The White Night

by Desmond Doane

  I wave her off and say, “Nah, don’t be. It’s like I’m sad, but not really, because I kinda saw it coming from a mile away. I tried to salvage things, and actually wanted it to work on some level because there really were some good times in the past. I guess—it’s just—when you know it’s time to move on, it’s not that bad. I’ll be fine.”

  “Fine speech,” she says, grinning slightly, “but that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about going to war with—what did you call it? Chelsea’s right-hander? What happens if you get possessed while you’re filming? What happens if they commit you to some asylum like that kid from Ghost Bros?”

  The lady knows her trivia. I reassure her that it won’t happen, that even if I convince Ford to sign on, we’re experienced, and we know our limits. Besides, now that we know what we’re dealing with, we’re primed to win.

  Irritated, Dakota says, “But what if, Mike. What if something happens? How in the hell am I going to cook you dinner if they won’t let you have a fork in your padded cell?”

  Oh. Ooooh.

  I see it now. She’s that kind of worried—like, don’t screw up the possibilities by having a demon go nom-nom-nom on your soul.

  Damn, that’s not at all what I expec—

  Crash!

  Crash!

  Crash!

  “Behind me. Now,” I order, springing up to my feet, taking Dakota’s arm, and slinging her back to where I can use my body as a shield. Across the kitchen, over the coffeemaker, three of the glass-paned cabinet doors have shattered like some pissed off teenager put his fist through them.

  And, seeing as how there’s no mop-haired brat around, my best guess is that Dakota’s interloper drew in ample energy to make himself known.

  Three more glass panes in the cabinet doors disintegrate—crash! crash! crash!—in rapid succession, coming closer to where we stand.

  Dakota screams and tries to hide her face between my shoulder blades, her fingers clutching my t-shirt, wadding it up in her fists. I reach around, put a hand on her lower back and pat her, urging her to retreat into the next room. “Go, go, go,” I whisper, realizing that we foolishly left all of our equipment on a hallway table where we were last investigating. We’re blind to any kind of attack. I order Dakota upstairs and follow along behind her, sprinting up them, taking them by twos as the stairwell curves around and opens on the middle landing.

  “Back to the office. Get the thermal cam ready,” I tell her. “Take one of these.” I yank a four-ounce bottle of holy water free from the runner’s fanny pack and shove it into her hand. “Stay right back in the corner, with the thermal cam focused on the doorway, and if you see it coming through—”

  “How will I know?” She can’t hide the quiver in her voice.

  “Remember what I told you? About the different colors for different heat signatures? You’ll know. You can tell. Just keep repeating the Lord’s Prayer and douse it with the holy water.”

  I move to leave. Her free hand whips out and wraps around my wrist, fingernails digging into that soft spot where you check for a pulse. “Wait, what’re you doing?”

  “Going to get rid of it.”

  Her eyes widen to the size of sand dollars. “No, don’t leave me here. Not by myself.”

  “You’re staying. End of story.”

  “No—”

  From some far off corner of Dakota’s beachfront mansion, a door slams, and then another.

  “Stop,” I say, stepping closer to her, cupping my hands on her shoulders, soft and reassuring, “I know this seems like some Hollywood ending where the hero leaves the leading lady behind and runs off to beat the bad guy—”

  “Don’t go.”

  “Just stay. Please. You’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. A few prayers, some holy water cocktail, and I’ll send this dude packing.”

  From downstairs comes the thrashing, clattering sound of a kitchen chair flung across a tile floor.

  The living room television cuts on at full volume. It shuts off again.

  On again, off again.

  “Ted, what we” … “going on” … “the Republican party absolutely can’t…”

  “Really? Political talking heads?” I say, trying to bring some much needed levity into the moment.

  “Do not leave me here,” she says, and it’s a mixture of anger and fear.

  “I have to. You know how you’re worried about me and Chelsea’s demon? Same thing. I can’t let anything happen to you. I couldn’t live with myself. I know how to handle these things, and you have to trust me.”

  “You said it was stronger than you thought. Those awful horns, remember?

  “And I did, but that doesn’t mean—whoa.” The lights in the stairwell flicker like a strobe light at some juiced up rave party. “Gotta go.”

  I pull away as Dakota lets go of me, mouth pursed, her breath forced and heavy through her nostrils like she just finished a marathon. She pounces, surprising me with a kiss on the cheek.

  I might have about seven seconds to relish the soft, tender touch of her lips on my skin before the demon is upon us, and I plan to use every single one while I stand here, gawking at her. I lift a hand and—

  Outside of the open office door, a disembodied voice that sounds like the scream of a thousand souls being forced through a wood chipper says, “Hello, my pretty one.”

  Dakota says, “Oh shit,” and tries to pull me into the corner with her.

  I yank my hand free and reach for the remaining holy water containers. The spare one goes in my pocket and the other two are in my fists, locked and loaded.

  A black, misty shape appears about head high, the smoky tendrils wrapping around the doorjamb like fingers clasping onto it. The shape grows. A head and shoulders peek around the edge, billowing, swirling, pulling itself into the room.

  The voice changes to a haunting, childish tone as it emanates from everywhere and nowhere at once when it sings, “You want her. You can’t have her. She’s miiiiine!”

  Then it hisses, unbearably loud, and pulls itself into the room.

  Dakota screams.

  The mist moves with so much speed.

  My hands fly up and I clamp down on the bottles of holy water, squeezing as hard as I can, shouting, “Our Father, who art in Heav—ungh!” as it hurtles into my chest. I feel as if someone has reached inside my lungs and replaced the air with boiling gasoline.

  I blink, once, twice. Unsteady. Off balance.

  I feel invaded.

  I feel murky. Cold.

  And then a voice in my head tells me to face Dakota.

  ***

  Dakota watches every terrifying second in slow motion. Her head has grown thick with pressure, as if she’s submerged and can’t reach the surface. Her heartbeat thumping in her ears sounds like the inside of a womb. She loses the feeling in her hands as the black, swirling mist surges into the room, and the small, seemingly useless bottle of holy water slips from her fingers. She hears the faint plunk on the carpet when it lands at her feet.

  She screams, covers her mouth.

  The entity hurtles straight at Mike’s chest as he slings holy water at it.

  He tries to pray—stops with a grunt—and goes eerily hushed for a moment before he begins turning around slowly, as if he’s controlled by something else.

  The dark mist is gone. Now it’s only her and Mike.

  She can sense that his energy has changed before he has fully turned to face her.

  The warmth she felt from him, that schoolboy crush that had her pretending she didn’t notice all day long, is now gone. It’s replaced with a black longing. Not a crush, not affection, but an angry, lustful desperation—not want, need.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  His eyes have changed—before, they were droopy with exhaustion. He was a man whose life had been shredded apart by others through no fault of his own. There was a subtle desperation in the way he looked at the world, silently asking for something to finally go right again. His eyes held h
istory of someone who had it all, lost everything, and had learned to accept his fate.

  Yet whenever she had smiled at him, a trace of hope would lighten them.

  All of that is gone, replaced by threatening intent.

  “Mike?”

  He takes a step closer. “Hello, my pretty one.” It’s Mike’s voice, but polluted and strange. “Mine. All mine.”

  “Get out of him,” she says, delicately at first, testing the reaction. When nothing comes, she raises her voice, demanding that the demonic entity leave. Yet again, there’s no response, only the deliberate, hushed movement closer. She screams, “Mike, fight it! Don’t let it take you!”

  Mike’s hands come up to chest level, hands spread apart, fingers curled.

  “No,” she whimpers.

  He lunges, arms swinging wide, closing in as Dakota ducks at the last instant, grabbing empty air.

  Dakota drops to one knee and grasps the last remaining bottle of holy water. She had made fun of Mike earlier for the ridiculous contraption around his waist, and now, what remains might not save her life, but it may give her a singular chance at escape. Her fingers tighten around it as she rolls forward on one shoulder, rotates, and springs up to her feet, continuing the motion, spinning to face him.

  As Mike—no, not Mike, the demon inside him—whirls around, she squeezes the tiny bottle with both hands, the thin stream going straight into his eyes. She says, “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…” And she can remember no more.

  It wouldn’t matter anyway because he roars with rage, head turned to the ceiling, teeth bared and fists clenched.

  “Uh oh.” Dakota sprints for the office door, and before she darts into the illusion of escape, she sees a small black rectangle next to a lamp.

  Mike’s cell phone.

  She grabs it, slams the door behind her, and trips. She breaks her fall with her hands and pushes up, driving her legs, feeling the muscles forcing her ahead.

  In the same instant, the door booms as Mike’s body pounds into it.

  The handle rattles. The door is wrenched open.

  It’s then that Dakota realizes she has gone the wrong direction.

  A wall of muscle, bone, and demon stands between her and the staircase. Behind her is nothing but empty room after empty room.

  One of which has an extra patio door leading outside.

  Dakota sprints.

  All of her training, her conditioning, the marathons and triathlons, years spent burning away stress because it worked better than alcohol or prescriptions, has led to this moment. She knows she can outrun him. It.

  If she can make it outside, the only question that remains is, how far is the drop off the balcony?

  There’s nothing but sand and brush below, but it’s dark, and the second floor balcony hangs over a hillside, which could mean as little as ten feet at the rear and as much as twenty or more at the front. Possibly higher? She can’t remember. She’s never paid that much attention to it. She’s only been out there to sunbathe, and then that ended when she caught the creepy teenager trying to film her.

  I can do it, I can make the jump, she thinks as she flees. I have to.

  She ducks into the last bedroom on the right and then makes an immediate left.

  The sliding glass door is fifteen feet away.

  Freedom.

  ***

  Fire. Rage. Ashes and smoke in my lungs. I see her running. When she looks back, the fear in her eyes is fuel for the overwhelming ache for her that invades and engorges every cell in my body. It’s a cold fire in my veins. I have images in my mind, memories of a past that doesn’t belong to me. The flames of hell aren’t orange. They’re black. They lick up the walls, the rocky floor, and across the bodies of millions of damned souls screaming for eternity.

  I run. I reach for her, grabbing her ankle as she tries to climb over the wall.

  Mine. She’s mine. Now and forever.

  “Hello, pretty one.” I dig my fingers into her strong shoulders and pull her closer. My lips go to hers as she struggles, screaming for me to stop.

  My tongue feels forked as it invades her warm, inviting mouth.

  She retches and—

  ***

  Dakota sprints across the open upper deck. The smell of salt air and the remaining warmth of the day provide her with no comfort.

  She begs God to save him.

  Sweet, caring Mike. A good man.

  No more. At least not right now.

  How far will he follow her?

  She’s positive she can run fast enough. She’s not as in shape as she was weeks ago, before this started, but she can do it. She can get away.

  If she can escape him, maybe long enough to call Father Duke, they could do something for Mike. But, it’s late. Would the priest answer at this hour? Would he even hear it? Did he have a hotline for demonic possession emergencies?

  Dakota shoves Mike’s cell phone in her back pocket, and then grabs the top railing that runs the length of the low wall. She looks over the edge, hesitating a second too long to see how far the drop is, and says, “Fuck it,” as she tries to pull herself up. It has to be at least fifteen feet from this spot. Drop down to the soft sand, land lightly on the balls of her feet, and roll with the hill. Let gravity do the work.

  One foot goes up to the railing and—

  There’s a hand on her ankle, pulling her back. She screams at his touch, his palm rough on her skin. Mike whips her around, squeezing hard as he jerks her close.

  “Mike! Don’t!” she screams.

  And then his mouth is on hers.

  She had thought about what a kiss might be like throughout the day, considered the possibilities. They had bonded over shared fame and their public image, celebrity and the burdens of maintaining a positive public image. She was vulnerable and scared. He played the part of her flawed hero well, even though he may not have known it at first.

  She had sensed his attraction, caught him looking, and had felt it, too. It had been so long since anyone looked at her that way. Then, Toni. She had recognized her, seen her time and again, around town and along the beach at odd hours with a man who was not this man. She had kept quiet, deciding it was none of her concern.

  A day spent with him did not constitute a chance at something more—she was old enough to recognize reality and responsibility—but there had been no harm in briefly fantasizing about his lips on hers, much in the same way you daydream about time spent on warm, sandy beaches with the handsome stranger who held the door open.

  Fleeting moments about what if had twisted and snarled the question into what now?

  This close, she can smell the sweat on his skin and feel the heat of his body against hers.

  His tongue, stiff and wet, forces itself between her lips and deep into her mouth.

  Dakota gags, not because of Mike, but because of the entity inside him. She considers biting his tongue, clamping down as hard as she can, severing the slithering muscle in half.

  But she can’t. Somewhere deep inside, the real Mike is trying desperately to regain control. He has to be. He would never do this to her, would never allow it to happen. She hasn’t known him long, but she knows that much.

  Instead, Dakota silently apologizes to Mike, wherever he may be in there, then distracts him first with a slap to the side of his head, followed by driving her knee up between his legs, hoping beyond hope that pain is a motivator for the demonically possessed.

  A guttural oooph erupts from his mouth, blowing into hers, and he lets go, hands flying down to his crotch.

  Dakota shoves him away, staggers a few steps back toward the house, and comes to an abrupt halt when he clamps onto her wrist. He’s down on one knee, using her resistance as a counterbalance to pull himself up.

  She wrenches sideways, twisting at the hip, bringing her arm up as she spins. Her sole intent was to hit him hard enough to break free, but luck helps the point of her elbow to land just behind his eye, instantly knocking him unco
nscious. Mike crumples into a heap.

  Dakota gasps in relief, wonders how long she has.

  Just hurry, she thinks. Find something.

  A minute later, she’s kneeling over him, binding his wrists and ankles together using shoestrings from abandoned sneakers, multiple pairs that she had worn out from years of training.

  Mike groans as she pulls the cell phone from her pocket.

  She scrolls rapidly through the list of contacts and finds the number she needs. She calls, and she prays.

  One ring. Two rings. Three.

  Fading hope tightens her chest.

  Then, a groggy voice answers, “Hello?”

  “Father Duke? I need help. It’s about Mike Long.”

  ***

  A hundred yards north, a grinning teenager can’t believe what he’s just captured. Thank God for rich, pushover parents and a strong zoom.

  He had seen weird lights in Dakota Bailey’s house. Flashlights going from room to room. Then rapid, sporadic flashing, illuminating various parts of the house. So he began recording, curious, not expecting much.

  Minutes later, Dakota hurtled onto the balcony, the same one where he had filmed her sunbathing so many times—in the nude—and sold those videos and pictures to his friends for hundreds of dollars.

  The man followed. What would this lead to? The teenager could only cross his fingers and wait.

  Even in the green hue of night vision, it was easy to see that Dakota’s aggressor was Mike Long, one of the former hosts of Graveyard: Classified.

  This was worth more than a few bucks from his friends.

  Tabloids would pay thousands.

  Or YouTube. Millions of hits. Millions.

  Yes. There it is. That’s what he’ll do.

  He backs away from his window and sits down at his laptop where he connects a USB cable.

  He crops the video to only use the best parts, uploads it, then waits for the page to go live.

  Minutes later, he emails his friends, and absolutely cannot believe his good fortune. He’ll be on the front pages of the Internet by the time he wakes up.

  That is, if he can sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Portland, Oregon

  Ford and Mike Long