TODAY WE INTRODUCE GUEST AUTHOR, KAREN K WEAKLEY, WHO IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 2 OF HER NOVEL, 'WHISPERS FROM THE GRAVE'. #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- Eva Bielby
- Dec 28, 2025
- 6 min read
Clouded Details – The Sekhet Saga book 4 – Whispers from the Grave
The process of remembering is the ability to recall the past. In Victor’s case, the past is where he hoped it would all stay. That act of appearing unexpectedly, as one old familiar ghostlike figure did on numerous occasions, had left Victor filled with terror when he first began to understand who he was and what they needed from him. For him, calling something to mind, anything, consisted of six types of ghosts:
One, the ones who returned from the dead with a purpose in mind. Two, the ones who returned following a prolonged period – just because. Three, those who believed themselves were reborn. Four, the spirits who had not passed over. Five, the scared ones, searching for answers to questions, answers Victor did not have. Never had. And the last group, these were the ones he dreaded the most – cruel and wicked to the core, filled with unrestrained mischief, they seemed to seek him out just for the hell of it.
By the time he was ten years old, Victor had already come to detect that distinctive odor of the dead having been brought back to life by a supernatural force. The supernatural performing the ritual had royally messed it up. Those were the ones who wanted to cause the most external punishment to the first poor soul to cross their paths.
At thirteen, Victor had already fled from his first zombie encounter, not two miles from the oval running track at his school. The zombie had violently inflamed sores forming a ripening of pus exploding from under the skin as it shuffled along.
Victor had called it that, because he couldn’t find any differencing marks between man and woman on the creature. It lacked human embodiment, combined with complete irritability, that unrealistic quality that held no regard for others. Especially for Victor. The smell was the first thing he had noticed. That rancid scent that left his eyes watering. That was followed closely by jerking spasms of a foot being dragged unceremoniously.
Hiding behind the large dumpster at the end of the bleachers, Victor had watched in horror, strangely spellbound, yet paralyzed by panic. The moaning and hissing escaping the gray, thinning lips of the creature grew closer. The groan of the undead echoed in Victor’s ears and he closed his eyes tightly. He needed to concentrate, to figure out his next move. A sudden sound from behind him told him he wasn’t alone. Someone was there! Victor thought he would vomit.
Everything he had ever heard from His father Daniel, or read regarding these damned souls, was about their unpredictability. Their overwhelming desire for human flesh, their craving to do violence against anything, or anyone in its path. And then there were the ones under the spell of a supernatural. The ones doing the will of others. The thing behind him, was this the one controlling the creature?
Before he could think of anything, the shadow of a man had exploded out from behind him, into the open. His voice was loud and domineering. Watching the unprecedented violence unfold in front of him, young Victor had felt an overwhelming and astonishing sensation – profound remorse for a useless and feeble thing that was once unquestionably human.
Even though it was at the track, no one else there seemed to have seen what Victor saw. That night, in place of explaining everything to him, his father had dispatched the creature, turned on his heel, placed his hand upon Victor’s shoulder and sighed. By the time he was eighteen, Victor had decided zombies and most humans weren’t much different, where unrealistic qualities were concerned. Serving as an intermediary between the living and dead, the process of paying close and continuous attention had on more than one occasion proved to be a source of great difficulty for Victor.
By the time Victor had entered the Seattle Police Academy, troubled persistently by petty annoyances, he had been bristling with perplexities on a daily basis. His body was stiff and unrelaxed. A posture that screamed ill at ease.
Believing in the existence of realities beyond human comprehension was not wasted on him, but a total failure to understand his father’s inability to prepare him for the world he lived in was mystifying – a failure on Daniel’s part, and one Victor could never forgive. There had been times where Victor had decided that his father resembled the characteristics of a phantom, to only serve as an intermediary between the living and the dead; family came second.
Influenced by charms and incantations, Victor came to realize the relationship of his parents as he grew older. His mother – a kind, soft spoken witch with a prowess for seeing the best in everyone that surrounded her. His father – a powerful man, who for the most part scared the crap out of him. Watching Daniel bring forth spirits, unnatural, twisted limbed bodies for the benefit of the Supernatural World when an occasion arose, was nightmarish for Victor. Until the day came when he himself would do the same for the benefit of his world.
For most, the concept of seeing dead people may have seemed ‘out there’, for Victor, it had been his everyday life for as long as he could recall. Being born with the ability to see what others assumed to be invisible friends was not something he wished on anyone. Not even those he despised. Rapists, murderers – well actually he would enjoy every second if the scum he arrested daily could partake in his little gift.
If Victor had ever had the option to return his talent to his father, he would have in a heartbeat, so many times, yet things had changed. This last year had altered everything, transforming him into the person he knew deep down he really was. Not that Victor would ever admit that to his father.
Like a player taking his turn as permitted by the rules of the game, Victor believed that all natural objects within the universe had souls. That was the animism in him. Yet, several were coerced by violence, influenced by wickedness, to see the outcome of their advantage at all costs. Sekhet being one of them.
The relationship he and Olivia had over the years was transformed after the birth of Aria, their daughter. Nine pounds of screaming fat rolls exploded into his life, and Victor made damned sure he didn’t miss a second of it. Watching intently daily for any signs that his infant daughter could see spirits kept him occupied. While he did that, Olivia laughed it off as his inability to let a sleeping baby sleep – her only respite from feeding, changing, bathing, and wiping spit up milk from her neck.
Things had been going better than Victor had ever thought it could, and while he worried over Olivia’s response to Molly visiting their daughter, nothing major had occurred, bar a slight whispered oath on occasion. Overall, there were no signs of trouble in the little baby, and peace had reigned upon them, a relief, following some of their worst luck, thanks to Sekhet.
The very fact that Sekhet hadn’t shown her face at all meant one of two things. Option #1 – she was still being held captive against her will, or Option #2 – she had already returned to Hell and was behaving herself. Somehow, Victor could only see option #1 as the answer. The indigenous people of Montana wouldn’t have given Sekhet up so quickly, he was sure of it. Both he and Daniel had watched in awe as they had performed a ceremonial dance, following victory, inspired by decades of tradition and struggle. Their screams and cries had reverberated throughout the valley.
One warrior had approached Molly gingerly, examining the wings floating from ribs to hipbones. The warrior’s fingers had gently touched the tuft of small, stiff feathers on her upper right side. Her eyes still had a total absence of light, and Victor couldn’t help but wonder if the Native man would be susceptible to attack, even in his ethereal form.
His touch caused the wings to burst with a violent release of energy, and in one swift motion he was wrapped tightly in a wall of white and silver, extended upward into the darkness of night. His whoops of delight floated through the air, followed by Molly’s unsuppressed laugh. The warriors’ irrational belief, arising from ignorance or fear, that Molly was something befitting Hell, ended in that one glorious moment.
Molly hadn’t spoken of Scurlock for going on a year now. Even though Joe disliked the Demon who fathered the love of his life, Victor knew Joe was concerned about her silence. After all, Joe had spent more time in Hell than Molly, the whole time with Scurlock. He had been the one to snatch Molly from Scurlock’s grasp and Victor knew full well what that alone had done to his partner. During those horrible minutes, he had watched Joe’s life shatter before his eyes.
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BRIEF AUTHOR BIO
Born and reared in Wexford, Ireland. Now living in Cashmere, Washington with her husband, kids and 3 dogs. She has written 13 books, and plays for stage. K K loves to read historical fiction, horror, and fantasy. But, her favorite book has always been Jane Eyre. She loves that people enjoy her stories, and she hopes to never disappoint.
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COMING SOON: On Monday, 29th December, our team member, author Eva Bielby, is sharing an in depth look at her character, James 'Jim' Mortimer. Jim is first introduced in book 2 of 'The Hurt' trilogy ('The Healing') and is also present ithroughout book 3, ('The Scars').
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