Read The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) for Free Online

that turn it on?”
      
“Yes.”
      
“Oh hellooo my darling!” Dee froze, really hoping that there was another
digital voice talking in her house. “I’ve been longing to speak to you.”
      
“Ah you a ghost?”
      
“Yes.”
      
“In my house.”
      
“Yes, and it’s such a pleasure to watch a fine woman like yourself. You make an
old man very happy.”
      
Dee shot a hand out and switched the machine off. “My house is haunted by a
pervert.”
      
“That is one of the unfortunate problems with the machine,” Joe conceded.
      
“Finish your sandwich, then we’ll leave. And I may never take a shower in this
house again.”
     
      
Dee and Joe knew they were on a two hour drive, and the question of what to put
on the stereo arose early on.
      
“What music do you like?” Dee asked, deciding she’d politely cede control of
the tunes considering she’d technically stolen the machine.
      
“I listen to talking mostly, plays, news, debate, that sort of thing, but I do
like a bit of, what, what’s funny?”
      
“You can make a boring subject sound interesting, but you make the radio sound
fucking boring.”
      
“Okay, what do you like?”
      
“Radio 1 mostly.”
      
“They don’t want you after thirty.”
      
“I am nowhere near thirty.”
      
“Just getting you ready.”
      
“Do I look thirty?” Dee peered in the mirror.
      
“No, but,” and his phone announced a new text message.
      
As he checked what his mum was sending, Dee thought aloud. “I know that sound,
I’ve heard that sound somewhere before.
      
“It’s the Tardis materializing.”
      
“Oh, yes, of course, it’s…” she scowled. “Did you ask me out because I look
like one of Doctor Who’s women?”
      
“No,” he spluttered unconvincingly.
      
“Because that would be weird.”
      
“No. I, err, because you’re interesting. And funny.”
      
“Okay then. We’ll stick with funny. And we’ll put Radio 1 on Mr Old Before His
Time.”
      
Conversation was stilted, mostly based around the music, and soon it was very
much night. Then, finally, Dee pulled the car over, and Joe looked around.
      
“Where are we?”
      
“This was where my Dad died.”
      
“We’re in the middle of a road. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
      
“Not everybody dies in a hospital.”
      
“No, but still, and is that a forest?”
      
“I’m sorry my Dad didn’t die in a coffee shop, why are you opening your door?”
      
“So we can go the site?”
      
“I have GPS’d the location. We are here, this is it. The car was parked exactly
here, and I’m where I, well, was. So switch on and let’s get talking.”
      
Joe climbed into the back seat, pulled the machine up from the floor, and put
his hand on the switch. “You recording?”
      
“Just turned on.”
      
“Right, here we go.”
      
“Dad, can you hear me, it’s Dee?”
      
“This isn’t a séance, you don’t have to call them.”
      
“How do you know, you’ve only done this once.”
      
Joe shot back “I’ve done other testing!”
       
What they could hear was a clicking noise, two regular clacking sounds, close
together, then apart, and there seemed to be an odd rhythm to the sounds. “Is
that interference?”
      
“No,” said Joe, plugging in his phone and looking at the data, “we’re picking
this up from the…”
      
It would be difficult to describe the voice they now heard as human, although
it undoubtedly was. It would be impossible to describe it as coherent, because
they were listening to something choppy, fragmented, torn about. In fact torn
was the best word, as if someone had taken a conversation, ripped chunks out
and glued mud spattered remnants together.
      
“Is that your father?” But Dee was frozen, face paler than usual, mouth open.
“Dee, Dee are you alright?”
      
“My Dad. That’s my Dad. What’s happened to