Writing for Fun
November 2017
Whispers - Pete Norman
It all started as a soft whisper; soft and low. Even in my advancing years, where the high notes appear to be fading further into oblivion with every passing day, I never seem to have trouble with the low registers but this sound was so low that it was almost beyond the level of my hearing.
Every night now I awaken several times – one of the many joys of old age – and each time as I trudge trancelike to the bathroom the whisper is there, all around me, insidious, insistent, seductive but half-awake and more confused than my usual self I can never seem to make any sense of the murmurings.
I know that I can hear the whisperers and I know that I am not dreaming but, just as in a dream, whenever I stop and concentrate then the sound seems to evaporate like a will-o’-the-wisp. The Observer Effect states that the mere act of observing a phenomenon necessarily changes it and in my case this law renders any attempt to identify, categorise or rationalise the sounds utterly futile.
My house is old and like me it creaks and groans as the chill night wind sneaks through the rafters, as the dampness of an English winter seeps through its very bones but I know those creaks and groans, they have been my constant companion and a part of my life for more years now than I care to remember and I know that this manifestation has nothing to do with climactic conditions.
I could probably, as the last few years passed, have accepted all of this absurdity as the rambling of an aging mind, of premature senility creeping on but last night the whispering grew louder. There were voices, many voices, strange ethereal voices, each with its own individual character, resonance and timbre but each one so diffuse as to be unintelligible to my tired brain. As before any attempt to analyse the structure or the meaning was smothered as the words spiralled into the abyss to evade observation.
In a moment of careless foolishness I had the temerity to mention the strange phenomena to my daughter who for a time, which was disturbing in its longevity, put this all down to an extra thick finger of malt whisky at bedtime. However, sweet, compassionate child that she is, she was eventually prepared to accept that I was not descending into the depths of madness and sought to reassure me that everything I had described must have a perfectly scientifically logical explanation.
We parted that night on good terms. I knew that she was concerned for my sanity – as I was myself – but I was still no closer to determining the meaning for my nocturnal hallucinations than I was before. I was truly baffled.
That is the point at which the voices intensified. It was as if an army of spectral beings were holding court directly above my bed, oblivious or indeed unconcerned with the terror they were inducing on the poor terrified soul beneath them. I clasped my hands to my ears in a vain attempt to shut out the hideous clamour but my efforts were worthless. The creatures, or whatever they might be, began pacing the floor, the floor above my head, the floor of the attic where a few random boxes, each filled with possessions from my past existence, were placed to rest until they might assume some further importance in my life.
I could bear it no more. I summoned my daughter and she, quite reluctantly I must say, agreed to come over in an attempt to witness the manifestation herself. I knew full well that her motives, though tinged with concern, were at odds with my own interpretation of the bizarre situation but at this disquieting moment I welcomed the presence of another warm, air breathing human being.
Of course, the Observer Effect takes precedence over a daughter’s love and concern and on her arrival there was utter silence – the whispering had stilled, the ghostly footsteps had ceased. With a degree of patronisation which was not entirely lost upon me she scaled the ladders and peered into the loft space. She announced that the boards were dusty and that the dust was totally unmarked by the feet of mystical nocturnal wanderers. She tucked me up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate and a promise to visit me in the morning, in the bright light of day and to check on my welfare.
She was only one person, one very small person in comparison but the house seemed empty and menacing without her presence. I lay in bed, incapable of even contemplating sleep while I listened for the sounds, for the whispering, for the footsteps.
I was not to be disappointed. As the sound of her car departing from my driveway faded into the white noise of the night the voices returned, the footsteps returned, a cacophony of sound thundered above my head.
I retrieved the ladders from the spare bedroom, I scaled the steps and pushed open the loft hatch . . .