Whispers In The Dark

By Aidan O'Hearon

In 71 Hyacinth Drive, Matt Burke—a writer living alone in his remote house deep in the Maine woods—is driving home one day when he accidentally hits a homeless man on the side of the road. To cover up what happened, he takes his body and brings it back to his house. One night, when he goes to move it, the body's gone. Just as he realizes, footsteps come from upstairs. He's not alone. 

 

In The Missing, something strange has been happening inside Haven, Maine—the small, rural, sleepy town known for the "best apple pie" in the state. Slowly, since February, missing posters have popped up in the town: on telephone posts, the town bulletin board, and the front window of Al's Diner. One of the many people concerned is Violet, someone who has lived in the town ever since she was a little girl. She's determined to get to the bottom of what's happening, no matter what happens to her.

 

In 217 hack horror writer, Stephen Greene—the author of books like scariest ghosts spotted in haunted hotels and ten most haunted graveyards—goes to the Fairhope Hotel, intrigued by the hidden history of the 100-year-old hotel.  As the almost empty hotel greets him, two days from closing down for the winter, Stephen—soon after settling in—is going to experience what true terror is. 

 

Find these and ten more stories inside that are sure to make your skin crawl.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nineteen Eighty-One Publishing
• Release date: Mar 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224228782

Aidan O'Hearon

Aidan O'Hearon is an author from Canada, where he has lived most of his life. He spends time in southern and northern Ontario, splitting it between his loved ones and nature. He is currently at work on another novel.

Book preview

71 Hyacinth Drive

1

By the time Mark Burke had left the book signing for his newest horror novel, The Riches, the sky had turned an inky dark blue. This made navigating the long and winding roads to his remote house deep in the Maine woods more challenging. He kept looking at the forest—which spanned for miles—covering both sides of the narrow road. He watched for deer, which he had seen before driving in the day. As he drove up the road, he started to slowly zone out. Driving this road was almost a muscle memory to him.

The thought of a deer came back into his mind. When he saw the deer on the road, luckily, he just turned onto the side roads when the deer came out from the bushes next to the road. He watched as the deer looked at the car for a minute before turning and walking to the other side of the forest. Just the way it had walked across the road interested him. It reminded him of when he would go hunting with his dad. His dad would usually hit a deer or two and put them out of their misery (as his dad called it) while Mark was still nearby. He could remember how the deer would let out a final scream with the air still left in their lungs before they got killed. He didn’t know why they did it, because it didn’t help them get saved, but every time they got a deer—the same half-shaky scream came bellowing out from their mouth. It made Mark feel awful and, after three times of going with his dad, he stopped altogether.

As the fast blur ran out from the side of the forest, he thought it was a deer. But after he heard the scream, he realized what he had hit.

It was a person.

He slammed on the brakes. The car came to a screeching halt—not after running over what he had hit for a second time. When the car finally stopped, Mark turned, opened the driver’s seat door, and got out of the car. He ran around to the back of the car where the taillights still lit a bright red on the road. Illuminating the person, lying on the road, in a puddle of their blood. Mark’s heart sank into his stomach as he slowly approached the person lying on the ground.

When Mark pushed on the man’s shoulder, even through the thick clothes that he wore, he could feel the coldness of his flesh. He knew it, deep down in his mind. The man was dead. The man, who looked like he had been homeless for most of his life, had taken a good hit from the car. Judging by how the car hit him, he had died on impact. A quarter of his head had been crushed by the tires—probably after I went over him a second time, he thought. With another thought shooting back: IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.

Mark turned the man over, so he laid down on the road. Now he saw his face and had recognized him. He didn’t know his name, but he knew that face. He had heard reports in the area about a homeless man who was spotted in the woods. His neighbours from down the street had even hiked out into the woods and saw the campsite where they thought the homeless man had set up camp. His neighbour sent him that picture. It was a small tent, with a little ring of stones making a fire pit in the middle. As well as that, garbage was thrown around the area. Consisting of soup cans, chip bags, and anything else that he could get his hands on.

He doesn’t have anyone that would look after him, he thought and felt even sicker—if that was possible at this point. No matter how disgusting the thought was, it was true. The man didn’t have any family because he would be living with them if he did. Unless he did have a family, but they disowned him and shunned him from their family. In both scenarios, they wouldn’t go looking for him. He would never be reported missing. The campsite that he had set up in the woods (presumably nearby to Mark’s house) would fall apart as the rain, snow, and wind came through. Then, after that, the campsite would only be a picture of what had once existed. His neighbours, or whoever knew about the homeless person living in the woods, would forget about the picture and the campsite altogether.

But what people wouldn’t forget about? Mark Burke killed a homeless man. On accident? Who knows. He could have seen them up the road, sped up, and hit them on purpose for all anyone knew. The news coming out about Mark killing someone would be much more devastating compared to the death of a homeless man. If no one knew that he had hit and killed the homeless man, his career and life wouldn’t be affected. Is that selfish to say? Mark thought, but an answer didn’t come. He could think of the newspaper title that would be all over the world. A FAMOUS AUTHOR HIT AND KILLED A HOMELESS MAN. The thought of his parents, friends, and co-workers seeing that was horrible. He would instantly lose the deal at Random House. He would go to jail for however long the sentence was. Even if, by some miracle, he didn’t go to prison—everyone knowing that he had done that felt worse than only him knowing that he had done it. With all that in his mind, he turned and opened his trunk.

A drop sheet, which was recently purchased at the Home Depot in town, sat rolled up in the trunk. He pulled it out and unwrapped it. After, he laid it out on the floor and rolled the man onto the drop sheet. With the extra sheet on the left and right of the man, he wrapped him up and put him, laid out across the back seats. When he shut the trunk and side door, he remembered the puddle of blood still on the road.

Still nearby on the forest ground, Mark picked up handfuls of leaves and covered the blood puddle with them. With the extra leaves, he spread them around the road to make it look less suspicious. The blood puddle on the road was far up enough so you couldn’t see anything from the main road. Plus, who was going to visit him and go up the road? If anyone did, they wouldn’t notice it. Finally, when the leaves were placed well enough—Mark got back into the driver’s seat and continued driving.

It wasn’t long before Mark got the man’s body into his house. He shut the door behind him and turned on the lights in the living room. He looked around, saw no one, and started to drag the body towards the basement stairs.

The drop sheet had stopped any blood from coming out from the sheet and onto the floor. It didn’t take much strength to drag the man down into the unfinished basement. From what Mark could tell, the homeless man hadn’t eaten in weeks; that didn’t help to think about. After he got the man, still wrapped in the drop sheet, in the corner of the basement—the body half hidden behind an old TV stand he had to get rid of—he turned and left.

As he walked up the stairs and back to the main floor, he thought about what he would do with the body. Or if someone came over and went into the basement when they were supposed to. He didn’t get any answers to both of those questions.

Mark went upstairs—not brushing his teeth or changing his clothes—and laid down in his bed. He cried himself to sleep, lying on his bed and staring off into the darkness of his room. In moments between when the old tears started to dry and the new ones started to come again, he could see a figure standing in the corner of his room. A figure that looked eerily like the man⁠—

He turned the light on, eyes still locked onto the corner. He wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t. He’s dead in the basement, because of me.

Mark turned the light off and pulled the blankets back over him. He lay in his bed for an hour, tossing and turning. All his mind could think about was what he had done, and what the future had in store for him.

2

A week passed. No police showed up at his door, no neighbours went to talk with him at his front door, and—most importantly—no news (on local and statewide channels) had shown up around the missing homeless person.

Mark had checked seemingly hundreds of channels. Nothing about the man came up. For all he knew, he was the only person in the world that knew he was gone. For that being a curse, he didn’t know. Every night he would think about that homeless man. He would think about the life he had once lived and the life he could have lived if he wasn’t on the road that night. What was he doing on the road anyway? He thought. Maybe he wanted to get help and ran out to wave the car down. Maybe he wanted to get a signature to sell it. Maybe he wanted to jump into the car. Maybe he wanted to stop the car. The possibilities of what the man wanted to do, or intended to do, seemed endless. No matter how much Mark stayed up thinking about it, he could never get a proper answer. Sometimes he would even question if the homeless man was real. But, after going down into the basement and looking at the 75% of his head that was still there, he would realize that it was real. Everything was real.

Do you know what else was real? The smell. The smell of the rotting corpse in the basement floated up through the floorboards and up into the house. Even laying in his bed, wanting to go to sleep, he would smell it. Faint, but still strong. It wouldn’t be long before the smell was coming out from the roof and the cracks in the windows. The smell was the worst thing for Mark. He could (kind of) put up with the psychological torture that seemingly was the only thing his mind could think about, but the smell was horrible. On multiple occasions, just sniffing the air around the basement door made him want to throw up until his stomach was empty.

Finally, after the week had passed, he knew what he had to do. He planned to move the body to the backyard where he could then possibly move it somewhere else. Where? He had no idea. He didn’t know if he was going to chop it and leave it out for the garbage truck, or if he was going to just cover it up with a tarp and hide it deep in the woods—he just needed it anywhere but the basement of his house.

The night had taken over the sky quickly by the time dusk came. Mark came in from the front porch, trying to get some fresh air after being in the house with that stench all day. The mosquitos had come out when the night was still fresh. After an hour, when Mark went inside from the front porch, they seemed to be everywhere.

Making his way to the basement door, he covered his nose with the top of his shirt. He opened the basement door and looked down the stairs. The smell was even worse now. Flies flew out from the basement and into his house. Even they were trying to get away from the smell. He reached and fumbled for the light switch panel next to the door. He finally found it and flipped it up. The warm, naked lightbulb turned on—illuminating a decent amount of the basement. Mark walked down the stairs, still holding the shirt tight against his nose. The smell was almost unbearable now. The flies had tripled. He could see where they all swarmed to. The blood-soaked drop sheet was in the corner of the room. But this time, something looked… off about the drop sheet. It was different in a way he couldn’t even describe.

Mark walked over to the sheet and bent down. He reached his right hand out (continuing to use his left hand to press his shirt against the bridge of his nose) and picked up the top of the drop sheet.

Underneath, where the man had been lying a week ago, flies took his place. Flies sucking up the blood that he had left behind.

Mark’s heart sank into his stomach, a feeling that he felt when he found out he killed him. His left hand dropped the shirt on his nose. The smell didn’t matter anymore. His whole body went numb. Fear paralyzed his body. He couldn’t even think of what had happened to his body. Even if he wanted to, his mind couldn’t possibly come up with any idea of what could have happened.

Upstairs, walking from the span of the hallway near his bedroom—footsteps echoed out on the creaky floorboards.

Reacting to the sound, Mark ran out of the basement and to the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. No one stood in the hallway. Still, to be sure, he ran up the stairs and stopped. He looked down at the floorboards.

Muddy footprints. They went from the outside of Mark’s bedroom to the end of the hall where the door leading up to the third floor was. The door cracked open and showed the way into the darkness that Mark did not want to go into. He couldn’t imagine what kind of boogeymen or monsters lurked there.

Mark turned and walked quickly (but silently) into his bedroom. Opening the closet door, he reached blindly on the top shelve for the shoe box. The shoe box with no lid, he thought. He found it and brought it to eye level, looking into the box with a slight sense of relief. His .45 revolver. Something that his granddad passed down to his father and then to Mark. He took it out from the box, and checked the cylinder—full, he thought looking at it. The bullets were also passed down from his granddad. Even though they were old, they still worked.

With the gun in hand, he turned and walked out of the room and back to the hallway. Looking around, he noticed that nothing had changed. The muddy footsteps still were imprinted on the hallway floor. Right after he came out of his room, another sound came from somewhere in the house⁠—

More footsteps. They came from the unoccupied bedroom off from the hallway. Mark slowly walked down the hallway towards the door. As he walked down the hallway, following the trail that an unknown prowler had left. Surely it isn’t the homeless guy walking around, it has to be an intruder. A robber of… sorts. But then why was the drop sheet vacant of a dead body? Did the robber take the body too? It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the situation made any sense to Mark.

The door was cracked open. Looking down at the floor, he could see that the footsteps continued further into the room. Mark pushed the door open and stepped inside. The light from the hallway flooded into the empty room. The only thing that he couldn’t see was the corners.

Hello? Mark said into the room. He could hear his voice bouncing off the walls. Is anyone here? I have a gun. If you are in here, you better leave or else. He thought about what he said—that has to be the least intimidating thing I could have said. But either way, he does have a gun with him. He turned and flipped on the light in the room. The light came on, now illuminating something in the far corner of the room he couldn’t see before.

The attic trapdoor was opened.

The footsteps stopped at the bottom of the small stairs leading up to the attic. Mark could see where the prowler stepped on the attic stairs—a faint outline of mud on each step. Do I want to go up there? He thought but remembered the gun in his right hand. Slowly, he walked to the bottom of it. Looking up into the attic, he couldn’t see anything. Not even the roof. It was strange.

Is anyone up there? Mark said again. I have a weapon, and I’m not afraid to use it.

No answer from the abyss.

Mark, first getting the courage, walked up the attic stairs. On each of the stairs, they creaked with every step he took. When he got up to the attic, he could see now that the moonlight outside came through the left window perfectly. So perfectly it lit up half of the attic. Mark reached up and pulled the pull chain on the attic light. It didn’t turn on. It made sense, considering he hadn’t changed the lightbulb in over a decade.

Why did you do it? A voice said from somewhere in the attic.

Mark looked around, to his left and right, before he finally saw where the voice was coming from. Someone was standing at the right window, looking outside. They turned around to face Mark, standing near the attic’s opening. As his eyes continued to adjust to the darkness, he could see who the figure was.

It was the homeless person.

He didn’t want to accept it, but he knew it was. Even if it made no sense that he was now alive, he was there. He was standing, as if nothing had ever happened. Well, not entirely. Half of his head was still missing. If Mark looked down at the rest of his body, he could see bones sticking out from the flesh. He kept his eyes on his face, or what was left of it at least.

Why did you do it? The man said.

I didn’t see you on the road, Mark said, which was true. He was distracted. Was that the real reason? He didn’t know, but that’s what he told himself ever since that night.

Really? You sure you weren’t distracted driving up the road?

Mark didn’t answer.

What are you going to do when your family knows about what happened? When they know that you hit and killed an innocent homeless man. And then you tried to cover it up. What do you think they are going to say about that?

Mark started to cry. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t help it. All he could think about was what would happen if they did. How distraught, confused, and sad they would be by the news. The same horrible feeling rose in his stomach, the same feeling that he had gotten that night. He looked down at the gun in his hands. He looked back up.

The man was still there. He was standing there, looking at him. Watching him, like a statue. Mark, with the gun still in his right hand, rose it to level with his head. His hand shook, with tears still flowing down his cheeks.

The sound of the gunshot bounced off the walls in the attic. His neighbours could have never heard the gunshot, even if they were standing on their porches. It would only be the wind.

That was all Mark heard before everything went black—the wind.

3

Bill’s only other sibling, Janet Armstrong—married to the increasingly famous Ted Armstrong—came to visit Bill every once in a while. Either to see how he was holding up with the fame, or how he was dealing with living practically in the mountains. But, even if she went up for nothing, she still enjoyed catching up with him.

Janet rapped on the front door with her knuckles—once, twice, and then one more time before letting herself in. The very first thing she noticed about something being different was the smell. The smell was horrid. She didn’t know what Bill had been up to, but the smell was a giveaway that something out of the ordinary had happened.

Bill? She called out. No one answered back.

The basement door was opened. She could see the stairs, leading down into the dark abyss that she sure didn’t want to go down into. But, fighting against the smell, she walked over to the door. Looking down into the basement, she couldn’t make out anything through the darkness. After she turned on the light, she could now see a shape lying near the corner. Something wrapped in a white sheet. On the sheet were large blots of blood.

Janet went to call out for Bill again but held her breath. She walked down the basement stairs, occasionally breathing through her mouth but hating each time she did. If she wasn’t careful she would swallow a fly.

When she made it to the sheet in the corner, she could see it now. Something was wrapped in the sheet. With her right hand, she picked up the fold on the sheet and threw it away from her. As the sheet opened, something inside was revealed.

A body.

A dead body of someone she didn’t recognize. The body had already started to decompose. Maggots feasted on what was left of the man’s head. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in the last month. Maybe it hadn’t been touched ever since the person died.

Just the sight of the dead body was enough for Janet. She turned and ran up the stairs and out of the basement. When she was finally back on the main floor, where the smell wasn’t as bad—she turned and threw up on the floor. The smell seemed to have soaked into her clothes.

Bill? She called out again. Her voice now sounded strained and tired.

Upstairs, she thought—he must be upstairs.

Janet walked up the stairs and into his bedroom. Nothing. She checked the bathroom. Nothing. She checked the second bedroom. No sign of Bill, but the attic hatch was open. A smell came from the attic, a fainter version of the one in the basement.

Bi—Bil— She tried to manage out, but she couldn’t. Every time she tried to talk it would turn into a stutter. Instead, she started to climb up the steps on the ladder up to the attic.

The first thing that Janet saw was a puddle of blood in the attic. The second thing that she saw was Bill, lying motionless on the floor, with the gun that he used to kill himself in his right hand. She couldn’t believe what she saw.

That did it. Janet Armstrong found her voice. Staring into her brother’s dead and glassy eyes, she started to scream.

Gone For The Weekend

The snow twisted, fluttered, and whirled wildly in the cold, bitter wind. The wind blew against the house, making the walls groan. As the snow cleared for a moment before the next gale of wind, James could see his parent’s car sitting near the house at the top of the driveway. Snow had already started to level against the tops of the tires.

James sat backwards on his couch, looking out the front window of his house. Fascinated by the wind. So fascinated, he completely tuned out his parents behind him, getting ready.

James… James… James! His father, Scott, said – making James snap back into reality.

James turned around on the couch, now sitting normally on it. He could see his father – he was already wearing his winter jacket. From the corner of his eye, sitting on the couch he could see his father’s opened suitcase. Yeah, Dad?

Can you look for the book your mother’s reading? The… He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. … The something, Scott turned and looked up the staircase leading up to the second floor. What book are you reading, hon?

His mother, Nancy, answered back from upstairs. It’s alright, I found it.

Scott turned back around and looked back at James. Never mind, she found it.

As Scott walked over to his suitcase sitting on the couch, Nancy yelled something from upstairs. Are you sure you’re ready to be all on your own James?

Yeah… I think so, James said, loud enough for his mother to hear him. She didn’t respond. James turned his attention back to his father who was putting all his clothes next to his suitcase inside of it. He glanced to his left and looked at James. You sure you don’t want to come with your mother and me? Got one more spot in the car.

James nodded, I’ll be fine, next time though I’ll go.

Scott finished packing his clothes up. He glanced back at James again. Remember – no parties.

I’ll try my best, James said and smiled.

Scott laughed and finished packing up the clothes. He zipped the suitcase closed as he picked it up. Nancy walked down the stairs; Scott turned around as he heard her.

Nancy reached the bottom of the stairs, holding her suitcase in her hands. You ready to go?

Scott turned around and looked back at Nancy. Yeah, I’m all packed. I can warm up the car if you want.

Sure, I’ll be out in a moment. I’ll make sure James knows what to do. Nancy said.

Scott walked over to the door. Before he left, he turned to Nancy. I already told him about the parties, you don’t have to worry about that. He smiled at James before leaving the house and shutting the door behind him.

James looked away from the front door and back to Nancy. James, do you know what to do when you’re home alone? Nancy said, jokingly – James could tell, so he smiled.

Yes, I’ve been home alone before I know what to do. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

Alright – I trust you. But remember lock the doors, don’t answer the doors to strangers, and don’t burn the house down. Alright? Nancy said.

Alright.

There’s money in the cabinet if you want to get pizza or something. Sounds good?

It’s great, thank you, James said, smiling.

Nancy leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. Love you lots. And you’re sure you don’t want to come with us?

I think I’ll be fine. Thank you though.

Nancy smiled. She turned and walked out of the house, giving James one last glance through the window before turning and walking to the car where Scott already sat in the driver’s seat.

Scott put the car into drive, backed out of the driveway, turned, and drove down the road. James watched as the car disappeared behind the trees and bushes, dusted with snow.

A feeling rose in James and fell in an instant, but he still caught it. A feeling of isolation… loneliness… being watched. He shook the feeling off as he got up from the couch. He walked over to the stairs but stopped at the bottom of them. He turned to his left and looked at the backdoor. The deadbolt was turned vertically. Unlocked.

Nancy’s voice rang in the back of James’ mind. He could hear her, loud and clear. But remember lock the doors, don’t answer the doors to strangers, and don’t burn the house down. Alright? James pushed down the feeling, walked up the stairs, and up to his bedroom. As James sat down in his chair at his desk, he remembered the feeling from before… being watched.

As nighttime came, the snowstorm had gotten worse.

James opened his bedroom door and stood in the doorway for a moment – listening to the wind whistling against the house. Down the hallway from James’s bedroom is a window. James turned and looked out the window. Flurries