The White Night

by Desmond Doane

  Chelsea sneaks a furtive peek out the door, looking left and right. Spying nothing in the short hallway now illuminated by the bathroom, she turns left and darts toward her bedroom. She flies through the door, imagining she’s like the older girls at her gymnastics class as she plants her feet and jumps, twisting, spinning in the air, landing on her soft, comforting mattress. The sheet and pink puppy comforter go up over her head for protection.

  She knows it won’t do much good if the demon ever comes for her again.

  That’s what the spell is for.

  Chelsea whispers:

  The white night is bright with light and love.

  Put the pedal to the metal and

  Swing your sword with grace at his face.

  Keep me safe in this place.

  The Demon Killer is my savior,

  May he protect me forever and ever.

  Thanks, Jesus.

  Her teachers, her parents, her parents’ friends, aunts and uncles, older cousins, all tell Chelsea how smart she is. Knowing this, she understands that her little incantation is silly, but so far, it has worked, and she has not been attacked by a demon in real life—not like at the Hopper House—and only her dreams have been damaged.

  Those are bearable, for now. As long as she can keep them to herself, she’ll be okay, and she only has to do it until Mr. Ford and Mr. Mike kill the thing in her dreams. She just hopes she’s not inside of it when it happens. She’s not ready to die, but the thing in her dreams is strong and will hurt a lot of people if they don’t do something. The movie with the demon killers and that nice lady, Carla, will make it all go away.

  September will be here soon. She can make it until then.

  Chelsea slides her hand underneath her pillow and tightens her grip around the handle of a knife. Her mother thinks it was lost in the trash.

  Chelsea tries to take it with her into her nightmares.

  One day, it might work.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mike Long

  We both listen to the plinking, scattering sound of shattered glass bouncing off a countertop and the bathroom tile.

  I gotta say, Dakota feels good in my arms, soft but solid. Strong.

  She says, “Fuck! What was that?” before pulling away.

  Wait, come back! “Mirror. Down the hall.”

  She starts for the office door, and I grab her wrist, telling her to wait, to let me go check first.

  “You think it’s the—the ghost?”

  “Probably,” I say, the word sounding more like a question than I intend. After all, I’m supposed to be the one who knows what I’m doing.

  I insert my ear buds and press ‘Record’ on the GS-5000, my bitchin’ digital voice recorder that allows me to listen to what’s being recording in real time, while also being able to rewind and review captured evidence as it continues to record. I love this thing. Out of every piece of equipment I’ve ever used, even that damn spiritual fart detector, this is my favorite.

  Capturing video evidence and watching a spirit walk across an empty warehouse, asylum, or a football field—that’s cool, that’s chill-inducing—but to me, uncovering the real humanity comes from being able to hear what a spirit has to say. Their words make them authentic and give them an identity. Seeing a hazy shape on a screen… I don’t see it as being much different than watching a television show with some sophisticated CGI. Hearing the emotion in their words, that’s what does it for me.

  It’s a different story hearing something demonic or listening to the vitriol of a malicious dead guy who’s yet to let go of his murderous rage, and yet, it makes them genuine, almost corporeal. The bad ones can be terrifying—case in point, that right-hander that attacked Chelsea and Dave Craghorn—but it gives them a measure of tangibility.

  So yeah, this particular device is like my ghost-hunting security blanket.

  Toni once said, “If you love that thing so much, why don’t you leave me and marry it?” I don’t doubt there was some truth behind her joke, and believe me, the idea wasn’t, and isn’t, entirely out of the question. I’m not sure how the law regards marrying electronics—procuring joint insurance would be a problem, I’m sure.

  I hold my finger up to my lips. Dakota nods through anxious breathing, blowing through pursed lips, fanning her cheeks, trying to calm herself.

  At first, I hear nothing but the gentle hiss of silence through the miniature speakers in my ears.

  The white earbud strings tickle my neck as I creep into the hall, straining to pick out any obvious noises that don’t belong, that aren’t innate to the home. I wish I’d had extra time in here to get more familiar with the place—and as much as I hate to admit it, Ford’s annoying habit of spending a couple of days surveying a location before he would even consider investigating it would be helpful here. I’m not accustomed to the particulars of Dakota’s home, like what sounds it makes when the lumber is settling, the creak of loose floorboards, or whether the grill over the air vent vibrates when the air conditioner kicks on.

  Knowing that stuff would be immensely valuable.

  Instead, I’m storming the castle with no plan and no idea where the archers are hiding along the soldier’s walk.

  I glance behind me and hold up my palm, then point at my eyes and finally toward the hallway bathroom, silently signaling that Dakota needs to wait while I check it out.

  Thumbs up from her.

  The GS-5000 is so sophisticated that it picks up on the squish of plush carpet under my bare feet as I slink down the hall.

  I hear nothing.

  I see nothing.

  I smell nothing.

  I don’t feel anything unusual, either, like a static charge in the air or random cold spot. Given that, I am scrotum-shrinkingly unprepared when the black, swirling mass explodes out of the bathroom.

  I scream, “Shit!” and duck from pure shock. I’ve faced worse—much, much worse—but it caught me by surprise. Behind me, back in the bedroom, Dakota shouts, “Mike?”

  My eyes stay locked on our intruder. It hovers there, ten feet away from me. Floating, swirling, the tendrils of blackness climbing on top of each other like snakes in a pit. I feel my neck muscles tightening. I sense that it’s hostile, and yet, curious, like it’s sizing up the new opponent.

  It nudges closer, ever so slightly, undulating, rippling, slowly moving from a malleable mass of blackness, smoke-like, into the shape of a man. Broad-shouldered, no arms or legs, but large and bulky; it’s the size of an NFL linebacker and just as intimidating.

  I ask, “Who are you?” as I hold the GS-5000 closer to it, adding, “I’m not afraid of you,” like this thing would actually give a shit.

  That’s when I hear it—an EVP in my ears, not a disembodied voice that emits from nowhere within the room, and thank God, because I wouldn’t want Dakota to hear this thing laugh. It’s booming, throaty, and vile, sending shivers down my arms. There’s something wicked behind it, as if this bastard knows that I am nothing in its presence. Maybe it’s stronger than I thought.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  Dakota, still in the bedroom, says, “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Stay there. Don’t look,” I tell her, which is the absolute worst thing to say to stubborn curiosity. A beat later, she gasps, curses, and then it sounds as if her voice is rising up from the floor, like she dropped into a carpeted foxhole.

  She calls out to me, “That’s what I saw before, Mike! Get back here. Hurry.”

  “I’m good. We’re good. Right, Mr. Ghost?”

  Mr. Ghost? The fuck?

  It growls at me—literally growls like I’ve put my hand too close to its food dish—and I step back. My bladder feels bulging and warm. Growling, especially something so dark, as if it’s seared by hate and ashes, could easily be classified as demonic.

  I’m not buying it. Dakota hasn’t mentioned any of the typical signs like claw marks showing up on her skin in threes—a mockery of the Holy Trinity—or any of the other indi
cators like childish voices and shredded Bibles.

  It doesn’t feel demonic. My guess is that it’s masquerading as something bigger and stronger, much the same as a human lifting its arms and shouting to appear more intimidating over a dangerous animal.

  Assuming it’s posturing, and weaker than it actually is, well, that’s my first mistake.

  ***

  My second mistake is feeling like I need to be Billy Badass in front of Dakota and impress her with my ghost-demolishing skills. Peacocking, so to speak.

  I don’t have a crucifix with me, so what I do is, I raise my forearms and lay one over the other, in the shape of a cross. I shout, “Back, ye heathen devil!” and immediately feel like a gargantuan dork in a late night B-movie. Ford was better at this part than I am. Viewers told us our banter made the show what it was, but he knew how to put on a performance, man.

  The thing is, it’s taken me over two years to forgive him for ruining Graveyard and screwing up Chelsea Hopper. What never wavered, though, was my belief that his presence made us what we were. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest when I approached all those producers without him along. They acted more interested in the dog crap on the soles of their expensive loafers, especially if they knew I’d be prone to shouting stupid stuff like, Back, ye heathen devil!

  It laughs at me again. Roars, really, at my childish attempt.

  I try a different tactic, attempting to channel the almighty Ford Atticus Ford at his best. I can remember his speech from an Irish rectory in season six, word for word, and begin to recite it: “Whether you are a child of God, or a child of Satan, this home is not yours. Listen to me, and understand me. You do not belong here. You will leave this place on my command and you will never bother this woman again, do you hear me? What is your name? Do you know that there is power in a name, you pitiful, pathetic weakling?” I raise my voice, one click of the dial below shouting, and continue, “What is your name, you bastard? My named is Ford At—shit, I mean, my name is Mike Long, and I command you to leave now in the name of God. Leave now and never return!”

  The mist diminishes in size, losing its shape of a man, churning in a slow circle like black muck down a bathtub drain.

  Victory is on my lips, forming the word, when I hear it speak one of the most chilling EVPs I’ve ever heard.

  “I know you want her. She’s… mine.”

  The black cloud swishes around like Batman making a dramatic exit with his cape and then poof, it evaporates. Gone as fast as it arrived.

  Son of a bitch!

  It takes me around two-point-seven seconds to decide I don’t need, nor want, Dakota to hear that EVP. This scenario is already too messed up for her, and I can’t have my schoolboy-slash-lonely-middle-aged-dude crush complicating the situation any further. I rewind roughly twenty seconds back on the GS-5000 and then record the silence over top of the EVP. This pains me to do so, because in over twelve-plus years of being involved with the paranormal world, that was one of the cleanest EVPs with proof of an intelligent haunt that I’ve ever come across.

  During Graveyard’s amazing run, Ford was often accused of reading too far into the language of EVPs, trying to fit meaning relatable to the situation into nonsensical ghost blathering. I never came right out and told him this: I agreed. That was his deal, more or less, and I never argued with him over creative control. It was what it was. Ford developed the “story” behind the investigations. I was there to be the tech guy and provide straight man humor to his over-the-topness.

  Frankly, I wish he were here now. My vibrating hands and shaky knees are proof that I’m out of practice when it comes to doing this alone.

  Chin up, chest out, Mikey Sweetheart. You got this.

  “Is it gone?” Dakota’s voice is fifteen feet behind me and timid.

  I look back to see her peeking out of the office. “For now. I think.”

  She eases through the doorway, head, shoulders, and arms first, in slow motion. She’s so tall and lean and muscular that it reminds me of a video my daughter watched online where someone had filmed the birth of a baby foal.

  Yup, that’ll do it.

  Nothing will put a damper on a horny crush faster than a loathsome spirit and the thought of horse vaginas.

  I tell her again that it’s gone—for a while—and we should take this opportunity to get out of the house and let it recharge, adding, “There’s no need in doing any baseline checks. I got a visual. You’re not imagining things.”

  “You thought I was?”

  Whoa, backtrack. “No, no, not at all. I meant I’m positive you don’t have anything else going on in here, like a fear cage where the EMF stuff is so strong, it can give you hallucinations.”

  “EMF stuff? Is that the technical term?”

  “Official. Got it out of the guidebook.”

  Dakota giggles and it’s a melody. I want to make her laugh for the rest of her life.

  And mine.

  She hugs herself and tentatively studies the hall and the nearby rooms.

  I reassure her, “I don’t think it’ll bother us. At least not for now.”

  “For now? Ugh. And did I hear you say you wanted that thing to recharge? What in God’s name for?”

  I explain the whole principle of spiritual beings needing and expending energy to manifest or communicate with the living world. “And by taking the time to recharge, he’s drawing on any available sources, like the spare batteries in my pockets, your fear. I mean, seriously, right now you’re probably a walking Tesla coil just shooting off lightning bolts of ghost juice.”

  “And this is supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Just the facts, ma’am.”

  “Right.”

  “We should go. Get you out of here and let it fill up on something else.”

  “Tell me why—this recharge thing you’re talking about.”

  “Because it’s easier to communicate once he builds up enough power to step over to this side again. When he does, he’s at his most potent, but also his most vulnerable.”

  “And that’s what we want? Strong but vulnerable?”

  “When you put it that way, it makes him sound like Ryan Gosling, but yeah, essentially.”

  She nods, resigned, and looks away. “Now what?”

  “Research. We need to find out who it is.”

  “Was,” she reminds me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ford Atticus Ford

  Lauren steps into Grandma Ellen’s house and takes a look around like she’s never seen the place before. Initially, this seems like an odd reaction, then it occurs to me that she’s probably freaked out and expecting her black-eyed buddies to pop up from behind the couch and yell, “Boo!”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “All clear. I checked.”

  That’s a small, possibly harmless fib, because I got so involved with setting up the antiquated video recorder, I didn’t have a chance to thoroughly check the bathroom down the hall or the linen closet beside it. Or, you know, both bedrooms. Besides, I’m still in the mindset that if she didn’t invite them in, it’s all good. That tingly sensation I get when something paranormal is present isn’t firing off either.

  We’re fine.

  I hope.

  At least until those things come back.

  And then what?

  Pray? Let them in? Let the host of Weekend Report interview them?

  No clue, but I’m going to trust my instincts when the time comes.

  Lauren stops in the middle of the living room floor. She’s soaked. Her wet hoodie and jeans and limp bottle-blonde hair all drip onto the throw rug that bears a picture of the local seascape.

  “You okay, Coeburn? You seem off.”

  “No, I’m good. Just feels strange being in here after… them.”

  “Why were you out in the rain?”

  “Checking around the house. Helping.”

  “You didn’t need to do that. I had it.” And for someone who was so terrified, that’s a d
amn ballsy move, so I should give her some credit. “Thanks, though. Pretty brave.”

  She nods and pulls her soaked hair back. “So we’re safe? You’re positive?”

  I tell her I think so and that we should be good until our visitors return.

  “How long?”

  “Until they come back? Hell if I know. Ten minutes? An hour? Never?”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  Lauren ignores my question and snatches her sopping wet hoodie at the hem and then whips it up and off. Before I can grasp what she’s doing, I see a perfectly taut tummy and full, round breasts that, upon a microscopic glimpse, appear to be a little too perfectly round. My educated guess says that pushup bra isn’t necessary.

  Typical male, yeah, but I’m also a gentleman—sometimes—so I grunt, “Whoa,” and turn away. “How ‘bout a little warning?”

  “Chill, Ford. It’s not like you haven’t seen breasts before,” she chides, zipper hissing down, followed by mumbles and wiggling as she tries to peel off her painted-on jeans that must be astronomically harder to remove now that they’re wet.

  Yeah, I’ve seen lady parts before, but does she have to strip down right here, though?

  I get my answer why when she says, “The dryer is in the kitchen. Avert your eyes if you must, gallant Sir Ford.”

  Curiosity trumps my gallantry, and I have to look, because telling me to avert my eyes is like putting me in an empty room and telling me not to push the giant, red, DO NOT PUSH button. While I used to hate her guts with the passion of a million stars gone supernova, it’s hard to ignore the fact that all the weight she’s lost has really done wonders. She looks good. Capital G good.

  Although, as she’s walking away, I note that her bra and thong don’t match. I don’t know why this amuses me. Maybe it’s because I expected the ultra-pristine television persona to be as put together off camera as she is on. In the dim light, the bra appears to be something of a cream shade, and the thong looks midnight blue.