Whispers from the Dead

By Katheryn Kaufmann

Embark on a gripping journey into the heart of darkness with 'Whispers from the Dead,' a spellbinding thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.

When former investigator Rebecca Holt's life is shattered by tragedy, she finds herself thrust into a world of mystery and danger. Four years after her daughter's brutal murder, a cryptic phone call leads her back into the realm of investigation, where the boundaries between the living and the dead blur in unexpected ways.

Teaming up with her loyal friend Carlos, Rebecca delves deep into the shadows of São Paulo, where a sinister presence lurks, replicating gruesome scenes from classic horror films. As the body count rises and the city descends into chaos, Rebecca realizes that she must confront her own demons if she hopes to uncover the truth behind the killings.

With twists and turns at every corner, 'Whispers from the Dead' is a pulse-pounding tale of betrayal, redemption, and the unbreakable bonds of love. Prepare to be enthralled as you navigate the treacherous streets of São Paulo alongside Rebecca, where danger lurks in every shadow and whispers from the past hold the key to unlocking the horrifying truth.

Experience the adrenaline-pumping suspense and spine-tingling thrills of 'Whispers from the Dead' - a must-read for fans of gripping psychological thrillers and supernatural mysteries. Prepare to be haunted by the whispers of the dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katheryn Kaufmann
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224012909

Katheryn Kaufmann

Katheryn Kaufmann, born on September 27th, 1993, in the picturesque town of Gelsenkirchen, Germany, emerged as a literary luminary from a lineage steeped in storytelling. Influenced by her grandmother's enchanting tales, Katheryn's early years were marked by a deep connection to the magic of narrative. Her works stand as a testament to the enduring power of words, inviting readers to embark on literary adventures where imagination knows no bounds. Beyond her literary pursuits, Katheryn is a lover of art, music, and a dedicated traveler who finds inspiration in the diverse landscapes that shape her narratives.

Book preview

Chapter 1

December 12, 2019

Thursday

Rebecca fixed her gaze on the dashboard. Just one more minute. Just one more.

Her thighs burned, calves ablaze. Her feet ran, pounding against the treadmill and gaining momentum. Sweat dripped from her elbows. The red numbers burned into her retina: 35 minutes.

3,501/2015. Case closed.

Her heart hammered in her chest, all anger converted to adrenaline. Despite her efforts, the memories flooded back like a torrent.

Rebecca was back in the thicket, sweating beneath her gray t-shirt and leather jacket. Investigator Carlos Miranda yelled, here, here! She ran, just as she was running now. She wanted to see her daughter, Luiza, alive and with open arms, waiting for her.

Memory activated a kaleidoscope of images that invaded her slowly, unfolding with greater clarity, all in HD, leaves that made no noise, but whose layers of dust were captured by flashlight beams, translucent supporting police officers, who were there and not there at the same time. Dogs barked without opening their mouths. Carlos turned to Rebecca in slow motion, the badge hanging from his chest gleaming in the night. Here, here!

She kept running, hope spreading in her chest like napalm. She pushed aside a branch, which didn't hurt her hand. Her brain issued a warning: you won't like what you'll find.

Still, Rebecca persisted, perhaps because seeing her dead daughter was better than not seeing her daughter. And there lay the body, sprawled among the foliage, still dressed in the school uniform, stained with brownish blood, the gunshot hole like a grotesque stamp. The pale skin. The chipped blue nail polish.

Swish, swish.

Rebecca stepped onto the ground and had to lean against the wall to avoid falling, fucking up her ankle on the fall from the $8,000 treadmill. Vision blurred, legs like jelly. Panting, she noticed she hadn't attached the safety cord to her shirt, so the treadmill was still running, all by itself. Rebecca turned it off, bringing a vibrant silence to the room. She drank water from the squeeze bottle and sat on the wooden floor, drenched in sweat. In the peace of the evening, it was possible to see the garden through the glass surrounding the house's gym. She still had two hours to kill before Karina arrived.

She fixed her gaze on the palm trees outside, focused on not crying. They were just memories, the same ones triggered four years ago whenever she heard barking, smelled freshly cut grass, or saw the number of the police investigation into Luiza's murder. Rebecca massaged her ankle. You'll need ice, but tomorrow you'll be able to run again.

The run had served its purpose of quelling her anger for a few minutes. She needed to distract herself now that she had no more strength to run; she should enjoy the rest of the afternoon, read a book by the pool, take advantage of the sun finally showing up. She could fish for a new vegan recipe online to please Karina and even unpack the starter kit for making handmade candles she had ordered in a moment of eerie boredom last month.

However, she only thought about going back to the deep web and entering misogynistic virgin chans that encouraged collective rapes of lesbian women - they were precisely the trigger for the last fight between her and Karina. Rebecca had gained the trust of some of those men by pretending to be one of them, for months, until they let their guard down and exchanged videos through Facebook Messenger. Their hatred was hypnotic, but no more intense than hers. One of the shared videos ended up being pedophilia. Rebecca managed to gather enough information about Kleber de Moura to file a robust report to the Federal Police. You need to stop this, was Karina's desperate plea. Rebecca promised she would stop.

Mom, I'm home.

The voice came from the living room. She pressed her lips together and tightened her abdomen to stand up, using the wall for support. Her ankle complained, like an old chair trying to resist the weight of a hefty man, but Rebecca was already on her feet when her son entered the gym.

Ricardo kissed his mother, despite the sweat still dripping from her forehead. He had a piece of paper in his hands.

You took a while, where were you?

I took Alícia for an exam, I'll take a shower, okay?

Alícia, the girlfriend who had straightened Ricardo out - as much as possible. Rebecca held his hand when he turned his back, pulling him back.

What exam, is she okay?

Just an endoscopy, she's fine. Oh, this arrived.

She picked up the satin envelope, with two letters embossed on it. D&S.

Daniel and Sofia.

Rebecca murmured:

Wow, thank goodness I have you to explain things to me.

Ricardo let out a short laugh equivalent to an apology.

Rebecca read aloud:

"Daniel Burton and Sofia Ita invite you to the celebration ceremony of their wedding, to be held on January 21, 2020, at 7:00 p.m. Aww... how cute."

You're going, right? Dad wants you to go.

But I don't want to leave the house and go through the embarrassment of having a crisis again.

I'll try. By the way, your dad is coming to dinner here tomorrow.

She found herself smiling as she read the rest of the wedding invitation. It was good that Daniel was getting married again. After everything he had been through, after years of deep depression, he was reinventing himself, rebuilding his life. She verbalized that good feeling, as if she could wash her soul of the recently activated memories:

He deserves to be happy.

Ricardo placed a delicate hand on her shoulder.

You do too, Mom.

The subway jerked. Carlos was listening to music through the headphones connected to his cell phone. Thank goodness the Fiesta is leaving the workshop tomorrow. A swollen-legged lady entered the carriage and looked for something to hold onto. He stood up and, without saying anything, gestured for her to take his seat. The lady thanked him, murmuring some God bless that he didn't hear, and settled into the seat next to the door.

With one hand on the metal bar and the other in his pocket, Carlos felt the jolt as the train started moving again. He anticipated the feeling of lying in his bed; the routine at SDHP was tiring, with little action and an absurd amount of diligences to be carried out. A feminine perfume, fruity, hit him. He found himself looking for Rebecca among the women who had just entered the carriage, but he didn't find her. He was hit by a pang of longing for his former colleague, but he hadn't spoken to her in almost four years. Where are you, dear Mahoney? Did you manage to overcome that damned night?

He received a message on Whatsapp. A slight flutter in his stomach occurred as the photo opened: Isabela. The picture didn't show her face for reasons he understood, but it showed the rest, the beautiful rest. He turned off the screen and pocketed the phone, tangling the headphones with it, feeling himself harden. He was almost home, he would look at the photos with more privacy.

You got involved with the wrong woman, he thought, against his will. And that's going to screw you, sooner or later. It could cost you your job. He jumped off at the next station, Pinheiros, and calculated that in five minutes he would be at the bakery to buy his parents' snack. The night in São Paulo was stuffy, but it was an atypical summer, milder than he had expected. Lights, in a poor variety of colors, blinked on the balconies of the buildings, the joy they conveyed colliding with Carlos's despondency. He predicted a monotonous Christmas at home, with his father bedridden and his mother silent.

A couple was in an intimate argument on the sidewalk. They tried not to raise their voices, but they were already starting to grab each other by the arms and mutter under their breath. Carlos had taken three steps when the man shouted:

Bitch, who do you think you're talking to? Come back here!

Carlos stopped walking. Last time it went to shit. Brassard gave you a lecture, you almost ended up facing a lawsuit. He moved his body slowly as the woman moaned softly:

Let go of me, damn it, let go!

The man grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her close to his face while murmuring a threat. He was his height, he wasn't armed. Carlos took two steps toward them and although he spoke to the woman, he kept his eyes on the man.

Are you okay?

She pulled away and stepped back, rubbing her scalp with tears in her eyes and a look of humiliation. She didn't respond.

Mind your own business, buddy. This is my sister, and I'm taking her home, where she should be, not chasing after some married scumbag.

Carlos finally looked at her, a skinny girl with her midriff showing. He tensed his muscles to react.

Do you want to file a report? I'll accompany you to the 14th Precinct.

The brother snorted.

You must be kidding...

I wasn't talking to you.

The reaction was as expected – the man made as if to advance, Carlos drew his gun. Some people were already leaving the bakery and watching the scene with curiosity. The tough guy took a few steps back.

Calm down, calm down, hotshot, Carlos turned to the woman. If you don't file a report, he'll hit you again.

However, she was too scared. She slapped her brother's shoulder:

Come on, let's go home.

The onlookers let out a symphony of look at that, she's a fool, and oh, for God's sake... as that display of brotherly love distanced itself with a few indignant glances over their shoulders.

The owner of the bakery, a very tall man who told the best jokes Carlos had ever heard and resembled the actor Milton Gonçalves, laughed.

Hey, kid, come in and have a beer, cool your head before going home.

Carlos followed him into the establishment and sank onto a stool. Seu Príncipe, a nickname of unknown origin, opened a bottle of Brahma and poured a glass for Carlos, who salivated at the sight of the foam blossoming.

Is your father okay?

Carlos took a sip.

No. He's pulling overtime.

The exchange of words was superficial, as it had always been. The truth was that Seu Príncipe couldn't see Carlos without inviting him for a beer, after the favor the policeman had done him two years before. Seu Príncipe had rung the doorbell, and when Carlos came out of the house, he went straight to the point: Two guys from the neighborhood are bothering my daughter when she comes back from college. She's scared and thinking about quitting school because of them. Looking into those pupils as dark as an abyss, at the yellowish spots in his irises, Carlos heard his thoughts: You're going to do something about it. They were men. It was the right thing to do, even if it wasn't right in the eyes of the law.

It wasn't the first time he acted outside of protocol, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. If he were to think about the role of a civil police officer in Brazil, about the reality of his work, he would go crazy. He kept an eye on the guys, and two days later, he called a colleague, Agent Romero, for backup. It wasn't difficult to beat up two punks acting tough. If they mess with Dandara de Jesus again, they'll need machines to breathe for the rest of their lives.

Since then, there was an understanding between him and Seu Príncipe, a silent complicity that had nothing to do with friendship or camaraderie. Since that day, the old man wouldn't accept payment for the beer or the bread and seemed genuinely offended when the policeman pulled out his wallet. Carlos knew well that the first to corrupt the police were the citizens.

He brought the glass to his face, loving the smell of the beer and the cold emanating from the glass. Before going home, seeing his tired mother and dying father, before indulging in the delights of the photos Isabela had sent him, Carlos needed the comfort of a little alcohol, the silky touches that a simple beer was capable of giving to reality.

Did he hear?

Karina released a smile in the dark, full of air. Rebecca remembered that she wasn't used to having a son at home, someone whose mother's sexuality needed to be contained, hidden as if it were the greatest of sins.

Ricardo's presence during college vacations wasn't a source of stress for the couple, but it did affect the routine more than Rebecca liked to admit. It wasn't just a matter of having stifled, whispered sex with the door locked; it was about choosing words more carefully during lunch, toning down displays of affection, being a little delicate. Ricardo had accepted his mother's marriage without many problems, but he still wasn't ready to see tongue kisses and butt grabs in the kitchen.

Rebecca thought of the fuck that had finally happened after a dry spell of three weeks; a marathon of caresses and kisses, nuanced by the fierce demands of tongues, fingers, and vaginas. She allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. She felt a burning desire for that to alleviate the tension between the two women for a while longer. In marriage, sex often acts like a reset button, a way to erase the small resentments accumulated in the previous days, inevitable between strong personalities forced by love to coexist.

Karina turned on the bedside lamp. In the suite, illuminated by a warm, yellow light, the two looked at each other with sweaty faces and interrupted breaths.

I'm going to get some water, do you want me to bring you a glass?

Rebecca gestured yes and watched her put on a T-shirt and leave the room.

She still didn't feel like that mansion was hers. The opulent house in the Morumbi neighborhood, with a swimming pool and gym, would always have Karina's face, and even though they had been married for three years, Rebecca didn't believe the money belonged to both of them. When they decided to live together, they shared a one-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood where the sound of gunshots woke them up at least twice a week. Rebecca realized that, although she had always believed in Karina's talent, she had never prepared herself for her success. Maybe she never prepared for her own failure.

Karina worked at an Outback and was studying marketing when the two met. She had a startup developing apps with two friends and a lot to prove, besides leading a project with a journalist friend to address the situation of Haitian immigrants in Brazil. Rebecca was still married to Daniel and was the complete opposite of Karina: a homicide investigator at the State Department of Homicides and Protection (SDHP), mother of two, and zero patience for activists. It ended up working out, against all expectations. But we're not the same people anymore. She's still a force of nature, a beautiful, talented woman, full of life. And you're just a shadow of what you used to be, forever haunted by two words:

Case. Closed.

I need a job. What could a woman like her do, other than investigate? She wanted to be a cop since she was little and was excessively encouraged by her father. You don't need a new job, Karina had said, exhausted, you need to finally rest.

When did I go from being the breadwinner to a modest housewife?

Karina entered the room and turned the key in the door. It was funny how Rebecca had been criticized for years for supporting a bum when she was married to Daniel, and now, at 47, she was the bum.

The wife handed her the glass. While Rebecca drank it all, too quickly, freezing her throat, the other sat on the bed and put her hand on her thigh:

So... do you want to talk? We've been avoiding a conversation for weeks.

Rebecca always marveled at the woman's light and fresh presence, the way she spoke that was affable and almost aseptic. If Karina were a musical instrument, she would be a wind one. Rebecca shook her head, a tactic that never worked.

Look, listen. I want you to go back to therapy. I know, please, don't interrupt me. I know you haven't had a crisis in months, but living like this isn't healthy, it's not normal. My answers have run out when people ask me about you and why I'm always alone.

The sound of the glass hitting the bedside table betrayed the impatience Rebecca was trying to hide. She struggled to keep her voice calm.

I've taken care of myself my whole life, what psychologist can overcome that? My way is working, I'm already much better.

Your way isn't working.

And how long have you been wanting to tell me that?

Karina looked down, exasperated. Rebecca noticed the anguish on her face.

What am I doing wrong? The former cop softened her tone, diluting the hostility in water and sugar. How am I being a terrible partner? I agreed to the ostentatious mansion in a neighborhood of unbearable people, I hardly eat meat anymore, and I love you. What else do I need to give, Karina? Do you need me to be at all your little parties?

Is that what you think these events are? Can't you, for a minute, imagine yourself in my place? In the moment I'm living? That for the first time in my life I achieved, through my sweat and against everyone's will, everything I've ever dreamed of, and I just want to enjoy it all with you?

I'm here, damn it.

Karina stood up.

Yes, you're always here. Always stuck inside the house, always on that computer doing God knows what...

I've never hidden what I do in my office. I tackle assholes.

Karina's shoulders slumped, and she scratched her forehead, in a gesture that indicated so much distress and despair that Rebecca regretted her tone.

You want me to take a vacation?

You're never going to do that, Ka.

Things are getting more organized in the company now, a few more months and I think I can take about ten days off.

Look, I'm not going to be the type of woman who complains about the time you dedicate to work. I won't. I refuse. I've been the wife who's always out on the streets, and I remember how agonizing it was to be criticized instead of understood. My withdrawal from therapy isn't to punish you. I'm damn proud of you, I think you're incredible. I just need to take care of myself in my own way and I need you to accept that.

A buzz interrupted the two. Rebecca was surprised to realize it was her cellphone on the nightstand. Karina raised her eyebrows.

Hmm, it's too late for someone to be calling you.

Rebecca glanced at the screen. Unknown number. She answered:

Hello.

Hello, is this Rebecca Holt?

Who's calling?

My name is Walter Kister. I'm sorry for the late hour, but it's extremely important to speak with you. I work at Casa da Luz-

Rebecca rubbed her eyes. She had put all her family's numbers on the Procon list so they wouldn't receive telemarketing calls, but she wasn't sure if that restricted access to charities asking for R$15 or cans of milk. Either way, it was too late for that kind of intrusion. She leaned back against the headboard and stretched her legs. Karina waited, her face showing she still had things to say.

... spiritual guides, and it was your name that came up here for us. Ma'am, you need to help me, I promise I'm not lying, this isn't a scam-

Sorry, sir, I didn't catch that. Can you repeat?

She hadn't paid attention, but his last words were starting to bother her. An alarm sounded in Rebecca's head and her neck muscles tensed.

The spirit. Our medium received a message about a crime.

Rebecca jumped out of bed on impulse, making Karina move away. She clenched her jaw and tried to control her breathing.

Listen, you son of a bitch, if you call me again, I'll find a way to track you down and break your knees. Got it?! Fucking asshole!

Karina snatched the phone from her, ended the call, and reached out an arm.

Calm down! What did they say?

Rebecca exhaled and covered her face.

"... Fucking asshole. Medium. With a message for me. Medium, can you believe it? The trash these people are? It was that shitty article, for that shitty online magazine. I said I didn't want to give an interview, but you insisted!"

You can't be sure that article is related to this call.

Damn it, Ka, you're rich! All it takes is for one of these psychopaths to find the article, read it, do a quick search, and find out everything about what happened to Luiza, about who I am, and want to pull off a scam like this. It's astounding how naive you guys are!

Karina bit her lip.

Look... it's possible, yes, but just because you're upset doesn't mean you can accuse me like that. Block the number and be done with it, my God. She couldn't hide the hurt. She grabbed the glass from the table and left the room.

Rebecca thought about cases of criminals using spirituality and others' pain to make money. Walter's audacity, however, was astonishing. The calm voice of a charlatan, the offer of a full name to feign honesty... She looked at the cellphone Karina had thrown on the bed.

Block it, her conscience insisted. Don't pursue this. Don't even think about involving Carlos just because you're angry. Even though she knew she shouldn't, Rebecca picked up the device. She found Carlos's number, a pang of longing dissipating down her throat, and wrote the message before she could regret it.

Hey, Maverick. Wanted to talk. Would you like to have lunch at my place tomorrow?

And holding the cellphone against her chest, she resolved that Walter would pay for daring to try to scam her. She was surprised by the immediate response.

Was thinking about you today. Weird. Missing you like crazy, Mahoney. Send me the address and I'll be there.

And Rebecca found herself smiling, looking forward to the meeting with the man who had found her daughter's corpse four years ago.

Chapter 2

December 13, 2019

Friday

D ad. Coffee.

Carlos clicked the switch with his elbow, balancing the plastic tray, illuminating the small room that had been his José's home for almost a year. Carlos's father had fractured his pelvis and femur when he was run over, and his bones had not healed enough for him to walk again. Even before the accident, José had discovered the picture of lung emphysema. Taking care of the old man would have been easier if he hadn't smoked two packs a day since he was 14, although Carlos's mother had dedicated herself to making him stop. Taking care of him, enduring his poison, would also have been much easier if Carlos could forgive him for being pathetically drunk while crossing the street in the middle of the night without looking both ways.

Placing the tray on the bedside table, he slid the curtains and windows open and let a gust of fresh air in. He turned off the light. His father struggled to get up. Carlos adjusted a pillow to give him support, but was pushed away with a shove.

Leave me alone, kid, I can manage.

Can't even pee without help, you damn old fool. Carlos restrained his hatred, considering his mother. Who could explain the love she still felt for that piece of crap after so many betrayals and humiliations?

When he was finally settled, José gestured and Carlos pushed the table to him. It was one of those pieces of furniture with a C base, so it could fit snugly against the bed of a dying person or a lovey-dovey couple. The bread had already been sliced and buttered, and Carlos had also scraped the papaya seeds. The phone rang in his pocket, and he found himself hoping it wasn't Rebecca canceling plans.

It was Isabela Brassard.

Murder on Tapes Street, Jardim Aeroporto. Need you here. A horror show. She sent the location. Carlos checked the clock: 9:10 in the morning. It was a ten-minute walk to the workshop to get the Fiesta. He estimated the traffic. He wrote to the detective:

Leaving now. Should arrive in 40 minutes, max. 1 hour.

Before putting away the phone, he looked at the photos she had sent the night before, which, in the light of day, filled his chest with a desire to see her, to be close to her.

The circus was already set up when he arrived on Tapes Street. Cones redirected traffic, and a crowd of people indicated exactly where he needed to go. He found a spot and parked the Fiesta. Undercover, with the badge hidden in the pocket