WHISPER TO ME
A vengeful ghost - a new wife - not a good mix.
A short extract from the book and a little teaser - readers of previous books will get a little surprise towards the end of the book.
It was 3.30.p.m. when Sheena returned and as she opened the front door the house seemed to take a deep breath. There was music coming from somewhere, more specifically singing, unaccompanied. She must have left the radio on but then she didn’t remember having had it on. Where was Shandy? The dog usually came to greet her. The cat sauntered past with its perpetual air of disgust as though it was far superior to her and the singing continued. It must be Saskia home from work early but where was her car, and Saskia didn’t sing, she scowled. It must be next doors, but there was no car in their drive either; they must still be at work. The TV?
She closed the front door behind her and peeped into the living room but no, it was off, and the singing continued. Where was it coming from? She heard a whimper come from the kitchen and went in to see Shandy lying in her bed trembling. At the sight of Sheena the dog wagged the end of its tail and trotted out around her ankles.
“What is it baby?” Sheena crooned picking the animal up. She could feel it trembling in her hands. “What’s frightened you?” Shandy whimpered again and licked Sheena’s face and still the singing continued. Sheena stood and listened, her heart racing. It was a woman’s voice singing The Carpenter’s, We’ve Only Just Begun, a popular wedding song of the 70’s. The voice wasn’t as soulful as Karen Carpenter’s but sweeter, lighter. She moved to the stairs and looked up. It was louder from this point. She put her foot on the first step, then the second. The singing grew louder still, hope filled words yet they sent chills down her spine. Sheena reached the landing and Shandy whimpered again. She stopped, listening above the drumming of her heart in her ears. It was coming from one of the bedrooms. It must be a CD of Saskia’s. She gingerly opened the door and peered in. No sound came from there but the singing went on. It was coming from their bedroom, hers and Theo’s. She touched the door handle lightly as though it were seeringly hot and let it go, pushing the door so that it yawned wide. The voice was louder, coming from no specific source, if anything it seemed to seep from the walls, then as she stepped into the room it stopped. The room was heavy with the scent of lavender. Sheena stood for a moment shaking, choked by the fragrance, then rushed over and flung the windows open before dashing from the room and slamming the door behind her.
“What did you make of that Shandy?” she said nervously and the dog licked her face, reassuring her with its living touch. She forced herself to check all of the upstairs rooms, for what she didn’t know, but she opened all of the windows as if that could dispel whatever had been trapped in there, then she went downstairs and put the kettle on. She put the dog down to free her hands but it never left her ankles, needing to be close to her. The mugs were on the draining board where she’d left them that morning and as she reached for one her eyes caught the washing up bowl in the sink and she almost dropped it in horror. In the scummy film of the dying suds on the surface of the flat dishwater were three words, as though someone had trailed a finger through: ‘Theo is mine.’
