s admirers, trying to get close. I shifted my legs, damp in the oppressive humidity, thinking of one particular fan at the earlier viewing. He’d stared at me from a corner of the funeral home. Tall and handsome, with Brad Pitt hair, his chiseled arms and torso rippled in a merlot button-up; sleeves rolled halfway up tanned forearms; tails tucked into black pleated dress pants and an expensive leather belt. Though obviously an upper echelon, he creeped me out — that knowing, appraising stare and half-smirk on his clean-shaven face.

Movement again. Four black shapes ducked behind a row of trees across the road just as the minister asked everyone to bow their heads in prayer. Rustling indicated acquiescence. My head remained high, eyes open. Figures stepped from the timbers, faces covered hairline to chin in plain white masks; bodies draped in long, hooded cloaks. I jerked in shock, unbalancing the folding chair. Brit lifted her head, cursing as the figures started forward.

Memories flooded me at the sight: Lisa arriving home at the crack of dawn, dressed in elegant ball gowns, fantastical masks dangling from her fingertips. Some were mythical creatures, horns sprouting. Others were dazzling, painted in glittering silver swirls, brushed with gold filigree.

The specters crept through the tombstones on the adjacent hill. I sat paralyzed, breathing shallow. The minister’s prayer continued on, and another memory formed.

I was seven; waking as Lisa arrived just before sunrise. I peeked out my third-floor bedroom window at our condo’s front entrance, where a man in a black velvet tuxedo and top hat stood, holding an 1800s gentleman’s staff. His face — a grinning skull — angled toward my window. He pointed at me, tipped his hat, then sauntered away, whistling and swinging his cane.

My stomach lurched at the memory, and as the apparitions drew closer, I screamed.

Chapter Three

I woke on the ground, inches from the open grave. No one else saw the masked characters, but I’d created a spectacle worthy of Lisa’s daughter.

Throughout the luncheon afterwards, I avoided eye contact. Actors from the Theatre offered condolences, but I couldn’t bear the small talk. Excusing myself, I rushed to the restroom, thankful to discover it empty. I collapsed on the plush dressing bench in the largest stall. A boisterous group entered, a stall door slammed, heels clattered, and a faucet gushed.

Did you hear what happened at the cemetery? a woman said.

Oh my gosh, I was there! The daughter went nuts! responded another from the stall.

I hunkered down, although they couldn’t see me.

She claims there were masked people in the trees! cackled the original voice.

A chorus of derisive laughter echoed.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and cowered farther, wanting to escape but knowing it was impossible without confronting them.

Did she say Lisa was hiding behind a tree? shouted the girl from the stall. The whoosh of a flushing toilet drowned out her next comment.

She’s as crazy as her mom, came a third.

Maybe it runs in the family! said the cackler. Everyone knows Lisa Hargrave belonged in the nut-house. I mean, she heard voices! And c’mon, only psychos end up on Hangman’s Row. Wouldn’t surprise me if the daughter ends up there, too… Paper towels crinkled and their words trailed off as the group exited. I exhaled at the soft thud of the wooden door closing against the frame.

Yes, Lisa had her moments. She had always insisted I call her Lisa, as maternal titles made her feel old. There were times she froze amid a conversation, shuffled like a zombie to her room, and stayed there for days. They bewildered me growing up, thinking at first I’d done something to make her mad. So I sang or read to her during these sad times, curling up beside her, listening to her shallow breathing, and trying to magically heal her with all the love in my heart. Seeing the light leave her eyes so suddenly and the drastic switch in moods caused issues I still haven’t addressed, as the grief therapist so pointedly informed me.

Yes, sometimes she became a different person. Controlling, angry, manipulative. Nice Lisa and Mean Lisa, I named them as a child, drawing us as a family of three: my brown-haired stick figure in the middle, Nice Lisa smiling on the right, Mean Lisa frowning on the left. It caused quite a fuss with my kindergarten teacher.

But what I remembered most was her constant advice to seek the good in everything, to enjoy myself no matter what. Even if you look like an idiot, you’re having fun! She encouraged when I joined ballet at nine years old. Most of my memories were of Nice Lisa: her pursuit of passion, of life itself.

The City, however, only recalled ‘Kooky Lisa Hargrave,’ as the newspapers dubbed her. A wave of dizziness and shame rocked me. I sagged onto the bench, mind spinning, wondering if I inherited the crazy gene. I lingered there for hours, refusing to face anyone else, waiting to exit until I was sure every person had left.

My life was falling apart. Lisa was dead. Who hung her or why remained a mystery. I had few friends, too obsessed with dancing to keep in touch with anyone besides Brit and the Wallace’s after high school, and I’d never believed in mixing clients with my personal life. I missed the final rehearsals for the Buffett wedding. It was the studio’s wealthiest client, and they were forced to refund payment. They fired me immediately.

For three weeks, I drank myself to oblivion, only leaving the condo for more alcohol. I wound up sick and tortured on the bathroom floor, drinking too much to numb the aching, screaming, emptiness of grief.

Can you give me something? I begged Brit, despite the roiling backlash in my stomach. Desperate, I’d called her. She didn’t broadcast it, but I knew of her involvement with the City’s seedy side. She and Lisa argued about Brit’s drug usage when I was growing up. They always ended with Brit’s frustrated response: You’re my big sister, not my mom! If anyone had connections to a mind-altering substance, it was my aunt, owner of Club Darkness, the wildest club in the City.

Have you gone to counseling? she asked.

Why, because I’m as nutty as Lisa?

"That’s not what I meant, Mel. Have you been to grief counseling?" she asked.

Yes, I exhaled. I went after the funeral, but it was just a shrink lecturing at me.

Hmm. What happened to that guy? Derek? Darren? Dwight?

You mean David? Ha! I retorted with a cynical bark of laughter.

Uh-oh. Nasty break up?

He was the first person I called that day. I was frantic. I swallowed, struggling to talk despite the crater in my chest. He said he didn’t want to deal with ‘complications’. That’s why we were ‘just a fling,’ I repeated savagely, fingers curling in air quotes. He said he can’t handle someone else’s baggage and not to call him again. I paused, waiting for her to hang up or change the subject. In her world, if it wasn’t fun, it didn’t exist. She didn’t let any emotion get too deep; never cared enough to be affected. In fact, I’d never seen Brit subdued until the burial. Emboldened by her silence, I continued:

I want to escape. Forget! The counselor said to let the grief run its course. People brush me off as if I’m a melodramatic teenager. But I mean it. Everything is pointless. Got anything for that? I asked.

Other than the strains of traffic from the cracked balcony doors, silence reigned.

I can’t go back to ‘normal,’ because it’s gone! I’m restless. Lost. Nothing satisfies. Nothing fits. I faltered. Can you give me something? I begged again.

What do you mean? her tone was wary.

Look, I know your clients have access to substances. If there’s anything out there to help me survive this — or forget — you can get it.

She didn’t answer. Static crackled over the cordless phone.

Vodka only goes so far, I pled.

What about dancing? What happened to Miss Goody Two-Shoes, ‘I must stay in peak mental and physical shape for competition ballroom and teaching.’

I got fired, I said.

Oh, Milena. She sighed. I’d ask how desperate you are, but it’s obvious. She paused for so long I thought she hung up. Let me talk to my contacts and I’ll call you back. That cool?

What’s one more day, I replied in surrender.

What are you willing to risk for this? Indecision resonated in Brit’s voice twenty minutes later.

I don’t care if it’s dangerous or illegal. Whatever you have, I begged.

She blew into the receiver, causing me to jerk the handset from my ear.

Meet me at the Pier in three hours, she stated, as if regretting the words. And get a costume.

"A costume?"

A nice dress and a mask. I’m sure you can find one at Cleo’s, she replied.

What are we doing? Trick-or-treating?

Do you want the stuff or not? Annoyance obvious in her voice.

Yes… I hedged.

"How do you think you’ll get