Whispers of the Damned: See Series Book 1
Jamie Magee
Copyright © 2010 Jamie Magee
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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authorjamiemagee.com
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ONE
EDGE SERIES READING ORDER
Alphas Rise
Dark Lure
Sacred Betrayal
Risen Lovers
Fall of Kings
Queens Rise
COMBINED WEB OF HEARTS AND SOULS READING ORDER:
Insight
Embody
Image
Whispers of the Damned
Witness
Vital
Vindicate
Synergy
Enflame
Redefined
Rivulet
Imperial
Blakeshire
Derive
Emanate
Exaltation*
Disavow
The Witches
Revolt
Scorched Souls
*If you are a fan of Adult Paranormal Edge can be read with the Web of Hearts, before of after Exaltation--the stories share the same characters.
INSIGHT READING ORDER:
Insight
Embody
Image
Vital
Vindicate
Enflame
Rivulet
Imperial
Blakeshire (Drake's Story)
Emanate
Exaltation
Disavow
SEE READING ORDER:
Whispers of the Damned
Witness of a Broken Heart
Synergy of Souls
Redefined Love Affair
Derive (Aden's Beginning)
A Lovers Revolt
Scorched Souls
CONTEMPORARY NOVELS
Deploy
Disengaged
Impulsion
Friction
Love is a sweet tyranny, because the lover endureth his torments willingly. ~Proverb
I know the answer to a question that’s plagued every generation.
Is there life after death...?
We all want to know the answer. At the same time we don’t. Fear stops us from absorbing the reality of this query. I’m not talking about heaven or hell. What you believe or what I believe. I don’t care to debate myths, ancient or modern. I will not dispute how the mystic has represented itself in every story we recount to the generation that befalls our own.
We all know the unexplained is real. And we all know how to turn our head and go about our busy lives, acting as if the body we haunt is immortal and the crisis of today is more valuable than the state of our soul.
When we lose someone the brutal truth of mortality stills us. It focuses our attention on the moments we let pass as if they were ordinary. Some take this lesson to heart; they change for the better—after their sorrow hurts less, that is. Others don’t.
Death touches everyone.
Only few have seen behind the veil that lies between the unknown and us. Some are cursed with this vision. They feel the residual vibration of our ancient world. Some cringe in agony. They draw in as they feel the artic chill of a spirit loom closer. Emotions overtake them. Their senses are stimulated to a point where their minds shape what others cannot see. I’ve watched ‘sensitive souls’ channel a spirit so violently that their life were hanging by a thread.
For every cursed soul who cannot ignore the thin veil they sense draping our perception, there are others seeking answers. Hunters—callers. Each of these paranormal investigators can tell you the exact moment when they turned from a skeptic to a believer. Fear resonates in the tone of their voice, the glint in their eyes, how they draw their arms close to their body and stare into nothing. Sometimes I think they hunt to prove to themselves they’re not crazy.
I’d imagine very few have convinced themselves they were mistaken. The truth is, the more you look, the more you see. When you open a door, the unknown will step through. Like in our world, the wicked show the least shyness. I’ve found most of those beings are petrified. When death came they rooted themselves in our plane of existence fearing the hell they were sure their acts deemed them worthy for. No one wants that kinda zip code.
For them, forming attachments to dwellings, artifacts, people—they adore paranormal hunters almost as much as sensitive souls—it means survival.
I’m not a sensitive or a hunter calling out to the dead, not really.
They called me.
I can’t recall a time when I didn’t notice the dead. Even before I started to look for others like my crew and myself I knew I was different. I knew to act as if I never perceived the hidden world lacing through my own.
My crew...
Two of my best friends and the guy I knew was cut from my soul have always been there. Our families were friends and had lived through their own tragedies long before we were ever an idea.
My crew is like me.
Kinda, at least. We all hear the darkest of souls whisper around us. We’ve all found our own way to deal with it. When we call out to the dead, when we glare down the darkness—we never see—sense the same thing. Madison sees and feels the emotions of the souls, she knows what kind of shade they’re throwing—what they really mean. Aden sees every missed chance to the path of righteousness the souls feel was robbed from them. His twin, my guy, Draven, sees the evil corners of the damned—he feels the torment of the damned and its victims—every moment that shocked the soul, or lead to it.
I see it all. I can absorb an entire life in a glimpse.
We say what we see, the highlights at least, a word here or there. If the damned don’t want to be, if they take a second to remember they were not meant to be, they’ll move on when they hear us.
For a long time we only watched. Spirits hate that. I can’t blame them. No one likes to be ignored. I’m pretty sure it was sometime right after puberty they attacked first. They knew then that we’d passed the threshold of awareness childhood gives us all, and we were still staring them down, daring not to tremble—even when the
room was so cold our breath fogged from our lips and our skin hurt from the layers of chills.
This attack destroyed more than our innocence, it forced us to tell our parents what we could do. I often ponder if they were surprised at all. It’s so hard to know, especially with my mom. She’s a pro at staying busy with her all too important career. She likes to point out how she’s a single mom and I should be grateful for all she’s done for me. I don’t talk about the dead with her. I know better.
It hasn’t been an easy road since the first attack. Every day I felt something drawing closer and every single day I felt less prepared for it. No matter how much research I did, I came up with more questions. When I couldn’t find answers in the lore recorded in myths across the globe I turned to the damned. The more ancient of a damned soul I crossed, the longer I held on to them.
Mostly my crew and me see the life the damned lived in their mortal body. Rarely do they show us what they see and know now. By accident a year or so ago, I saw into the life the damned lived as a spirit. Masses of spirits were pushing against the space between them and us. The spirit I helped witnessed others being obliterated. They turned into a mist and then drew into a current of air, vanishing like something inhaled them. The vibe around the most feared souls was drenched in shock as they all shrank back. I sensed something powerful looming around them—herding them like cattle, farming them for the only possession they had—their vim, the dwindling energy of their souls.
What could make the damned quiver? This was my question and my quest. I never openly said it, or really explained what I saw. I didn’t have to.
My crew and me see more than the lives of the dead. We can see into the lives of the living too. It’s easier when we do it by accident, when we just go with what our gut tells us about someone around our space. When we try, to really peer into someone, it’s hard to believe you’re really seeing their life and not something your overactive imagination made up. When you ask if what you saw is legit—it freaks people out, you get that whole ‘how did you know that?’ look that makes you feel like a creep.
Most times, we don’t ask. I don’t know about the others, but I really don’t ‘look’ unless it’s the first time I meet someone. Once I decide they’re cool, or if I want them to keep steppin’ I try not to look again. I mean, I’m pretty much invading their personal space when I do.
With my crew, if I’m worried about them, I look. If they want me to see what’s up, they’ll leave their walls down long enough for me to see what they can’t say.
I’d left my walls down, at least halfway, when I started to wonder why it felt like no matter how many souls we helped we never seemed to cleanse an area—not even the ones we went to every day. I silently invited my crew in on this discussion topic. When I started to find answers I had no choice but to slowly raise my wall higher every day.
I’d broken a cardinal rule. I opened a door and left it unguarded. I sought an enemy I wasn’t ready to understand. One I wasn’t equipped to defend myself from.
This tragic mistake stole everything from me.
They tried to erase me. I know that now, but I didn’t when I found myself in the ER...ago.
Is there life after death...?
Yes. Only someone wants me to forget there is, or rather, become petrified of those who lurk there.
SIX Days Ago
