The White Night

by Desmond Doane

  A billionaire with a desperate secret out there?

  Metaphorically selling his soul at the crossroads with a cadre of powerful people—it all sounds so insane, and I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen that picture.

  And believe me, I studied the hell out of that thing. Over the years, I got quite adept at spotting digitally altered photos, especially when a potential client was trying to convince us to come film at their location. Getting approval from us meant a boatload of free exposure, plus the stipend The Paranormal Channel paid them to allow us to film. Win-win for them all around. More often than not, they were legit. When they weren’t, the fakes were easy to spot.

  Granted, I had to zoom in to study Preston’s picture on a small iPhone screen, so I didn’t have the best possible situation, and there’s always the possibility that I could’ve been experiencing something known as matrixing.

  Matrixing is where your eyes see an image, and the brain tries to put it in terms it can understand by applying a similar image to it. The quickest example that comes to mind is looking at a cloud and seeing a fire-breathing dragon instead of puffy balls of condensation in the atmosphere.

  That said, I couldn’t pick out a damn bit of digital tampering.

  In the photo, six men stand in a circle, in what Dakota now uses as her master bedroom. The seventh is from the viewpoint of Brandon’s father who is apparently trying to take a picture with his James Bond super secret spy glasses and do his damage. The carpet is rolled back, up against the eastern facing wall, and at their feet, blood red candles burn around a white symbol that I don’t recognize. It’s not a far leap to assume it’s something satanic or demonic in nature. It’s made up of circles, swirls, star-points and what looks like two crossed scythes. An angry skull snarls in the center.

  The men are dressed in dark colored robes, all except one, who I assume is Damon Healy, and his cloak is obsidian black. His disciples, for lack of a better word, hang their heads, holding clasped hands at their waists in a posture of prayer. Healy holds a staff in his left hand, held high up over his head, where flames arch up from the end. In his right hand—and I swear to this—he’s holding what looks like a human heart.

  It’s a bit distorted in the photo once you zoom in at a certain level, but the heart shines as if it’s wet.

  Could it all be fake or maybe nothing more than a demented play date?

  Possibly.

  And yet, a local businessman with more money than sense, who couldn’t let a grudge go, was so intent on getting this news out into the world that he was willing to risk his life for it.

  Poor bastard.

  Which leads me to the worst part of it.

  The ritual sacrifice? I can deal with that, no problem. To me, doing what I’ve done for so long, that’s part of the standard operating procedure. It’s like going to the grocery store. Another day, another dollar.

  Ford and I saw enough in our time on Graveyard that I understand what we’re going up against. We had clients describe stories like this to us all the time. We were always present when we had local actors film reenactment scenes just like the one in the photograph. We even had one episode where we recreated something eerily similar, as a trigger event, in the sub-levels of some eastern European catacombs.

  Usually, nothing comes of it. Some adventurous teens try to freak each other out after they’ve procured a couple of dad’s beers from the downstairs refrigerator. They say a few words they heard in a movie once, feel the Ouija board planchette move around a little, spook themselves all to shit, and they’re done.

  Some folks go the extra mile and play dress-up, trying to be serious. Literally trying to conjure up a demon. Morons. I wish people, no matter what they believe, would understand the significance of what they were trying to unleash upon the world. If they’re unsuccessful, then throw an extra dollar in the offering plate and thank God for looking out for us.

  Could be because they said the words wrong, or maybe they sacrificed a goat that believed in the Big Man Upstairs and the holy goat blood dripping on the satanic symbol thingies didn’t work because the life juice was tainted with the love of Jesus.

  Beats me.

  Then, you get people like Dave Craghorn, that sad, lonely, infected man in Virginia who simply wanted to feel less alone, and in the process, managed to invite a demon—our demon, Chelsea’s demon—into his home by meddling with this shit.

  Finally, there are these guys. Hardcore, real deal types.

  When you’re sitting on top of a few billion dollars, you can afford to hire the best people to do their worst.

  All that to say, when I looked at the picture, I knew we were in some deep, deep trouble.

  I shiver just thinking about what I saw.

  Dakota notices and asks if I’m okay.

  I smile my okayness, as if that’s an acceptable answer.

  Dakota is comforting. I’m glad she’s here.

  That fact doesn’t help me get the image of that thing out of my mind.

  A dark, murky mist pools behind Healy, extending roughly a foot out on either side of his body. It puffs up and out behind him, almost like a mushroom cloud, yet not as defined in its form. Right in the center—and I’m absolutely positive this isn’t matrixing—is a sharp, pointed face, with angular jaws and long fangs bared in a scream. Where the eyes are supposed to be, there are two hollow pits that are more than empty caverns. Staring at them long enough leads to a morose, pulling sensation, as if you were being led along by a tether, drawing you deeper into the depths of darkness, blacker than ink, horribly void of heat and light, love and anything good in the world.

  Horns. My God, the horns.

  Traditional pictures of Satan and his minions depict creatures with two horns, one above each ear. Left. Right. Pointing skyward or at a slightly forward angle.

  That’s what we think of when we picture a demon, right?

  This thing, or at least the image it projected in the photo as it tries to manifest, has six horns, each one jagged and broken. Not quite antlers, not quite traditional horns, but something in between. Branches, possibly, from say, a tree growing outside of the demon’s rental unit in Hell Central.

  Branches doesn’t do it justice.

  Knives. Razor blades. Needles.

  My stomach goes numb picturing what those horns would do to a human body.

  “Mike!” shouts Dakota.

  I come back from the dark place my mind had gone, barely in time to spot the stoplight and the rapidly approaching taillights up ahead. Tires squeal as I skid to a stop, inches away from the trailer hitch of a massive pickup, the kind you would expect to have a fake pair of bull testicles hanging from the bumper.

  I see the guy look up in his rearview mirror. He turns, looking down at us through the back window, and shrugs, holding up his thumb and forefinger, signaling “This close, bud.”

  I wave and mouth my apologies while Dakota pats her chest, trying to get her breathing back to normal.

  I apologize, she tells me it’s fine, and asks me what happened.

  “Thinking about tonight and that thing,” I say. “I’m…”

  “Scared?” she asks.

  I agree without meeting her eyes. I hate to admit it, but I’m truly not ready to take on something like this on my own. It’s always been with Ford around. The crew as well. We had people nearby carrying sophisticated equipment. Backup. There’s no way on God’s green earth that I’m allowing Dakota to come with me tonight, not after what I saw in the picture, and I have nobody else to go with me.

  I consider tracking down a local paranormal group, which would be the best possible scenario, but with something this treacherous lurking around, I can’t risk it with a greenhorn group of people who don’t have enough experience to know how to guard themselves properly.

  I have to face this alone.

  So, hell yeah, I’m scared.

  A small part of me considers the possibility of Chelsea’s demon being in the area. It�
�s not here, is it?

  We thought that was a ridiculous possibility in Craghorn’s house, and you saw how that turned out. Once you consider the distance, the Outer Banks really aren’t that far away from the Hampton Roads area. If that right-hander can jump from Ohio to the Virginia coast, then there’s nothing saying it couldn’t have sauntered a couple hours south.

  Particularly if a group of obnoxiously wealthy Satan worshippers—with monetary access to all the best bad people—were literally putting out a flashing neon sign that read OPEN.

  I’m going to say that’s too much of a damn coincidence.

  Besides, that fucking thing hates Ford, not me.

  Dakota says, “Green light.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Gas pedal is on the right.”

  I look up to see the monster pickup already fifty yards ahead of us and picking up speed. “Yep, got it.”

  I hit the gas too hard, prompting Dakota to say, “Maybe we should get home in one piece, huh? Or would you like to kill us before we get there so the demon doesn’t have to?”

  “Lost in thought,” I admit. “This is infinitely bigger than I expected, and holy shit, how was I so far off earlier? I thought for sure this would be—maybe not harmless, but easier.”

  “So what do we do?” She turns to me with a concerned, expectant look, the creases between her eyebrows creating furrows over her nose.

  “We aren’t doing anything,” I answer. “The best thing for you to do is go rent a hotel room somewhere, or,” and I’m stunned that I’m offering this, “maybe you could go hang out with Toni tonight. Let me handle this.”

  She throws herself sideways in the seat, puts her back up against the window. “By yourself? Absolutely not,” she says. Her tone tells me I won’t have much success with an argument. I recognize this tone because Toni uses it all the time.

  Dakota crosses her arms, not pouting, but angry-like. “You can’t do this alone.”

  “I can and I have,” I lie. “You saw that thing in the picture, Dakota. I’m not letting you anywhere near it.”

  “And you’re forgetting that I’ve been living with it for weeks. We might as well be roommates.”

  “All the more reason to stay away. You’re already weakened to it, and one bad night could tip you into a place that you’re not climbing out of. That’s all it would take. Trust me on this.”

  “Wouldn’t you agree that having two positive sources of energy—the two of us together—that’s better than you alone, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “See?”

  “Don’t confuse my agreement for an invitation.”

  “I can feel something changing already by having you around. Getting me out of there, your positive vibes. It’s a good thing. I feel like, emotionally, I’m getting stronger. You could use me. You need me.”

  “Dakota—”

  “Besides,” she interrupts, plowing straight through my reply with her miniature tirade, “I don’t want to hang out with your wife and her boyfriend.” She stops, a surprised look of “Oops, shit!” yanking her eyebrows high as she gasps, “I’m sorry.” Her hand flies up to cover her mouth.

  “My wife and her what?”

  Dakota turns her attention elsewhere. “Forget I said that.”

  “Huh-uh. You don’t get to hold out, not after that.” I whip the BMW into a grocery store lot, sidle up next to a beige minivan, and slam the shifter into park. “Tell me.”

  Dakota reaches for me. I think about pulling away, and instead, I let her take my hand.

  “Tell me it’s not what I think.”

  Who am I kidding? I’ve suspected it for ages.

  She says, “It’s none of my business.”

  “You say that now? Wait, you acted like you didn’t know her. Were you…were you hiding this all day long?”

  “I didn’t want to. You deserved to know, it’s just that—I didn’t know if I should, or if you’d believe me. People get protective over stuff like this. I’ve had friends in the past who got pissed and ended up hating the person who told them more than the spouse doing the cheating.” She clamps her other hand on top of mine.

  “Tell me everything.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I can drag myself outside to actually go running, I’ve seen her a few times. With another man, I mean. This morning I recognized her as soon as I walked in the door, and it was her, and you weren’t the man I’d seen her with, and, yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  “I told you why. But, mostly, I didn’t want you to hate me.”

  I don’t even know how to process this. I’m angry. I’m sad.

  I’m relieved.

  My muscles are knotted ropes.

  I’m surprised. I’m not.

  I bite down on the back of a knuckle, tightly pinching the skin between my teeth.

  The pain is a good release.

  I hold it for as long as I can.

  I tell Dakota, “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious. I’m pissed that you didn’t say anything.”

  “I understand.”

  “I can’t do anything about it right now.”

  “I know.”

  “Besides, it’s been over for a long time.” It’s true. And yet, that doesn’t mean I’m not hurt.

  “Yeah.”

  “Later.” I’ll swallow the pain with a bottle of scotch later. “I’ll concentrate on it when we’re done.”

  “You just said ‘we.’”

  “I’m not thrilled about it, but after this conversation,” I say, pointing at her and then myself, “I might not be in the best place. Your positive energy might be a necessity.”

  She lets go of my hand and starts picking at a hangnail. She looks up at me, timidly. “I promise I didn’t do that on purpose.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  Dakota asks, “What now?”

  “Only one thing to do. We go get your house back, right?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” She grins at me sheepishly.

  I reach to put the car back in reverse, then pause. “What’s that thing you used to say on Yes, Chef! right before you walked into the competition kitchen?”

  “If you were really such a huge fan, you know exactly what it was.”

  I put the car in gear and take my foot off the brake. As we ease back out of the parking spot, I tell her, “I wanted to hear you say it one more time.”

  “Fine, just for you.” Dakota affectionately squeezes my shoulder. “Boom go the bombs. Time to light this motherfucker up.”

  Man, it’s so much cooler to hear it without the network’s censoring bleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ford Atticus Ford

  I plow into the door, all one hundred and ninety pounds of me hitting it at full throttle. Well, with as much momentum as I can muster across seven feet of bathroom floor space. I hit it with the force of a dump truck barreling through a papier-mâché wall, my body pushing the door into Lauren, knocking her back, sending her hurtling completely off her feet. Her back slams into the cheap sheetrock wall on the opposite side, leaving a dent, and then she falls forward, face down.

  I watch it happen as my awkward fumbling carries me ahead, tripping over the downed door at my feet, gravity doing its job, pulling at me as my arms windmill frantically. One boot catches in the hole Lauren had made while my knees buckle and I drop, hard. I get my arms up in time to prevent a faceplant, but barely.

  I push up hard, scrambling for safety.

  The front door. If I can just make it to the front door, I can get away.

  I don’t even come close.

  Her hand latches onto my ankle, and holy shit, is she strong.

  I fall again, unprepared this time, and my face smashes into the floor. I blindly reach for an anchor, anything to prevent her from dragging me back. There’s nothing. I try to dig my fing
ers into the hardwood, but it’s too slippery, worn smooth by shoes and the passage of time. I press harder with my fingertips while the howling, possessed, television host tightens her grip around my ankle, yanking me.

  She digs her claws into my skin and tugs repeatedly, like a coyote pulling a stubborn piece of meat from a carcass.

  I’m going to die, aren’t I?

  This is how it happens. This is the end.

  After twelve years and countless hours of tempting, testing, and antagonizing the more atrocious aspects of the paranormal afterlife, I’m about to go bye-bye at the hands of a soulless blonde woman with black eyes.

  Come to think of it, I’ve actually dated a few of those in the past.

  She’s strong. So strong, and no matter how hard I kick, I can’t break free of her grip. What will happen? The thing inside her already has a new host. What good will I be to it?

  Unless…

  Unless it needs me to spread like a paranormal virus.

  What will it feel like when it happens? Will I go cold? Will I feel black and void on the inside, the same way I felt when The Paranormal Channel informed me that they would be indefinitely removing Graveyard from the air?

  I roll onto my back, hoping for better leverage, as I plant my hands for support and kick her forehead, again and again. It doesn’t help. Her clutch is too strong.

  Lauren, or the thing she has become, bares her teeth and growls at me.

  The sound is threatening, unholy, and I whimper.

  I steady my hands against the floor and shove, twisting my body sideways. The wrenching momentum works, and hallelujah, I’m free long enough to dive for the wooden couch leg and grab it, thinking I can pull myself away and up to freedom.

  I’m too slow.

  The she-beast lunges, her fingertips burying into my calf. I can feel her nails through my jeans.

  I wrap both hands around the couch leg and lock my fingers, holding on with everything I can manage. It works, briefly. She’s unnaturally strong, but not strong enough to pull me and the couch too.

  While she struggles, it gives me a moment to plan, to frantically search for something I can use as a weapon. There’s nothing within reach, not unless I get all Superman and manage to cut off a leg of the nearby coffee table using laser beams from my eyeballs.