“Don't trouble yourself,” replied Ulrich, though he would have been hard-pressed to turn away any hot beverage at this point. The short walk up the driveway had left him feeling frozen inside, and when coupled with the confusion and dread his encounter with Vivian had inspired, he felt very much in need of comfort.
Dropping into a leather recliner and tinkering with a large bottle of scotch on a nearby tray, Michael poured himself a few fingers worth of drink and stared into the fire, legs crossed. “So... you saw her?” He glanced Ulrich's way nervously, bringing the glass to his lips but not drinking until his guest had replied in the affirmative.
“That's right. I saw her. It happened just as you reported.”
Nodding, Michael sipped at his scotch and returned to the fire. “I see. You know, it's a very peculiar thing. When I first saw her I wasn't sure whether I could trust my eyes.” He smiled, but there was something wistful in it. “And now you've seen her, too. I know I'm not going crazy. Thank you for bringing me peace of mind, Mr. Ulrich. I really owe you a greater debt than I can ever repay.”
Ulrich wasn't sure how to take this, and so simply sat back, looking into the fire. The logs within were popping, releasing small embers that glimmered and died out within an instant.
From the very same tray that held his scotch, Michael took up a narrow slip of paper. Holding it between his meaty fingers and appraising it with a sour expression, he slowly reached out and offered it to the investigator. “Please, have a look at this. I think that it will answer some questions for you.” At the last, Michael's voice grew tremulous.
Accepting the piece of newsprint, Ulrich peered down at it and was immediately gripped with intense unease. He didn't need to look at the photograph on it, or to read any of the text to recognize it for what it was, and he looked up at his host with wide eyes, asking, “Excuse me, but... but what is this, exactly?”
With a glance he knew very well what the slip of paper was. It was an obituary, taken from the local paper and dated Christmas Day, ten years previous.
An obituary for Vivian Poole.
He recognized the girl's smiling face as his eyes returned to the page. The same photograph he'd been given by Michael had been used in the obituary, however this time its effect was more chilling than anything. The youthful visage looking back at him from the black and white print had lost everything of loveliness.
“Read,” was all Michael could say, his voice thin and watery. He brought the glass of scotch to his lips, sipped at it, and dribbled a bit on his chin, such was the shakiness of his hands.
And so Ulrich read.
The obituary was short, detailing the life and death of Vivian Poole. The flowery writing seemed to allude to the cause of death being a suicide. Vivian had died on Christmas Day ten years prior, at twenty-two years of age. The bereaved included Michael and his wife, Meredith, who was listed as the deceased's step-mother. Handing the obituary back, Ulrich folded his hands and leveled a steely gaze upon his host. “So, what is this supposed to mean?”
Michael ran a hand through his grey hair and then scratched at his cheeks for a time, assuming a pensive posture. Looking down at the obituary on the tray, he sniffed at the fire-scented air. “I must apologize, first of all, for not giving you all of the details. As you can plainly see, my daughter has been dead for ten years now. She took her own life on Christmas Day, jumping from the roof of the Prescott Hotel-- a business that I owned and operated for almost twenty years.”
The dots were being connected, and Ulrich was floored. “I'm sorry, you owned the Prescott?”
“That's right,” replied Michael. “I'm very fortunate to have done well in my younger years. I owned several businesses here in town, and the Prescott was one of them. Did great business there for a long while, but after this incident, I couldn't bear to keep it open. Tried to find a buyer, but the market was in a slump and I was forced to close it down, lest I bankrupt myself. Never mind, the hotel is really of least concern in this case. The fact of the matter is, my daughter hasn't been among the living in ten years, and yet the two of us have seen her. How can that be?”
Whether the question was intended to be rhetorical or not, Ulrich was uncertain, however he offered an answer all the same. “This isn't the kind of thing that I like talking about, however in the past I've encountered things of... a similar nature. Scenarios that have reinforced my beliefs in phenomena that shouldn't, logically, occur in the world. I saw your daughter, plain as day. Of that much I'm sure. Now, why I saw her... why she's out there at all, is another matter that I can't hope to shed much light on.”
Michael held his glass in a chokehold, staring into he amber liquid within. “You know, nostalgia is a powerful thing, detective. It's a poison, in a lot of ways. It can keep you living in the past, can make you despise the present. I, uh...” He wiped at his nose and blinked away tears. “I was feeling a little nostalgic myself and thought I'd pay the Prescott a visit. It's been years, after all, and this time of year can make old farts like me sentimental. I drove up, stopped at that diner for a minute, and as I was getting back into my car, I saw her. Let me tell you, it took me by complete surprise.”
The deeper Michael got into his story, the less he could hold onto his composure. Choking back a sob, he drained his glass and cracked an unsteady smile, as if to blame his breathlessness on the sting of the alcohol. Ulrich sat silently, waiting for him to continue.
“You know, I never saw my daughter walk, Mr. Ulrich. Since birth, she'd been confined to a wheelchair. It was a birth injury to her spinal cord that did it, and she was never able to walk despite years of therapy and different medical interventions. My daughter was always a trooper about it, of course. An angel, she was.” He set his glass aside, eyes fixed on the obituary. “Tell me, do you know what Heaven is like?”
Ulrich hesitated. “Heaven? N-no, I can't say I do.”
“I've been there, Mr. Ulrich. Three times, I've been there. Heaven is just outside of Star Diner, at 5:30 in the evening. Heaven is seeing my little girl walk, seeing her outside of photographs. That's Heaven to me.” Eyes watering, Michael looked up at Ulrich and grit his teeth. “Now, Hell... Let's talk about Hell, shall we? I know what that is, too. Hell is seeing her but never being able to reach out and touch her. Never being able to speak to her. Hell is... it's being close, but no cigar. Understand?”
Ulrich nodded. “So, you did try to speak to her, then?”
“Oh, yes,” came Michael's reply. “I did. Every damn time. I shouted out there like a fool, ran up to her. But it's like I wasn't there. She was... was in a trance or something.”
“It was the same for me,” admitted the investigator.
"I have to admit," said Michael with a faint grin, "that you're taking this rather well. As a detective, I mean. I imagined you'd be more rational than all of this, but you seem to be on board with the idea of the supernatural. Why is that? You alluded to certain experiences you've had...?"
Had he wished to be honest, Harlan Ulrich would have had some stories to tell. He might've shared the details of his case down south in Moonville, and his encounters with otherworldly presences in a long-abandoned infirmary. He could have mentioned Exeter House, too, and the frightening specters he'd run against there. Instead, he accepted a cup of coffee from Meredith, who now joined them, and shrugged not a little unconvincingly. "I suppose I'm just not much of a skeptic these days. I believe my eyes, and after what I saw out there, I can't think of any other explanation."
In the low hearth light, Meredith's smoky eyes appeared unnaturally dark, like two charcoal smears. Combing a lock of gold behind her ear, she reached over and touched her husband's arm. "Surely you aren't wasting this detective's time over... over what you saw downtown, dear?" She turned to Ulrich and offered a conciliatory smile. "That's what he's invited you over for, isn't it? My darling husband is a very good and kind-hearted man, but around this time of year he becomes hopelessly sentimental. Who can blame him, of course, considering the
difficulties in his past. His daughter passed on so young. One never outlives tragedy of that kind. But he's got it in his head that Vivian is alive and well. He must have mistook some stranger for her. I keep telling him that, but..."
The coffee was hotter than it looked, had likely been heated in a microwave. Giving it a little sip, Ulrich tasted the chalky notes of cheap instant coffee and struggled to hide a grimace. For people who lived in such a lovely home and consumed the very best in alcohol, their taste in coffee was sorely lacking. Setting aside the cup, he bobbed his head in a friendly nod. "It's really no trouble at all." Turning back to Michael, who was regarding his empty glass with longing, he asked the question that was on his mind. "I think it would be a good thing to know, for the sake of this investigation, why it was that Vivian committed suicide. Can you tell me more about the incident itself?"
Meredith bristled noticeably at his question, crossing her arms and looking down at the floor. Perhaps, the investigator feared, his directness had been out of line? Micheal, though, gave a slow nod. "I suppose that's an important piece of the puzzle, isn't it?" Pouring himself two more fingers of scotch, he gave his glass a swirl. "It was Christmas Day."
6
Most unexpectedly, Michael's telling of that fateful day's events was surprisingly steady, absent of tears or hesitation. Probably he'd thought a great deal upon these events over the past ten years and had made peace with the suicide itself, allowing him to describe the incident in an almost clinical manner.
"It was Christmas Day, and I was out of town. I've been some years retired, sold off all of my businesses nearly six years back, though at the time of Vivian's death I was juggling at least ten local spots. Restaurants, shops at the mall, you name it. The Prescott, too. I was doing some traveling and had planned to be home in time for the holiday. Vivian was staying at the Prescott, as she often did when she wasn't at school. I'd singled out a handful of rooms there for friends and family, and had even hired a visiting nurse to check in on Vivian during her stay. My daughter was very independent, but considering the severe weather we'd been having, I wanted someone to drop by and bring her food and whatnot.
"It was a terrible winter that year. Flights got grounded and I knew I wasn't going to make it home in time. I spoke to her over the phone and she seemed happy enough, but my girl wasn't one to ever complain. She was used to this sort of thing." Michael sipped his scotch, held it in his mouth a moment. "I was always out of town. Always on business. Always making a buck. And when she was still alive, Vivian's mother, too, was... unavailable."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Ulrich. "Was her career similarly demanding?"
This line of questioning made the discomfort in the room almost palpable. Meredith excused herself, disappearing into the kitchen, as Michael elaborated. "No, not quite. It wasn't like that. You see, my first wife, Ligeia, struggled to care for Vivian. Some people, when faced with a challenge, they do their best to rise up and face it. Others find themselves feeling defeated from the onset and simply submit. Ligeia never really recovered from the shock and disappointment she felt from having birthed a disabled daughter, and as a result she was never close to Vivian." Michael was quick to add, "Please, I know how that must sound. I've painted her as an uncaring monster, I'm sure. But it's a far more complicated issue than that. You must understand that caring for a disabled child can be a very difficult thing. It's an enormous time-investment, and caretakers are often physically and emotionally drained. Ligeia simply hadn't had the constitution for it. The patience. The... the compassion. And I suppose I wasn't much better, always out on business myself."
Ulrich had eased his Moleskine notebook out of his pocket and was taking down some basic notes. "I'm not interested in judgement, Mr. Poole. Only in the facts. Though, when you describe your ex-wife's relationship with Vivian, do you mean to say that she was... neglectful?"
Michael thought hard about this before committing with a nod. "Yes, I suppose that is what I'm saying. My daughter deserved better, Mr. Ulrich. Ligeia failed her and so did I. Vivian's upbringing was a train wreck. And yet, how she blossomed. Despite our failings as parents, Vivian grew into such an independent, beautiful young woman. When Ligeia left me, the strain of parenthood apparently too much for her, she never came back to visit Vivian. But my daughter didn't care. She moved on, handled the divorce and her mother's disinterest with more maturity than should have been possible in a young woman."
"And where is she now?" asked Ulrich. "Your ex-wife, that is."
"She died," replied Michael flatly. "She passed on thirteen years ago in a car accident. I still remember breaking that news to Vivian." He wiped at his brow with the palm of his hand. "She didn't care, and was not moved to go to the funeral. As far as my daughter was concerned, she'd never had a mother to begin with."
"I see. So, back to the events of Christmas Day ten years ago. What happened when you didn't make it on time?"
"I was grounded in Seattle when I got the call from Meredith. She was hysterical, out of breath, raving, and it was some time before I could even understand what she was trying to tell me. She said that Vivian had gone up to the roof of the Prescott, had taken the service elevator to the top, and had lifted herself out of her chair and over the edge."
"W-wait," interrupted the investigator, "how does Meredith tie into this? She was there at the time?"
Michael shifted in his seat, his eyes sinking in apparent guilt. "She was. Meredith was Vivian's visiting nurse. I assure you that our relationship was strictly professional until after Vivian's passing. I think that the grief is what brought us together, though that's a story for another day." He cleared his throat. "But yes, it was Meredith who called me and let me know. There was a furor in the news, which I mostly managed to quiet down using connections I had at the paper. I didn't get home for two more days, such was the weather, and when I did, we were forced to plan a hasty funeral."
It was a sordid affair, and Ulrich had plenty of questions left for his client, however it occurred to him that the main question, the why, had not yet been answered. "So, why did she do it? Why did she kill herself?"
Michael blinked stupidly, like he'd just woken up in an unfamiliar place. Looking around the room, he shook his head. "I would be lying if I said I knew the reason. I can give you some solid guesses. I've thought about it every day for the last ten years. Coming up with a reason isn't hard to do, but since she isn't here any longer we may never know the truth. Meredith was the last person to see her alive. She stopped in for a visit, brought some food and stayed for a brief chat. According to her, Vivian was just fine at the time, seemed like her usual self. It wasn't a few minutes after Meredith left that Vivian made the trip to the roof. Meredith hadn't even walked around the corner before she heard the screams of passersby. There was no note or anything of the kind. It was sudden, unexpected."
A suicide without any warning? It didn't sit well. Ulrich pondered whether or not he should speak to Meredith, get her side of the story, but hesitated. "So, your daughter died on Christmas Day and then you and Meredith were married when?"
"It was about six months after that. The only sliver of happiness in my life since, to be quite honest."
"OK. You've given me a lot to think about, Mr. Poole. I think that your daughter's mental state, her happiness, were not what they seemed. Probably she was struggling with depression and no one took notice until it was too late." Ulrich tucked his notebook away and cracked his knuckles. "Now, the question is, what would you like me to do? I do believe that your daughter is out there, in some form. But what is it you'd like me to do with this information, exactly?"
"I want you to find out why she's come back. Why now? And, if possible... why she left in the first place. I know that this is probably a strange case. This isn't the usual, is it? I'll pay you handsomely, though. Whatever you like. Three times your going rate if that's what it takes. I'm very serious, Mr. Ulrich. I'd like for you to get to the bottom of this phenomenon. The two of us have
seen her. We know she's really out there. Now, I'd like you to dig deeper."
You'd be surprised at just how commonplace cases like these are becoming, thought Ulrich to himself with a smirk. He had already made up his mind and was unopposed to taking on the case, though something about it didn't agree with him. He'd been lured in under false pretenses, told by Michael that Vivian had been merely estranged. It turned out that wasn't the case at all. And if there was one thing he didn't like, it was being lied to.
Where usually the prospect of working with spirits had him feeling uneasy, Ulrich felt in this particular case that he could handle doing so. Unlike previous forays into the realm of the paranormal, this one seemed less frightening, had a more human element to it. Vivian had not seemed especially threatening to him. She'd been a disoriented spirit trapped between two worlds. If there was anything he could do to help her cross over, he'd give it his best effort.
The one other fly in Ulrich's ointment was a pesky one, however. If he succeeded in chasing down this phantom and interrogating her, there was no telling what he might learn. Michael claimed to want to know why his daughter had killed herself, but when all was said and done, would he really want to know?
"I'll take the case," replied Ulrich, "but I can't guarantee anything. Considering the nature of this investigation, there isn't a clear path to follow. I'll see what I can dig up and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
Michael rose up out of his chair and offered Ulrich his hand to shake. "Bless you, Mr. Ulrich. I appreciate this a great deal. It's enormous of you, really. Thank you for considering my case, and for not thinking me a crackpot." Smoothing down his tousled hair, Michael sported a slight grin. "This whole thing has been such a shock to my system. I'll be honest with you, there have been days lately when I can't help but wonder if my head's on straight." He walked over to a large writing table and began searching its drawers. "Let me write you a check. A little extra in the way of a down payment to get you started, yes?"
Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3) Page 4
