Whisper, whisper

WHISPER, WHISPER.

‘Do you ever get the feeling that you are being watched?’

‘I’m sorry, but what sort of a question is that?’

‘It’s the sort of question I just asked you.’

‘Well, I refuse to answer it. It is an inappropriate question.’

‘Generally, when a person refuses to answer a question, it alludes to us that there may be some truth to the question. I mean, a person like you, with all your wit and charm, must attract a great number of followers, both literally and figuratively. But a few of those many, just a tiny number, has a deadly dose of crazy.’

‘This is ludicrous...this interview is over...’

*

In Hugh’s mind, that was the worst interview he had ever done. His answers, he deemed, were okay, considering the fact that the interviewer was an incompetent arsehole who asked the creepiest of questions. Questions that were completely unrelated to why he was actually there.

He pushed his hands through his sandy hair and sighed deeply as he stared at the coffee his secretary had left him.

He knew that his PR team would be, well, unhappy would be a huge understatement, about him leaving that damn interview the way he did, but what was he meant to do? Sit there and answer those damn questions? Like hell he was!

He understood, hell he expected, to be asked questions along those lines when he first started out in the writing industry. He wrote psychological thrillers that primarily focused on people who were being watched, or thought that they were being watched. Paranoia, Hugh believed, would be horrid to have, but boy oh boy, was it brilliant to write about!

But now, after all these years, with five novels and two short story collections to his name, why should he have to put up with being asked those questions?

“The media and the general public have a strong fascination with writers who write the scariest stories. They want to know what made the writer want to write such terrifying stories. Did something traumatic happen during their childhood?”

Hugh couldn’t recall where he had heard that quote, or if someone had told him, but even to this very day, it rang true. His mother and father would ask him why he wanted to write such disturbing stories. Hugh thought this over every single time before he graced them with his answer, and much to his parents’ disappointment, his answer was always the same: I don’t know. His parents, especially his mother, would fret that she or Hugh’s father had done something to upset Hugh’s childhood which, in turn, directed him toward the path of being a writer of psychological thrillers. He told his parents, vehemently, that they had done nothing wrong; that they were wonderful, that they still are.

‘SSSHHHYHHHSSS.’

Hugh’s wandering thoughts came to a halt. He heard a whisper. Or was it a whooshing noise, Hugh wasn’t sure. But it was definitely someone’s voice.

‘SSSHHHYHHHSSS.’

The whispering was right in Hugh’s ear now. He couldn’t get rid of it. A thought of momentary clarity dawned on him: it was that damn interviewer; that damn interviewer with his stupid creeper questions was screwing with him.

The heat was rising in Hugh’s face. His temper and frustration was coming to the boil.

‘Where the hell are you, you bastard?’ Hugh screamed.

Still the whispers swarmed around him, sending him hurtling around in angry, drunken circles.

‘I know you’re here. I heard your whispers circling around my head.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘There you are, you arsehole! I knew you’d show your face. I’ve had about enough of you and your questions. Why are you following me?’ Hugh screamed.

‘You said that no one was following you.’

‘That was then,’ Hugh took a deep breath, ‘this is now. You are fucking following me, so get the fuck out before I clobber you one.’

Hugh was running around his apartment, looking for the person that was screwing with him. To be specific, he was after that ‘damn interviewer.’ And Hugh, Hugh was ready to kill that bastard. He actually felt like he wanted, that he needed, to kill that interviewer so he could live in quiet serenity.

Hugh staggered into the bathroom, looking hungrily in all directions for the interviewer. He picked up the old school razor he used to shave. It glinted as he slashed it around in front of him.

‘Where are you hiding, you piece of shit? I know you’re here somewhere!’

‘I’m right here, Hugh. Why so angry?’

Hugh turned and looked at the bathroom mirror.

’There you are, you bastard. I’ve got you now,’ Hugh murderously screamed.

‘You’ve got me now, Hugh,’ the voice replied. ‘All you’ve got to do is kill me, and then you’ve won.’

‘And I will always win,’ Hugh spat as he smashed the mirror to smithereens, and drove the knife into the interviewers neck.