The White Night

by Desmond Doane

  Now she’s playing the sympathy angle? Hey, here’s my dear ol’ gran, she loved your show—you know, back when she could see—and she’d love nothing more than for you to go back and help that little girl one more time. Please, oh please, Ford, do it before she dies.

  Nice try.

  “Let’s get this over with, huh, boy?” Ulie looks up at me with miles of doggie smiles. I slam the deadbolt to the right and yank the door open. “What, Coeburn?”

  The sudden noise and my shout spooks Dear Ol’ Gran, and she whimpers, cowers, and reaches for Lauren. It’s then I remember that Dave said the grandmother was blind, and I feel like an ass for spooking her. It’s a miracle the ticker didn’t crash right there. “Oh, man, sorry. Sorry. It’s—I didn’t mean—” As I’m reaching for her, trying to offer a soothing touch, I notice Lauren’s red, watery eyes and the rivulets of smeared mascara on her cheeks. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

  “You need to let us in.”

  “Uh, okay? Why, exactly, would I do that?”

  Ulie takes care of Dear Ol’ Gran for me, nuzzling her hand. She coos and allows him to lick her palm.

  “This is my grandmother, Ellen.”

  I exchange hellos with her, shaking a hand that’s either wet from dog slobber or old lady sweat—probably the former—and stupidly wave at her sunglass-covered eyes. Idiot.

  Lauren is dressed like a normal human now. She’s totally out of her exotic bird getup and now wears skin-tight jeans, sneakers, and a University of Oregon sweatshirt. It’s a thick, warm hoodie like mine. Her hair is flat and swept around to the front of one shoulder.

  Taken down a notch and removed from her on-air persona, she’s more beautiful like this, in a natural way, and I catch myself staring for a second. However, the fact doesn’t prevent me from reminding myself that pretty things can also be poisonous.

  She says, “We didn’t know where else to go.”

  “For what?”

  Lauren looks over her shoulder, examining the parking lot, trailing her eyes up the gravel road that divides a row of houses and the condo. I look, too, and see nothing. “Can we just come inside? Would that be okay?”

  I hesitate, assessing the situation, trying to decide how far she’s going to go with this ruse.

  If it’s even a ploy. She’s clearly spooked about something. She can’t stop fidgeting and checking the parking lot.

  “Was someone following you?” It occurs to me that Lauren is also a celebrity—one whose star has yet to fade—and it’s entirely possible that she ran into some crazed superfan. Differences aside, I feel for her because I had to deal with a few stalkers myself back in the day, and I know how unsettling it can be. “Should we call the police?”

  “I’m not sure they can help with what we saw.”

  “What you saw?”

  Lauren steps forward and places a cold hand on my bare arm. “I know you hate my guts, but you’re the first person I thought about. I’m positive they didn’t follow us.”

  “They? They who, Lauren?”

  “They were… This is going to sound insane. They were children. Well, boys. One was in his teens and the other was maybe eleven.”

  “So? Just punks or what?”

  “Their eyes were totally black. Like bottomless holes. You need to let us in.”

  “Jesus. Get in here. Now,” I say, practically dragging them both into the condo.

  I quickly shut the door, and double check to make sure it’s locked.

  Then I triple check just to be sure.

  Black-eyed children.

  Maybe I should check the lock again, just to be sure.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mike Long

  Toni is awake, but half asleep, when we get back to my house. Thankfully, she’s wearing some shorts and a t-shirt, which is the best thing for everyone involved since I brought a guest along. It doesn’t register with Toni, at all—and this is pre-coffee, mind you—that Dakota Freakin’ Bailey is in our house.

  When Dakota and I first walk in the ocean-side door, from the deck, I can immediately sense the vitriol in Toni’s eyes. First, I get a strange phone call from a woman before the sun comes up. Second, I leave for over thirty minutes, and then I come back home with a tall, lean, athletic blonde woman who is wearing nothing more than those salmon pink yoga shorts and a midriff-revealing sports bra.

  Believe me, I know what it looks like.

  “Hi, hon,” I say, approaching with all the tentativeness of a lion tamer holding a rare, bloody steak in front of a ferocious, human-eating feline. “Got some company.”

  Toni’s eyes shoot laser beams through my skull. I’m sure she’s imagining my head exploding in a fiery ball of flames, and then she turns the lasers on Dakota and splits her in half, glaring at her all the way up from those bruised and battered feet to the nearly neon blue eyes.

  “Hello,” Toni says, her tone not quite suggesting she’s ready to pull a knife out of the drawer, but way down in the recesses of her instinctual reaction, she’s thinking about it. It’s easy to pick up on such things when you’ve been with the same person for so long. Truth be told, I’m not sure why she’s so jealous. For a couple of years now, she’s been ready to toss me out like a stale cheese puff, in hopes that a screeching seagull would carry me away. And then there was the questionable time with the contractor. And then there was the additionally questionable time with the satellite television repairman. And then there was that time…

  Whatever. Do as I say, not as I do, right?

  Dakota, barefoot and lithe, with hardened muscles and a deep tan from exercising outdoors when she’s not hovering over a grill, moves with poetic grace as she pads across the floor, hand extended outward, all smiles and sparkles as she introduces herself. “Hi, Toni. I’m Dakota. I really love your home. It’s so beautiful.”

  Toni squints and for a moment I’m thinking that she can see through the façade I’ve created to keep the fireworks to a minimum.

  As we were walking along the beach, I informed Dakota that showing up with a strange woman, not to mention an attractive, barely dressed strange woman, would not sit well with my controlling, condescending wife, and that she should diffuse the impending explosion right away by complimenting her on the glorious, fabulous, wondrous interior decorating design.

  I’m worried that Toni will know… and that she’ll also think I’m guilty of something, and that we’re only a couple of seconds away from a detonation roughly the size of Krakatoa’s eruption. The resulting aftermath of Toni’s anger could send enough ash and dirt into the atmosphere to create a miniature ice age.

  Instead, her squint softens into a wide-eyed moment of realization. She sets her coffee mug down on the countertop, brown liquid sloshing everywhere, and her hands fly up to cover her excited, squealing gasp. “Dakota Bailey!” she screeches. “Oh my God, what’re you doing here? I mean, like, here-here, in our house?”

  Dakota looks at me with a mixture of “What just happened?” and “This is a good thing, right?”

  Perhaps one could say that I painted too dark of a picture of my wife and the rocky road our marriage has been on. I’ll admit to giving Dakota overly exaggerated descriptions of fire-breathing dragons and snake-haired Medusa.

  Dakota says, “I’m sorry to come by so early, but I needed Mike’s help, and—”

  “Oh my God, I love you.” Toni bounces on the balls of her bare feet and claps like a teenage girl. You’d think it’s 1960 and the Beatles have landed in America for the first time. She looks at me, then back at Dakota in disbelief. “Mikey, sweetheart. You should’ve told me you were bringing her by. I would’ve straightened up a bit.”

  The house is immaculate. This is just a little warning shot to say, “You’ll get an earful later when the famous guest that I love so much is gone.”

  I used to be semi-famous. I’ve seen wives give their husbands the same look before when a crewmember invited me over for dinner without checking in first.

  Unles
s Ford was along, too, then I’d have to set myself on fire to have anyone notice. Not that I cared, really. I was happy to let him take over the room. I didn’t—and still don’t—need to have my ego stroked like the Almighty Ford Atticus Ford.

  Usually.

  Once in a while, it would be nice to be the brightest bulb in the room.

  Toni quickly gets back to ignoring me and then speeds through the official pleasantries of Celebrity Entertaining 101, like drink requests, apologizing for only having ground coffee that came from a chain grocery store instead of some upper-end, high-class local market who only sells individually handpicked beans from the indigenous peoples of some tribe in South America. She offers fruits, then pastries, then scolds herself after taking another glance at Dakota’s athletic body, saying, “What’s wrong with me? Protein bar? How about a protein bar? Mikey, sweetheart, go get the box of peanut butter ones out in the garage.”

  Who slipped in here and injected my wife with super-hostess stimulants?

  Plus, she hasn’t called me “Mikey” in years.

  Cut the act, Toni.

  Mikey Sweetheart is on to your shenanigans.

  By the time I get back from the garage, Toni and Dakota are sitting around the kitchen island, drinking steaming coffee out of those blue mugs with the white handles that I hate, and chatting about life as a reality television star.

  Actually, Toni peppers Dakota with questions, and she answers politely when she can, and then defers when there are things she can’t talk about due to confidentiality agreements. Toni knows exactly what she means, though, because I’ve been through the same thing, explaining to her how Ford and I weren’t really allowed to talk about any of the behind-the-scenes stuff, like coaching some of the clients who were more terrified of the cameras than they were of the spirits invading their homes.

  If Ford and I ever let it slip that Carla Hancock fabricated storylines to give certain filming locations more oomph, she would sue us until she had taken everything, all the way down to the metal in our fillings. More than likely, TPC’s big swingin’ dick lawyers would argue for the death penalty.

  Forget I said anything about that part.

  Don’t get me wrong, every bit of the investigations were real. Every EVP, disembodied voice, heat signature, floating black mass or apparition that we captured was one hundred percent honest-to-God legitimate. I made sure of that, and so did Ford. We didn’t agree on a lot in the last couple of seasons of Graveyard, but the legitimacy of our evidence is one thing we never budged on. That was out of respect for ourselves and respect for the other side.

  I excuse myself while the two of them chat, and Dakota gives me a glance that says, “Don’t leave me here,” as I exit the kitchen. Out in the garage, I head to the workshop where I keep all of my equipment, wondering what I should take to Dakota’s to conduct a proper investigation.

  It smells like a group of sweaty socks got together, ran off a cliff like lemmings, and died in here, and that’s probably because it also doubles as my workout room when I don’t feel like going out into the world to hit the gym. Lately, that’s more often than not. The weight bench, stair-climber, elliptical, and treadmill sit off to the right, stationed in front of a flat-screen television mounted on the wall.

  That equipment over there has done more good than thousands of dollars of therapy. I discovered not too long after the incident with Chelsea, the show’s cancellation, and the subsequent fallout with Ford, that pushing myself to the point of exhaustion was a happy place for me.

  Still is.

  On the left side sit three extra large pelican cases, relics from the early days of the show when the filming budget didn’t have room to supply us with quality equipment. Ford and I bought all three of these together, along with the ancient digital voice recorders and camcorders that sit on the shelves or hang from pegs. Most guys have hammers, saws, wrenches, and other tools hanging from a pegboard in their garages. Mine holds an SB-11 spirit box, thermal imaging cameras, EMF pumps, laser-light shadow detectors, and a whole host of experimental equipment that never worked during testing or simply didn’t have a necessary function that we thought applied to an investigation.

  Like this thing right here—this little black box with four red lights that supposedly detects when a spirit farts.

  My hand to God, that’s what it was designed to do.

  True story, Ford and I went by the inventor’s place while we were on location outside of Dallas. The guy’s name was Teddy Carmichael—wiry white hair that swayed in the breeze like seaweed underwater—and he owned a couple of rental properties down the block, one of which was haunted by a spirit with extreme, uh, flatulence.

  You can’t make this up.

  We took off down the street with this guy, Ford and I chuckling behind his back, unable to comprehend what we were actually about to do, right? Fifteen minutes into this little mini investigation, the lights on Carmichael’s black box start blinking left to right the way that talking car used to do with Hasselhoff. And wouldn’t you know it, we listened to the digital voice recording; sure enough, right when we marked the time where the lights fired up, it had recorded the loudest fart EVP that none of us heard with our own ears.

  I remember looking at Ford, trying to contain my laughter, and then I couldn’t. We guffawed like teenage boys infatuated with lowbrow humor like dicks, butts, boobs, and poop. Carmichael hadn’t seen the humor in it, obviously, but he insisted we take the device anyway, telling us that he hoped to see it on the show one day.

  Never happened.

  As I stand here looking at the thing—what we labeled the CF-1000, with the ‘CF’ short for ‘Carmichael Farts’—I’m struck by a suffocating sense of remorse and regret.

  All I ever wanted by doing the show was to impress Toni. That’s it. I balked after the first season—didn’t want to sign again. Felt like one was enough. There are only so many ways you can walk into a dark house and ask if anybody is there.

  Ford convinced me to stay on, again and again. Eventually, all the long hours and long nights away, all the interviews and conventions, all the autographs and selfie poses, they became a part of me. It was me.

  And then Ford fucked up.

  And then I lost the thing that had made me me.

  Rather, it was ripped from my hands.

  As I stand here looking at my collection of equipment, some bought with my own money, some bought using money from the deep coffers of The Paranormal Channel that they never made us return, maybe it’s not regret and remorse I’m feeling. Maybe it’s longing.

  A couple of weeks ago, working the Craghorn case with Ford, man, that was what it’s supposed to feel like.

  Energy. Anticipation. Fear. Wonder. Excitement. Just like the memories I was fond of when Graveyard: Classified was an infant, rather than a lumbering juggernaut concerned with sweeps week and landing monster sponsorships.

  Ah, the glory days.

  I finally realize that I want to do the documentary for the experience, too, not just for the cash that might keep my disappointed family happy.

  I also understand how odd it must be for Ford that I’m the one trying to talk him into coming back for another round. Should I call him?

  My watch says it’s not much past seven a.m.

  He’s still snoozing, for sure. I’m tempted to call and get his ass up anyway. I want to share this moment with him. I want to tell him that I’m about to go on another legitimate investigation and that it’d be great to have him along if he was here.

  I’ve been drinking the venom called blame for two years. It’s time to let go.

  Besides, this is my chance to prove to the universe that Mikey Sweetheart has the juice to face demons on his own.

  I figure that’s probably both literal and figurative, depending on what’s haunting Dakota’s house.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ford Atticus Ford

  Dear Ol’ Gran—sorry, Ellen—sits in the recliner. The sliding door is open and she see
ms to be fine listening to the roar of the wind, the hammer of rain, and the wailing ocean. She rocks peacefully while my overly affectionate pooch slurps her like he’s trying to get to the gooey center. How many licks will it take, Ulie?

  Meanwhile, Lauren Coeburn, former arch nemesis turned quivering mess, tells me to stop once I’ve poured her about four fingers’ worth of expensive scotch. In the tiniest way, I feel like I’m wasting it on her. However, it may be worth it because I’ve heard stories about the black-eyed children from all over the world; this is the first time I’ve actually had a chance to speak with someone who has seen them in the flesh.

  Lauren lifts the tumbler of scotch—no rocks—and drains it, which she then follows with two beckoning fingers. I’d like to tell her that she just guzzled about fifteen dollars. Instead, I pour her another, and she downs that one like she’s drinking a fraternity kid under the table. She wipes her mouth with a sleeve. “That should do it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Explain what in the hell I saw, and I’ll let you know.”

  I’m not in the mood for scotch, so I pop open a beer for myself and stare at her, still wondering if she’s coming at me from another subversive angle, trying to get the scoop on this documentary. Ah, what the hell, black-eyed children are interesting enough that I’ll bite.

  I ask, “You want the long version, or the short one?”

  “Long, because unless you kick us out, I’m not going back there for a while. Maybe never. And what am I gonna do about her?”

  I look back at Ellen. Ulie has his head in her lap. “Hard to say.”

  Lauren leans across the counter, takes the scotch, and pours herself another round. “Story time, Ford.”

  I gulp down about half of my IPA, and this is what I tell her:

  Nobody really knows what the black-eyed children are, other than what details you get from urban myths. However, like Sasquatch, the Loch Ness Monster, the Mothman, or the Chupacabra—name your weird entity of choice—there have been too many sightings for them to be a fluke or simply nothing but a legend made up by your neighbor with a good imagination. From the UK, to China, to Ethiopia, to some town populated by three hundred citizens in middle-of-nowhere New Mexico, these things have come up in reports all over the world.