Voices From Beyond (A Ghost Finders Novel) by Simon R. Green Page B
Authors: Simon R. Green
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barely human . . . unnatural. Hearing them was enough to make your blood run cold.
“At first, the engineering staff tried to explain it away as Electronic Voice Phenomena. The radio equivalent of Rorschach ink-blots. The brain imposing patterns on random sounds. Hearing things that weren’t actually there. But what started out as gibberish became increasingly clear. Complete sentences, making more and more sense. Human voices, shouting and pleading, trying desperately to warn us about . . . something. Like the voices we hear in nightmares, full of dreadful significance.
“They weren’t limited to dead air, any more. They started appearing in the middle of broadcasts, breaking into shows, overriding on-air voices. All across the schedule, at every hour of the day and night. No pattern to it, no obvious scheme or agenda . . .
“And then they began appearing on the phone lines. On the phone-in shows. The engineers thought they sounded like genuine callers, and let them through. These . . . voices started having actual conversations with the show hosts. Spooked the hell out of them and their audiences. The conversations didn’t make much sense, but the intent was clearly there. We did everything we could to track down where the voices were coming from. Whether they were signals from some other station, some more powerful signal overriding our own. Or some independent operator, with illegally powerful equipment . . . But the engineers couldn’t identify the sources or keep the voices out. They shut everything down; and the voices still kept coming in . . .
“It was one of our listeners, calling in, who first suggested . . . that what we were all hearing were the voices of the dead. She said she thought she recognised one of the voices as her uncle Paul. Who’d been dead for seventeen years. After that, the floodgates opened. More and more people phoning in, saying they were hearing familiar voices, from their dear departed. They pleaded with us to stop them because they didn’t want to hear what the voices were saying. Some even accused us of perpetrating a vicious hoax . . . Professional psychics and would-be mediums started turning up here, at reception. Offering their services. And I was so desperate by then, I tried some of the more plausible ones. But they ran like hell once they were exposed to the actual voices. Our engineering staff ran off, too. You can’t blame them . . .”
“You said, these voices were trying to warn you,” JC said carefully. “Warn you about what, exactly?”
“It’s never clear!” said Jonathan. “The voices are clear enough, but what they’re saying makes no sense at all. Whoever they are, they sound genuinely desperate. Desperate to warn us about something that’s coming.”
The front door slammed shut behind them, and they all spun round. Something about Jonathan, and his story, had got to all of them. Even the very professional Ghost Finders. Standing in front of the closed front door was a sturdy young woman with a scowling face, spiky crimson hair, extremely distressed jeans, and a T-shirt bearing the message DON’T WASTE MY TIME. One of her grubby white sneakers was held together with a lot of black duct tape. Her round, sulky face held enough metal piercings to make her dangerous to stand near during thunderstorms, along with enough garish make-up to stun an Avon Lady at twenty paces. She glared at them all, impartially.
“I don’t care who you are, the answer’s no!” she said loudly. “And feel free to throw in a few
Go to hells
and
Over my dead bodies
while you’re about it. Now go away and stop bothering me or I’ll drop-kick you through the nearest window.”
“Our receptionist, Sally Walsh,” said Jonathan, resignedly. “Welcome back, Sally. How was your break?”
Sally growled, loudly, and studied each of the Ghost Finders carefully, in turn, paying particular attention to the bloody handprint on the front of JC’s jacket.
“You’re not
“At first, the engineering staff tried to explain it away as Electronic Voice Phenomena. The radio equivalent of Rorschach ink-blots. The brain imposing patterns on random sounds. Hearing things that weren’t actually there. But what started out as gibberish became increasingly clear. Complete sentences, making more and more sense. Human voices, shouting and pleading, trying desperately to warn us about . . . something. Like the voices we hear in nightmares, full of dreadful significance.
“They weren’t limited to dead air, any more. They started appearing in the middle of broadcasts, breaking into shows, overriding on-air voices. All across the schedule, at every hour of the day and night. No pattern to it, no obvious scheme or agenda . . .
“And then they began appearing on the phone lines. On the phone-in shows. The engineers thought they sounded like genuine callers, and let them through. These . . . voices started having actual conversations with the show hosts. Spooked the hell out of them and their audiences. The conversations didn’t make much sense, but the intent was clearly there. We did everything we could to track down where the voices were coming from. Whether they were signals from some other station, some more powerful signal overriding our own. Or some independent operator, with illegally powerful equipment . . . But the engineers couldn’t identify the sources or keep the voices out. They shut everything down; and the voices still kept coming in . . .
“It was one of our listeners, calling in, who first suggested . . . that what we were all hearing were the voices of the dead. She said she thought she recognised one of the voices as her uncle Paul. Who’d been dead for seventeen years. After that, the floodgates opened. More and more people phoning in, saying they were hearing familiar voices, from their dear departed. They pleaded with us to stop them because they didn’t want to hear what the voices were saying. Some even accused us of perpetrating a vicious hoax . . . Professional psychics and would-be mediums started turning up here, at reception. Offering their services. And I was so desperate by then, I tried some of the more plausible ones. But they ran like hell once they were exposed to the actual voices. Our engineering staff ran off, too. You can’t blame them . . .”
“You said, these voices were trying to warn you,” JC said carefully. “Warn you about what, exactly?”
“It’s never clear!” said Jonathan. “The voices are clear enough, but what they’re saying makes no sense at all. Whoever they are, they sound genuinely desperate. Desperate to warn us about something that’s coming.”
The front door slammed shut behind them, and they all spun round. Something about Jonathan, and his story, had got to all of them. Even the very professional Ghost Finders. Standing in front of the closed front door was a sturdy young woman with a scowling face, spiky crimson hair, extremely distressed jeans, and a T-shirt bearing the message DON’T WASTE MY TIME. One of her grubby white sneakers was held together with a lot of black duct tape. Her round, sulky face held enough metal piercings to make her dangerous to stand near during thunderstorms, along with enough garish make-up to stun an Avon Lady at twenty paces. She glared at them all, impartially.
“I don’t care who you are, the answer’s no!” she said loudly. “And feel free to throw in a few
Go to hells
and
Over my dead bodies
while you’re about it. Now go away and stop bothering me or I’ll drop-kick you through the nearest window.”
“Our receptionist, Sally Walsh,” said Jonathan, resignedly. “Welcome back, Sally. How was your break?”
Sally growled, loudly, and studied each of the Ghost Finders carefully, in turn, paying particular attention to the bloody handprint on the front of JC’s jacket.
“You’re not
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