The town of Oakwell is no more: an abandoned and overgrown relic left in the wake of the massacre at Hope House.
When Emma Barrett discovers the secret to Hope House, the evil responds by awakening the deranged Henry Marshall from his catatonic state.
As Emma gathers around her those who can bring an end to the Gogoku curse, a brutal game of cat and mouse begins.
Everything is at stake as the Whisper story reaches its epic conclusion. Blood will be spilled, sacrifices will be made, and redemption will be sought as the survivors of the Oakwell curse go head to head with the malevolent forces which have scourged the lands for centuries…
Voices saw the best selling whisper trilogy conclude and as with the previous installments the book topped the horror charts as it's now rabid fanbase flocked to see exatly how the story ended. It ranked as high as #2 in Horror in the US and UK and like the previous installemnts received great critical acclaim from both readers and reviewers alike.
The tan Mercedes jostled down the rutted dirt road leading to the Hope House hotel, driving through a steady drizzle which had been falling all morning. A thick mist hung in the air, held in place by the overhanging tree canopy which only added to the gloom. Detective Alex Petrov squinted through the windshield, wishing away the headache that had been present since he’d woken up. At thirty-seven years old, the Russian born Californian was already missing the warmth of the sun. Standing an imposing six feet three inches tall, with chiseled features, blond hair and piercing blue eyes, he was one of the best, or at least, that’s what he’d been told prior to being sent to work the Oakwell massacre case. He slowed as he reached the checkpoint, manned by an officer in a rain poncho who looked just as miserable as Petrov felt. Recognizing the detective, the officer waved him through, and he made his way into the hotel car park. Huge lighting rigs had been erected, pushing back the gloom of the day and casting the hotel in an ugly artificial spotlight. His partner, Warren, stood under the entrance awning, shuffling his feet as he smoked. Ten years older than Petrov and showing every one of the strains and stresses of an overworked detective, Warren Bush didn’t look at all happy. Short and balding with dark eyes and skin that was losing the battle against the aging process, he was an acquired taste, and wasn’t very well liked outside those he classed as his friends. Petrov brought the Mercedes to a stop, half wishing he had thought to bring a coat. He exited the car, expensive Italian shoes ruined by the mud as he strode toward the hotel.
“This better be good, Warren,” he said, joining his partner under the covered entrance.
“I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t. Trust me; I don’t like this place any more than you do.”
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Afrikaans
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Already translated.
Translated by Elaine Lubbe
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Paolo Santini
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Spanish
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Kelly Caniglia
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