The White Night

by Desmond Doane

  Feeling like a horny old man, even though we’re not too far apart in age, I take one last look for a mental snapshot, then tuck my bestial instincts back down into the recesses of my mind. Time for business. Yards away, up those rickety wooden steps, then through the double doors bordered by two massive bay windows, there’s trouble. What kind and how strong remains to be seen.

  “What’s up there?” I ask. “Full-bodied apparition? Black, swirling mass?”

  When she opens her eyes wide in agreement, nodding, I notice that they’re the color of a robin’s egg. They glow like a neon sign. They’re mesmerizing.

  “That’s it,” she says, voice cracking. “How did you know?”

  “Standard stuff for someone who sounded as scared as you did. And you were trying to communicate with it, so, yeah. I figured it had to be something loosely tangible.”

  She holds her hands up. “Remember how that kid from the Peanuts always had a black cloud hanging over his head? No, wait, even better—on that show, Lost, they had that black swirling mass that tore things up in the jungle? It reminds me of that thing, only smaller. Like a baby-sized version of that thing.”

  “Does it feel threatening?”

  “Like it’ll hurt me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It hasn’t yet. Whatever it is, it’s terrifying.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  She holds her question in for a beat, then asks me, “You’ve seen things like that before, right?” It’s saturated with hope. A plea.

  “All the time. I could count off fifteen of them right now.” I try to slip into professional mode the way Ford used to do during client interviews. He was always so smooth about that aspect. He’ll claim he’s not that much of a people person when the cameras aren’t tuned on him, but I think that’s just an excuse to be an asshole whenever he feels like it. He’d schmooze the clients for the cameras, while I dutifully stood there taking notes and nodding my head.

  Later, while Ford would be off somewhere making a van rock with Melanie—back before they were married for a short while—or when he was with another crew member while he was still married to her, I would be busting my ass to get the equipment set up along with the rest of the crew. That was good for me, all the hands-on jobs. They kept me focused and into it.

  I rip through a round of questions for Dakota, trying my best to remember what Ford would ask during each episode. You would think that stuff would be carved into my memory like Moses with a sharp chisel. Instead, for a couple of years I blocked out a lot of those memories on purpose. Less anger that way. Rather than dwelling on how Ford and Carla ruined everything for the rest of us, I focused on going to the gym where I lifted heavy things and put them down, again and again. The repetition, the effort, they were my therapy.

  Dakota tells me that she bought the house and moved down here for a while because she had been through an atrocious breakup that cast a fat, black cloud over every aspect of her life. She lost interest in everything.

  In addition to the breakup, the hustle of New York City and the crazy, suffocating energy of her crowded, humming restaurant had become overwhelming. Any time she had tried to get creative with new dishes they sucked donkey balls—her words exactly—and for months they were uninspired and lackluster. A handful of bad reviews had hurt the restaurant’s numbers and her pride. She needed out for a while, at least until the city concrete no longer felt like quicksand.

  “I didn’t quit,” she says, “but I handed my spatula over to my sous chef, told her the ship was hers, and that I’d be back one of these days. I thought my investors would flip their minds.”

  “Did they?” I ask.

  “Nope. With the slop I’d been serving for six months, I think they were relieved. I had to get away, so I bought this place and ran. The whole thing was sort of like my Eat Pray Love moment. I needed a break from life, and I needed to rediscover myself.”

  “You just didn’t expect to do it with an angry ghost around.”

  “Not in the slightest. Don’t real estate agents have to disclose stuff like that?”

  “If they aren’t required to, then they damn well should be, huh?”

  “Would’ve saved me some sleep, that’s for sure.” It’s nice to see her smile while she examines her toes and wiggles them in the sand. There’s no polish on them, and in fact, her feet look fairly rough. Bruised with broken blisters. I guess marathons will do that to an otherwise perfect example of lean perfection.

  Mike, stop. Professional courtesy, please.

  After another short round of data-gathering questions, like when she first saw it, had it ever taken on a human form, had there been any sort of poltergeist activity or was it just the black mass and blah blah.

  I also ask her why she hasn’t left yet, then take a tangential turn before I give her a chance to answer. “That was always, always, one of the top questions from our Graveyard audience. People wanted to know why on God’s green earth some of our clients—the people on the show—why they would continue to stay in a place that was so unbelievably terrifying. Simple answer, though. Not enough money to move, no family nearby. Maybe they can’t transfer jobs or just had other obligations, you see. The easiest response is that they didn’t have a choice. You do. You’ve got the money. The freedom. So why stay?”

  Dakota points at her house and says, “Because I wanted to beat it.”

  “Like how? By yourself?”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, and dangerous, but I didn’t want to run from anything else. I was sick of myself. I was sick of losing at life. I was a winner for so long, and then I just wasn’t anymore. That’s a hard pill to swallow.” She looks away, flips a broken seashell over using her big toe. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear all that.”

  Oh, but I want to.

  She continues, “Honestly, when I left New York, I felt like a coward. Like I’d deserted all the people who were counting on me in so many different ways. Does that make sense?”

  “Of course.”

  “And then I—everybody says to pick your battles, and after all the shit that I had been through, I picked the wrong damn one, you know? What in the hell was I thinking? Fight a ghost? Are you kidding me?”

  “I think you did the right thing. You may not have beaten it, or even had the proper tools to beat it, but you tried. At least you weren’t completely living in fear like so many others I’ve seen.”

  “Not exactly. I tried to fight it… I yelled for it to get out of my house. I burned incense. I had a Lutheran pastor come by and say some prayers. I carried a cross around with me. All that stuff, but I was still scared out of my mind. At first, it only showed up every three or four days, just enough to make me think it was gone. Finally, peace and quiet. Hallelujah! Sure enough, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and see it floating over my head like it was watching me. Do you know how creepy that is?”

  “Another day on the job, ma’am.”

  She scoffs at herself. “Dumb question.”

  “I’ll forgive you this time.”

  She smiles through her embarrassment and says, “You know what I did? I bought the boxed set of your show, all ten seasons, thinking I might get some pointers.”

  I can’t resist smirking. I know how goddamn scary Graveyard could be. Even having lived it, there have been times when I’ll catch myself watching an old rerun late at night on The Paranormal Channel: I’ll say this for Carla Hancock and her team: they were a talented group of people, capable of making something as innocuous as a haunted ice cream parlor seem like it’s an open gate to Hell.

  I ask Dakota, “And how’d that work out for you?”

  “Don’t laugh. I was trying to learn.”

  “Did you?”

  “I made it through the whole set. On the finale of whatever season it was—you guys were down in that abandoned subway tunnel. So freaky. I don’t know how you did it.”

  “Practice.”

  “I did pick up a couple of tips, and watchin
g your show scared me so much, I’m sure all that negative energy made it stronger. Gave it some juice, something. After that, it got worse, started showing up every day, keeping me awake at all hours. Totally miserable. I hit my breaking point and finally called you.”

  “You did the right thing. We’ll figure it out.”

  Dakota says, “I really don’t want to go back inside.”

  I take another look up at her oceanfront mansion. It looks friendly. It looks like someone’s dream home. The graying, sagging wooden stairs could use some work, but the rest looks like it’s worth the many millions she paid for it.

  The only problem is, there’s an uninvited guest.

  A dead one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ford Atticus Ford

  What a day already.

  The press release, Lauren Coeburn… And it’s not even eight o’clock.

  I absolutely can’t concentrate on anything else. Before I left for the bakery this morning, my sole intention was to find some work and get my mind off Chelsea, the demon, and that ridiculous documentary. All I wanted to do was grab a stupid scone, come back here, and then gorge myself on it while sifting through my messages, hoping Jesse had missed something important.

  He gets lazy sometimes, and I’ve seen an email or two slip by that should’ve been answered, but he works for sweatshop wages simply for the privilege of saying he’s employed by Ford Atticus Ford, and I’m cool with that.

  Scone. Email. Work. That was the plan.

  Then she showed up and ruined everything.

  I have to go for a run.

  Next to delicious baked goods, that’s the best therapy.

  After all, according to Ulie, I am He Who Takes Me for a Run Sometimes.

  So, with my trainers on, shorts, a sweatshirt with a pouch on the front and, absent my favorite windbreaker because I gave the damn thing to Lauren, I trot down the rented condo’s stairs and into the rain. Ulie, thoroughly thrilled that we’re once again outside, recognizes where we’re going. As soon as we round the corner, he’s barreling down the sidewalk and gallops out onto the sand, tongue wagging and grinning in doggie bliss.

  I do the same, stopping short of letting my tongue hang out. I don’t run as often as I used to—still, this is a happy place that I can always come back to.

  Usually.

  It’s peaceful, putting one foot in front of the other until I settle into a steady rhythm and the morning’s events creep into my daydreams. In order to push them away, I pick up the pace and run harder, focusing harder on proper breathing, and it’s enough to push the bullshit to the back of my mind.

  Ulie tags along with an effortless trot, and thankfully, the weather is bad enough that we have the beach entirely to ourselves. I don’t have to worry about snapping his leash onto his collar if another dog or beachgoer comes along. We’re nuts to be out here anyway, and I’m sure the tourists and homeowners on the eastern cliff above us are wondering who the idiot might be that’s down here running in this nonsense.

  The almighty Ford Atticus Ford, that’s who.

  The big dummy.

  Those people in my imagination, they’re right. This is ridiculous. I’m only a couple of miles in before I pull the mental plug.

  “Ulie, let’s go, bud.” I whistle sharply to get his attention, rescuing some poor sand crab from Ulie’s snout. Without delay, he sprints after me, and after a couple of loping gallops, he’s out front, leading the charge. I don’t feel like going back to the condo just yet. A fifteen-minute run, if that, wasn’t enough to burn through my agitated energy, and I’m certainly not looking forward to making any profanity laden phone calls. Matter of fact, I’ve yet to figure out why Mike hasn’t called to talk to me about it.

  I imagine Carla’s sitting in her Malibu home sipping a Mai Tai and congratulating herself. She doesn’t have my new number anyway.

  Regardless, I would’ve expected somebody to call, somebody other than Lauren Coeburn, to ring me up and ask me what the hell was going on.

  I climb the hill, stepping over the street runoff that’s rushing past like the mighty Mississippi, while Ulie stops to take a drink. I try to remind him that it’s gross water, full of oil, seagull shit, and God knows what else, but it falls on deaf doggie ears. He regularly licks his own butt, so whatever.

  “You’re not kissing me with that mouth later, I can tell you that much.”

  He ignores me. Figures.

  I spend the next two hours along all the little shops and cafés, drinking too much free coffee because people recognize me and want to give me something in return for gracing their place of business. It’s times like this that I enjoy the fame that hasn’t quite faded yet, but it’s hell on the bladder and the nervous system. I’m shaking like a Chihuahua on a methamphetamine IV drip.

  I have to find a bathroom, so I duck into this fantastic little bookstore on Grover Street. I did an impromptu autograph session here once for the owners, Bob and Betty, and we always catch up whenever I’m in town. However, I see no sign of them today. The shop is manned by their son—Dave, I think his name is—and no matter how many times he’s seen me here, he flips out like I’m Tom Cruise walking in the door.

  “Dude!” he says, stretching the word out for miles. Dave is a middle-aged hippie who would better serve humanity by staying on a perpetual tour with the Grateful Dead or Phish. Yet, here he is, holding a stack of books in one arm and tucking his smoldering joint behind his ear with the other. Smoke wafts up, and I hold my breath, waiting for that shaggy, curly hair to burst into flames.

  “Holding down the fort, Dave?”

  “Ford. Atticus. Ford. My man! First Lauren Coeburn and now you? What a day, what a day. Celebrity central up in this place.”

  Shit.

  “Lauren Coeburn was here?” I fire off a quick prayer that she just picked up some books for the road.

  “Yeah, man. Beautiful lady, inside and out. You know her? Said she was in town for a few days, needed something to read to her blind grandmother.”

  Damn.

  “I know of her, but way out of my league. How’s she doing?” I play it off like I’m being cordial. However, on the inside, I’m holding onto hope that Newport is big enough for me to avoid her.

  Dave says, “Had a purple grapefruit around that left ankle. Swollen like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Oh, I’m pretty sure I would.

  “She moped around here for about fifteen minutes, bought a couple of books and left.”

  “That’s it?”

  “You know what’s funny? She saw that autographed picture with you and my folks. Asked how well I knew you, and of course, us being buds, I told her all about how you came by whenever you’re in town. Never seen such a smile when I told her you usually stay up the hill.”

  Fuck.

  ***

  I pick up a couple of books, because hey, support your local bookstore, and then I risk running into Lauren again by strolling over for an early lunch at Wanda’s Beachside Pub—the best bangers and mash I’ve ever tasted—and I hang around the bar for a little while, shooting the breeze with a few old timers who have no idea who I am. It’s refreshing having a normal conversation about the weather. Baseball. The magnificent set of—well, I’m sure they meant the bartender has a great personality, too. Amazingly enough, she’s never seen Graveyard either because “Ghosts are too scary,” and I don’t offer any further detail about the show’s history. Nor mine.

  Ulie is a hit out on the covered porch, smiling, accepting French fry bribes for affection while he waits on me.

  This is why I come here. Normal food. Normal life. Normal beer. The sanctity of the ocean. The hum of the waves pounding the shoreline.

  For another hour, I don’t have a dark cloud loaded with bullshit hanging over my head.

  The beer makes me sleepy, so I pay, bid adios amigos to my compatriots, and head into the downpour, trudging up the hill toward my condo. Ulie scampers along beside me, happy as can be. I’m stopped a
couple of times for autographs along the way, which was a ray of sunshine for my ego, and then once we’re inside, Ulie gets a scrubdown with a dry towel before he trots off to look for more food. He’s a wood chipper when he’s hungry.

  I take the longest warm shower that any human has ever taken, and after that, I fall face first onto the bed. I slip into dreamland before I have a chance to roll over.

  I’m not sure how long I’m out, a few hours, maybe, because when I finally open my eyes, the rainy day has grown darker with dusk’s intrusion. I sit up and rub the naptime grogginess from my eyes, uncertain if I actually heard a knock on the door or if I was dreaming about it.

  An insistent fist pounds away. “Ford?”

  Ugh. Not a dream.

  Ulie barks twice, sharply, then goes silent.

  I hear “Ford?” again, followed by, “I know you’re in there.”

  No way I’m mistaking her voice. That didn’t take long at all.

  I grunt and push myself up from the bed, realizing I passed out naked when a short breeze from the window catches me in the right spot, and then rummage around in my suitcase for pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

  Her fist rattles the door again.

  I shout, “I’m coming, Coeburn, chill the hell out.”

  Here we go. How do I get rid of her this time?

  I probably should’ve tracked down Carla Hancock, told her to go to hell, and then I’d have something to give Lauren so she’ll get off my ass.

  “Hurry. Please.”

  Whoa. That sounded a little panicked.

  With Ulie trotting along in strict formation at my side, ears perked up and curious, we head down the hallway. I know it’s Lauren, but I take a peek through the eyehole anyway. It’s her, and she’s brought company that I wouldn’t have expected.

  Her companion is a hunched-over cotton-top—I mean, what appears to be a sweetheart grandma type who might have seen the last battles of the War Between the States.