The Whispered Voices Screamed the Truth

By Jack Drew

In this collection of short fiction, author Jack Drew (THE TAKEOVER) invites you to take a walk with him through the darkness which only he knows.

What awaits you, the reader, are nine tales of dark horror that will leave you staring into the darkness at night, wishing the lights were on.

In THE INTERVIEW, we follow an unfortunate soul into a nightmare interview for an even worse job. In THE CLINIC, we find out what happens in the dark corners of one fertility clinic you hope to never be sent. Other tales will send chills down your spine and your hand trembling for the light switch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Drew
• Release date: Apr 17, 2011

Jack Drew

In 2000, I entered two short stories in The Garden State Horror Writers' Association's annual short story contest. One story took Second Place and the other won the Graversen Award for that year. I was informed that no one has ever taken 2nd and 1st place together. After that, I was off and running. I've placed fiction in a bunch of outlets including print anthologies such as TALES FROM A DARKER STATE and DARK NOTES FROM NJ as well as web outlets like HORRORFIND.COM (under Brian Keene's helm) and the IN A FEARFUL STATE e-anthology from the GSHW. I currently reside in Central New Jersey where I split my time between my family and my writing. I've written several novels, all of which will be published in the next year or so from Screaming Aphony Press.

Book preview

THE WHISPERED VOICES

SCREAMED THE TRUTH

by

Jack Drew

THE WHISPERED VOICES SCREAMED THE TRUTH

By Jack Drew

Published by Screaming Aphony Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Jack Drew

Discover other titles by Jack Drew at Smashwords.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Interview

Merchants of Penance

Mother

The Whispered Voices Screamed the Truth

The Length of One Life

The Vote

The Clinic

X914

Messages

This is dedicated to my two sons, Matthew and Logan.

You two bring more sunshine into my darkness than you'll ever know.

Introduction

Of the television show Mystery Science Theater 3000, creator Joel Hodgson is famous for saying, When we write a joke, we never ask, ‘Who’s gonna get this?’ We always say, ‘The right people will get this’. And, in watching any given episode of the show, there are tons of jokes my friends and I would laugh at. And tons of jokes we'd scratch our head at.

The point is, the writers were unforgiving in their relentless pursuit of the laugh.

For authors, the same kind of logic applies to our stories. A good author, one that is crafting solely for the art of crafting a story, shouldn't ask Who's gonna get this?. Unfortunately, some of the greatest literature of the world has been lost to the great bit bucket by this very question. I guarantee half the writers of the world have thrown away perfectly good stories because they asked that question of themselves. And I guarantee half of you readers are guilty of the same sin and are nodding your head right now.

That's all right, Dear Reader. We all do it.

I'm guilty of it, too, my Brothers.

But there are a few stories contained in this collection that I didn't bother to ask that question. I didn't stop to over-analyze the implications of what I wrote. I didn't stop to think how marketable certain stories were. I just wrote them. I stopped the voices in my head for a short while, concentrated on putting the words banging around my noggin down on paper and that is all. Those stories are sometimes more complex than those I ordinarily write. Some of them are far more simple—and lethal.

I'm extremely proud of those stories, regardless. They were challenging to write. They challenge the reader to dig a little deeper and find some meaning to various parts of the story.

On several occasions, I've had an editor respond to a submission of mine, unsure of whether to reject the story or not. Either they don't get it or can't understand the premise of the story. To them, I've responded, I'm sorry. The story is what it is and stands on its own.

I don't write a story asking Who's gonna get this?. Instead I write a story saying, The right people will get this.

So, a word of caution about this collection of stories. Some of them you are going to get. Some of them you are not. Hopefully, either resolution will leave you happy you read the stories.

-Jack

Mar 2011

I spend a great deal of my waking hours in the corporate world. That fast-moving rat race that gives other people a big, fat paycheck and leaves them dead at early ages from heart attacks and other stress-related issues. I work in IT, which means I get asked more to fix someone's computer at home than I get asked at work. Disdain is flung upon IT workers for the most part by those that pay them and smiles are expected from those that don't. As such, I've always held much burning hate for the corporate world. I feel it sucks the soul from you and leaves you a hollow shell.

However, there are those that simply feel its better to accept the bigger paychecks and check their souls at the door. As is the case with this young protagonist ...

The Interview

The corporate ladder dangled in front of me, just out of reach, tantalizing, teasing. I just needed to get one hand on it and I could handle the rest. One foot, that’s all. Just a step up.

I hated the interviewer on the spot but I knew enough to keep my mouth shut. I needed this job-badly.

He was a disheveled, short, portly man, probably in his early forties. His hair, which had receded far, very far from his forehead, was askew, sticking up this way and that. He looked like a mugging victim.

As he reached out to shake my hand, a coughing fit overcame him and he doubled over, covering his mouth with his hand. He had one of those deep, wet, lunger coughs that only ancient smokers and the dying seem to have. He heaved violently and loosed a great gob of phlegm. I winced and thought the poor bastard was going to keel over right there and then.

Eventually, the coughing subsided and he straightened up, his hand outstretched in greeting. I hesitated only a moment before grasping the hand-the very same hand-in my own and pumping it twice.

He introduced himself as Mr. Stengle.

Glad you could make it, George. We always like to see promptness in our employees. Hell, some of them even stay overnight just so they’re here early! He laughed a rasping cackle and waved me into his office.

It was dark and cool. The blinds had been drawn and a single lamp, soft and dull, sat on his desk. The light from the small bulb was devoured by the surrounding shadows.

I took the chair in front of Mr. Stengle’s desk. It was extremely uncomfortable and creaked as I settled into it. A nail stuck into my back and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

Stengle seemed not to notice. He sat down and glanced over my resume.

Well, George, it seems that you have some very impressive qualifications, here. He looked up from the paper in front of him. Been working the fry vat at Royal Burger for four years, eh? What’s the matter? No retards in the outreach program available lately?

I felt my face redden and straightened up in my chair. The nail dug into my back again and I bit back a yelp.

Uh, actually, sir, I’ve been assistant manager there for two years.

He stared at me, a blank expression on his face.

Right, he said, but drew it out so it came out sounding like "raaaaaaaaaahhhhhht".

He went back to scowling at my paper and I looked around the room nervously, searching for something—anything—to focus my attention on. I was starting to get really nervous.

I didn’t like Stengle. Something about him didn’t sit right with me.

Well, he said, getting up from his desk. There’s no real point in talking any further.

My heart sank. I’d screwed it up. I needed this job so bad and I’d completely messed it up.

Damn.

Stengle walked around the desk and swept his arm towards the door. Let me give you the tour, George. I’d like you to see the place.

What was this? What the hell was he pulling? Why would he take me around the place if I were being rejected? That was certainly odd.

We stepped out of his office and walked down a long, narrow hallway. The fluorescent lights above flickered on and off in random patterns like some strange type of Morse Code. The tiled floor was scuffed and old, beaten by the footsteps of many—the countless souls who’d tread there before me. The soiled wallpaper was blistered and peeled in long ribbons that curled and rested on the floor. The building didn’t strike me as particularly old when I had walked in off the Trenton streets, but here inside it was ancient. The musty odor of long-ignored dust carried heavy in the air. It reminded me of my old grade school.

Stengle walked me down the hall past a line of identical unmarked doors and stopped before one.

This is our Human Resources Department, he announced. The pride in his voice was prominent. The door swung open into the dark room and I felt terror curl up and hide in the pit of my stomach.

They were lined up in three rows, six deep.

Each member of the Human Resources Department sat at their desk—mostly men, but a handful of women, as well. Each had the same blank expression on their face: boredom and apathy. Their computer terminals cast their gaunt faces in sallow light and their heavily shadowed eyes were glassed over, vacant.

They did not move.

They did not blink an eye.

They simply sat there.

Small, thin cables protruded from their computer terminals and were inserted in their forearms, like an IV. I could see brackish fluid