The Voices that Call Out

I dashed through the large threshold of the plantation, my sneakers slapping against the polished, hardwood floors. I stopped still just in front of what must be the concierge desk and gazed all around me. The last time I had stood in this lavish foyer was the night of my senior prom. That night, it had appeared  vibrant and happy, but now the faces in the oil paintings on the walls seemed sallow and angry. To say the silence was unsettling would be an understatement of great magnitude.

"Drake? Lydia?" I called out, my voice shaking. I instantly wished I had kept my mouth shut for fear that a black-eyed figure would emerge from one of the many, ornate corridors. I heard footsteps coming from above. I couldn't decide whether to turn and dash back out the door, or brace myself to fight.

Step, step, step.

Boom, boom, boom.

The footsteps and my heartbeat seemed to be in rhythm with one another. It sounded like a dirge.

Much to my relief, the figure that came walking around the banister was familiar. It was Drake.

I couldn't help but be overjoyed at the sight of another person and I flung myself on him in relief. His shirt was soft and his warmth and musk sent a wave of security shooting through my body. Malcolm had always been a bit whiny, Drake was the kind of man who could protect you.

I pulled back, embarrassed, and looked into his eyes. They were still vibrant and aqua, not a hint of black aside from his pupils.

"Where's Lydia?" I questioned, searching around for the mysterious woman.

"She's up in the suite meditating. She said she needed to prepare before she could speak with you tonight," Drake informed me.

"Speak with me about what, exactly?" I asked, with the slightest tone of irritation in my voice. This was not the time to beat around the bush. The whole town had gone to hell and everyone was either dead, missing, or running around with those blacked out eyes.

Drake only gave me a deadpan look and beckoned for me to follow him up the stairs. He led me around the banister and into a gaudily-decorated hallway, adorned with patterned curtains and large, still-life paintings. The plush carpeting felt nice on my feet and I had to remind myself that this was no time to let my guard down. We finally came to a large, oak door with two golden handles. Drake went to open it, but first turned back to me and gazed very seriously into her eyes.

"You need to believe what she tells you."

With that, he turned the handle delicately and coaxed the door open so that it would not make even the slightest creak. I trailed in behind him to see Lydia kneeling on the floor, holding a match up to a candle. Books lay strewn around her and a sitting groove had been worked into a throw pillow laying in the center of the clutter.

"I told him you hadn't died," She informed me without casting a glance in our direction. "Now, come and sit. We don't have much time."

I took her brief instructions and crawled down onto the red, velvet carpet across from her. She returned to her perch in her chair and though her icy-blue stare met my gaze, I could tell that she was seeing somewhere else, far-off.

"I have always been the way I am," She began.

"My earliest memories are sitting by myself... and then they would come to me. Some were weary... Some were scared... Some were just angry at the world.

 "My poor mother struggled with me so much. She insisted to me that I stop playing my little games, that I was growing too old for imaginary friends... As if I could have imagined such things. She would pass by my bedroom sometimes, and see me whispering to the dust in the air.

 "I don't think she ever truly believed me until one early morning, as we sat eating our breakfast, I asked her, 'Mommy, grandmother wants to know why you're still smoking.'

'Grandmother is gone sweetheart. She passed away, remember?' She soothed me, believing it was just my own way of grieving.

'I know, mommy,' I told her. 'But she says you promised her before she died that you would quit smoking and she wants to know why you haven't,' I explained as if she were an idiot for not understanding.

'Did she?' My father asked her, puzzled.

'Yes, but...' My mother stammered. 'I never told her that,' she breathed, looking at me with fear in her eyes.

"That's when she knew what I had accepted as truth what I had always known. The visitors in my room were no figments of my imagination. The whispers from beyond my walls were not mere warning signs of mental illness.

"I was, and still am, a medium."