Ulrich stopped the recording on his phone, nodding absently and glancing over his shoulder. “I heard it. I heard the tapping.”
“You did?” Nancy tugged on the hem of her pajama top. “Who was doing it? Did you see them?” She craned her neck, looking out across the back yard. “Where did they go?”
A sudden gust set the trees in the area flapping. To the detective, who'd steadied himself against the siding, the fluttering of foliage sounded almost like the patter of a dozen feet all fleeing into the imposing darkness. “I don't know,” he finally admitted. Then, giving the phone in his hand a shake, he added, “I was recording the whole time, but I didn't see anyone.”
Nancy frowned. “You heard the tapping but you didn't see anyone?” With a sigh, she leaned in the corner of the window. “So, what does that mean? Were you the one doing the tapping?”
Ulrich shook his head, motioned at the back door. “No. Let me show you what I mean. I'm sure I captured the tapping on video. Maybe, somewhere in there, I got a glimpse at the culprit, too. Though...” He stopped short. Already, he had a pretty good idea of what he'd find in that recording.
As Nancy opened the back door and let him in, Ulrich couldn't help but take one last look into the yard. I have a bad feeling about this...
Heading into the kitchen, the two of them sat down at the table. Ulrich queued up the video on his phone. “Let's see what we've got here...”
When Nancy had pulled up a chair next to him, he let it play.
8
“I... I don't get it,” she said, raking a hand through her brown tangle of hair.
Ulrich was silent for a time.
“How is this possible?” She slumped in her seat.
Rather than answer her, Ulrich simply held the phone out and played the video again.
It was a brief thing—just over three minutes, all told—and featured his heavy, awkward breathing as a soundtrack. At the start of the clip, Ulrich had stepped past the curb and towards the fence. The darkness in this first pan had been impenetrable, making any survey of the yard through the camera a fruitless exercise.
But when he'd made it within a few paces of the window—and captured the curious, disembodied tapping on video—things got interesting. As they rewatched it, Ulrich held up a finger at that part, pantomiming in time with the audio. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“But...” Nancy leaned so close to the phone that she nearly bumped it with her nose. “There's no one there! How can there be tapping at the window if—”
Ulrich shook his head. “Keep watching.”
The video played on. Awhile later, a second bout of tapping was heard. Then, the bedroom light could be seen to come on in the window and the production hastily ended. But—unbeknownst to him at the time—Ulrich had caught a fleeting glimpse of something interesting just before he'd stopped recording. Nancy had missed it on their first viewing, but Ulrich had not, and it was the reason he presently held the phone with a white knuckle grip, the reason he couldn't keep his stomach from twisting into knots, or his feet from shuffling nervously against the linoleum.
He paused the video, and then, wincing at the screen, held the phone closer to her. “There. In the window.”
Nancy took the phone from him and studied the frame, captured a second or so before Ulrich had finished recording. It took her a minute, but when she finally noticed what the detective was driving at, she looked up at him and nearly dropped the phone on the table. “Now, what the hell is that?”
A reflection had been captured in the window—a reflection besides the detective's.
Ulrich squinted at the figure pictured there. Whether the blurriness was part of its design or merely a happy accident that spared him its full grotesquerie, he couldn't say. The effect was nonetheless bone-chilling.
What they saw in the video was the reflection of an unknown individual, a woman, it seemed, holding what looked to be a red umbrella. The scarlet color of the accessory was the most striking bit of the image, though due to the camera quality and the unsteadiness of Ulrich's recording, it looked more like a pinkish blur. White fists were locked around the handle of the thing; spindly arms joined these to a rag-garbed body. A few tendrils of black, wiry hair were visible. These hovered in the air as though plagued by a wild breeze.
And then there was the face.
The face that glared from his phone reminded him of Munch's The Scream, if only in its paleness and expression. The visage was largely blurred, but despite its distortion a pair of black eyes and a mouth left open in a yawning shriek could be gleaned without much difficulty. The rest of the face lacked detail, as though the subject had moved very suddenly at the moment of recording. The countenance was distorted like an image glimpsed on a wet bathroom mirror.
Finally, when he'd gotten his fill, Ulrich set the phone down. He even went to the trouble of exiting the camera app and flipping the device facedown. “I don't know what that is,” he said, scratching hard at his scalp, leaving his greying hair sticking out in messy licks. “But I can tell you one thing with certainty. As I walked up, taking this video, I didn't see anyone else—much less this person—with my own two eyes.”
Nancy teetered on the edge of her chair, staring at the floor. “How is that possible, though? You were right there at the window, and you kept looking around. You would have seen them—unless you're half-blind, there's no way you could miss someone standing that close to you.”
The detective cracked his knuckles, the joints popping noisily in the resulting quiet. He could only offer a shrug. “You looked out the window right about then,” he muttered. “You would have seen them, at least briefly. Maybe you'd have only caught them running off, but...”
“I didn't,” she admitted. “It's true, I opened the blinds, but I didn't see anyone there.”
“And yet,” he replied, jabbing the back of the phone with an accusatory finger, “there they are.”
Neither party had much to say for awhile. Nancy stood after some minutes and began rifling through one of her cupboards, drawing out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. “I need a drink.” She poured a generous portion into both vessels and brought them over, offering one to the detective.
“No thanks,” replied Ulrich. “I don't drink.”
When she'd dumped Ulrich's portion into her own glass and sucked down a few steadying sips, she relaxed enough to smirk. “I don't know what's weirder—this ghostly face at my window or a PI that doesn't drink. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
A ghostly face. Yes, he thought, that was the right way to describe it. Massaging the bridge of his nose, Ulrich looked to the curtained kitchen window and wondered what lurked in that deep night just outside. “While I was out there,” he began, “I felt a little strange. There was an unseasonal cold, and... Well, it could just as easily have been one of your neighbors, but I felt almost like I was being watched out there. I certainly didn't feel alone.”
“That's no neighbor of mine,” replied Nancy, pointing at the phone and taking another sip. “But who could it have been?”
“Who... or what?” replied the investigator.
“I don't follow.”
“The thing you and I have just seen in this video isn't flesh and blood,” he insisted. “We're looking at something that shouldn't exist.” His throat felt dry, and for an instant he almost wanted to forego his ban on alcohol. “You could call it a lot of things. A phantom. A specter. A...”
“A ghost?” Nora loosed a bourbon-soaked breath and rested both of her elbows on the table. “I haven't had enough to drink to believe that.”
Ulrich chuckled darkly. “Well, I'm sober as they come, and as it so happens I know what I'm talking about.” He sighed, resting his head on the table. “I'd hoped to be done with this sort of thing. To never encounter something like this again. If I'd known it was this kind of job, I wouldn't have taken it.” He paused. “No offense.”
“Wait,” she asked, tapping his shoulder, “you mean to say you believe
in this sort of thing—that you've worked cases with... ghosts?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying.” He sat up, counting on his fingers. “There was the case in Moonville, the Exeter House in downtown Toledo...” He trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut as though he wanted to forget whatever he was visualizing. “We all have a history, you know? For a long time, I worked standard cases like any PI. But then, at some point, people started bringing me work of a different kind. Oh, on the surface it all seemed legit—cut and dry. But when things got messy, I found myself facing these sorts of things—things that go 'bump' in the night—with regularity. I must have worked a dozen or so of these unnatural cases before I couldn't take it anymore.” He licked his lips. “That was why I left Toledo. Every case was coming up strange, and I was sick of it. Figured the city was cursed, so I moved away. Guess I owe the Glass City an apology, eh?” He managed a weak smile; it was short-lived.
“Why didn't you mention this before?” asked Nancy, nursing her drink.
“Why? Well, isn't it obvious? Who wants to hire a lunatic PI? People—most of 'em—don't believe in the supernatural. In fact, most folks are more than a little skeptical. If I put something like ghost-hunting or demon-chasing on my resume, I'd never get a good job offer again. It seemed easier to just skip town and set up shop somewhere else. And yet, here we are...”
“Is this the part where I fire you?” asked Nancy with a grin.
“I don't blame you if you think I'm nuts,” was his reply. “You wouldn't be the first. People have canned me for less.”
“Is that why you don't drink? Because you see things when you hit the bottle?”
“No,” he said. “My father was a drunk and I swore I'd never touch the stuff, that's all. It has nothing to do with the supernatural. Hell, when I do see something of this kind, I find myself wishing that I did drink.”
Nancy nodded. “All right, so what now? Say it really is a ghost or spirit or whatever. What'll we do?”
The detective sat back, crossed his legs. “Frankly, not much has changed. You're still being stalked by someone. That someone just isn't corporeal. The plan itself remains more or less the same: Figure out who it is and why they're hounding you.”
“Shit.” She raised her glass and emptied it. Then, nodding at his phone, she asked, “May I see it again? The face in the window? I just can't believe this. There has to be some other explanation...”
Begrudgingly, Ulrich queued up the shot and surrendered the phone, taking great care not to look at it any longer than necessary.
Nancy studied it a long while, her teeth set on the edge of her glass. “I've never seen anything like this. Why me? I've... I've lived in this house for years and never experienced such a thing.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “You mean to tell me that these sorts of things really happen? That... people see ghosts outside of the movies? I still don't believe it. It's too out there, you know? But then... Marc couldn't find the person who broke in last night—it was like they vanished in a puff of smoke. And... my doors were locked, but somehow they still got in. Maybe it is something paranormal. It would explain a lot. But... why me? What could it want?”
He had no choice but to revisit the video. Pointing out a detail on screen, he quickly averted his eyes from it and said, “The umbrella there. This woman looks like the one in your painting, doesn't she?” He picked up the phone and started out of the kitchen. Leading her into the living room, he stood before the dreary landscape and brought the phone up to the canvas. There, he compared the figure in his video to the one in the painting. “Red umbrella, black hair, pale skin...”
Nancy held her breath, gaze jumping between screen and canvass. “What in the world? But how can that be?” She looked pleadingly at the detective, jostled his arm. Her cheeks were flushed. “Are you saying that this bitch has been crawling off the canvas every night to tap at my window?” She laughed, massaged her forehead. “You know, last night, while I was waiting for Marc to arrive, the same thing occurred to me. The red umbrella—it's a hell of a coincidence. But I refused to believe it, it's just too insane!”
“It is unbelievable.” Ulrich stuffed the phone into his pocket. “But the resemblance is too striking to ignore. There must be a connection. When did you first bring this painting home?”
“Uh...” Nancy hiccoughed, pressing the empty glass to her brow. “It's been a few days—three or four.”
“Where did you come across it?”
She paused to think. “Someone came by and pawned it—a woman. I don't remember who, but I'm sure I've got her name in my records back at the shop.”
“Do you know anything else about it?” pressed the detective. “How old it is, who painted it?”
Nancy started to speak, then hesitated. “I... I don't remember who painted it, but they're local. I can't remember his name right now.” She frowned. “I think it starts with an S. It's Stephen... something. I can look into that.”
“All right, then.” Ulrich stretched till his hands nearly brushed against the ceiling. “Tomorrow, at your earliest convenience, get me the artist's name, along with the name of the person who sold you the painting. When I've got that info, I'll see what I can dig up with it.”
“Sure,” she replied, following him to the door with a wary look in her eyes. “So, are you going to stay out there, keeping watch? Or...”
Ulrich shook his head. “No, I'm heading home for the night. There's no sense in my sticking around. If I were a betting man, I'd say that there's little chance of her turning up at your window again tonight. She came, did her thing, and then took off. She'll probably be back tomorrow, though. And so will I, when I've done some digging on that.” He hiked his thumb at the painting and then pulled open the door, stepping out. “Call me as soon as you know something. And get some rest. It's going to be a long day, I think.”
“I will. I'll get back to you tomorrow morning as soon as the shop opens.” She watched him from the porch for awhile, then retreated back inside.
The detective jumped into his car and rumbled down the dark road, hands resting atop the wheel. Technically, he'd worked a shortened shift; he should have been happy to return home so early in the night. Instead, he cursed all the way back to his apartment.
Shuffling into the studio, Ulrich slammed his door shut and locked it. Kicking his shoes off clumsily, he attracted the cat's gaze. Beardsley was perched on the edge of the bed, purring sleepily.
“You know what I've been up to?” asked the detective. “Take one guess, cat.” He charged into the kitchen to down a glass of water and hastily removed his shirt and tie. With a sigh, he flopped down beside Beardsley and stared at the ceiling. “It's another one of those cases. You know the kind. I was supposed to be done with those, but here we go again.”
Beardsley only stretched, licking at his paw.
9
Morning came, but even as the sun peeked in at him from around the blinds, Ulrich dove deeper into bed, pressing a pillow down against his face to block out the light. It wasn't merely that he was tired—he was always tired. Today, he simply didn't want to get out of bed. To start his day would mean to face the horror of the night before—to probe its origins and get knee-deep in things that, frankly, didn't concern him.
Finally, at around nine, he managed to sit up. He'd had a late night to be sure, but as he climbed out of bed slowly, almost mechanically, he felt a few extra decades heaped onto his middle-aged frame. Groaning, he limped off to the bathroom and got a look at himself while brushing his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot, stubble denser. Stepping into the shower, he rinsed for several minutes before finally feeling awake enough to towel off and grab some clothes. It took him twice as long as usual to get his suit on; his fingers were clumsy and didn't want to negotiate his shirt buttons or get the knot of his tie right.
He filled the cat's dishes with food and water and revisited those bread heels, choking them down with a side of lukewarm tap. Finally conscious, Ulrich yanked open the door to
his apartment and appraised the day. It was early yet, but the air was pleasantly cool and the skies crystal clear—as picturesque a summer day as he could hope for.
If not for the fact that he was about to spend his day looking into ghosts, he might have even enjoyed the weather.
Harry looked him over carefully. “You don't look roughed up, so I take it the new case went well last night?” Then, grinning, he added, “Though, judging by those circles under your eyes, I take it you didn't sleep so well. I'll make this one a triple—no up-charge.” The whir of the grinder sounded as he prepared Ulrich's coffee.
“Thanks,” said the detective. “It was a long night. Not as long as I'd feared, but it looks like the case is more complicated than it appeared at first glance. I'll be working again tonight.”
Harry poured a carefully-measured portion of steaming hot water into a white cup. To this, he added the three shots of freshly-pulled espresso. Setting the cup onto a saucer, he slid it gently across the counter to Ulrich, who accepted it gratefully. “A triple Long Black for the detective.” He wiped down the drip tray of the espresso machine and watched contentedly as Ulrich took his first sip. “So, what's going on? You say the case isn't what it seemed? I thought you were just doing nighttime surveillance.”
Ulrich nodded. “I was.” Careful not to divulge too many of the details, he continued. “It's more complicated than it appeared on the surface, though. The person I was looking for...” He stopped short of mentioning ghosts. “Well, I probably need to speak to a few people before I can get to the bottom of it.”
“Oh, I see.” Harry dried his hands against his black apron and did his best to appear disinterested. He rearranged a number of canisters on a high shelf, inventoried the dairy refrigerator beneath the counter and refilled the bean hopper on the espresso machine. “You know,” he said, leaning onto the counter, “if there's any way I can help you—to get ahold of people, find things out—I'd be happy to do it.” Before Ulrich could protest, Harry placed a hand over his heart. “I know you don't like to share the particulars with outsiders. I'm just saying... don't hesitate to ask me if you need help with something. It would be a thrill to help you crack a case, and I've lived in this town a good, long while. I know the locals better than most.”
Deep Night Page 6
