In the Dead of Night

by Aiden James

  “Roses and a pair of toy tiaras—are you frigging serious??!”

  She glared at me, hands balled into fists like she might hit me. I have no doubt she thought about it…albeit an inappropriate managerial response.

  “Hey, you know? Why don’t we find some palm branches for Princess Bubbles and her Barbie twin and lay them on the ground for them to walk on instead!”

  Unable to restrain myself, I detected a smidgen of amusement in those fiery eyes of hers. You should see how those orbs morph to brighter green, depending on her mood. Almost as amazing as Fiona’s. Except in my boss’s case, the brighter her eyes the more agitation contained therein.

  “Better yet, why don’t I bring my Harley in here, and give them both a ride?” I continued, ignoring the obvious warning to tread with care. “That way, we can protect their little footsies from touching the unholy walkways in such abundance here.”

  “I’ve got an even better idea,” she seethed. “Why don’t you get on all fours and carry them on your back, since you’re acting like such a jackass!”

  Touché’.

  “So, where’d we get a red carpet?” I asked, ready to change the subject, while I sought to regain some composure.

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Follow me.”

  She allowed me to open the door and then she led the way past the security desk and into the main section of our center. The place was abuzz with excitement, and everyone knew our embarrassing secret. Very little ever gets past our reps, and I often wonder why in the hell we insist on the continual dog and pony show to try and mislead them. Over the years, they’ve grown wise to the verbiage that reeks of deceit and perfumed bullshit. I can guarantee that by the time this spectacle is over, my entire team will be fully aware of the gory details—including those from behind closed doors.

  We waited in the atrium, and before long our GM, Peter Stovall showed up with his assistant, Dorothy Brown. He sort of reminds me of Mr. Smithers from The Simpsons and Dorothy could easily pass as Marge, with her hideous bouffant hairdo. Just lovely. Once the rest of Matilda’s team of supervisors showed up, it left us only a few minutes to take our places, each holding a packet of velvet rose petals.

  Nausea again, and my sour stomach grew steadily worse when the princesses arrived. Matronly in appearance, and dressed smartly in casual business pantsuits, our two Regional executives both smiled when greeted with the initial adulation from our group, that swelled to nearly sixty individuals when HR and the training department showed up. Filling in for our CEO and CPO, both women looked pained by the excess attention, squinting protectively as fake rose petals flew all around them. Then, everyone moved down the red carpet, which in reality looked like a cheap velour carpet runner.

  I couldn’t get to the conference room fast enough, counting steps in an effort to distract my mind from this nonsense. This might be it, really. Over the weekend, I’ve promised myself to make time to get alone and consider whether I should update my resume and move on. Yeah, the money’s pretty good, but playing the games necessary to thrive here as a supervisor gets harder and harder every time we do absurd shit like this.

  At least the joke about retreating to one’s happy place actually can work now and then. It did for me. Running through last night’s rehearsal in my head, along with my favorite Zep and Aerosmith tunes kept me smiling. Before long, the intro to this whole affair was forgotten, and we moved on to the tough Q&A that marked an event like this. After a few hours, the meeting mercifully ended. While the big bosses continued to fawn over our visitors, everyone from my managerial level on down returned to their stations.

  Thank God…just a few coachings, and I can wrap up the day and get out of here. Fiona said something at breakfast about a special event planned for that night, but I couldn’t remember now what it was…. So I called her before my day’s first rep had finished her customer call and came over to my desk. That usually meant I’d be afforded several minutes.

  “Hey, Babe. Just checking to see how your day’s going.”

  I headed for my pod’s far corner, vacant today as three of my direct reports had taken the day off. A three day weekend—must be nice.

  “It’s been a pretty good day so far,” said Fiona. Her tone sounded upbeat, although not oozing with joy. I didn’t expect it would for a while. “How’d it go this morning?”

  I told her about the tiara and rose parade, and like me, she didn’t restrain her reaction. Actually, she voiced more disdain than I had earlier to Matilda.

  “Did you sing ‘Hosanna’?” she teased.

  “Very funny,” I agreed, chuckling. “Good thing no one else around here thought of that, or this could’ve been a helluva lot worse. We have something planned tonight. Don’t we?”

  Shakarra Knowles, my most flamboyant and attention-needy rep had just finished her call and was on her way to my desk.

  “We’re going to the Carnton Plantation,” Fiona advised, her tone slightly miffed. “You’re still coming, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tom should have some more pictures to show us, from our visit to Johnny’s place last night.”

  Shit. I forgot all about her and the girls going back to the scene of the original crime. Tom must’ve tagged along, too.

  “How’d that go?” I asked, allowing my tone to brighten. Sound really interested, I told myself, damn it. “I meant to ask about it this morning at breakfast.”

  “You forgot all about it, hon,” she replied, more gently than she could’ve done.

  Yes, I should’ve mentioned it. But, no, I didn’t completely forget about it.... Okay, maybe it slipped my mind after the asshole driving the van chased me home. Either way, it seemed pointless skirting around half-truths when dealing with my psychic better half. Living with someone like her can be tougher than the fantasy some guys might have. I love her dearly, so I’ve learned to adjust. Obviously, learning continues.

  “We couldn’t get as close to the house as I would’ve liked, since the police tape is there. But we picked up a few things on video and audio,” she continued, her tone steadily brightening. “Tom already called me with an update—some of the still shots have unusual stuff going on, too.”

  “And he’s bringing the pics to show us tonight?”

  My tone also perked up. I was immediately intrigued to see the images captured from last night. Most investigations turn up nothing, even if everything feels creepy as hell. We often get empty shots and blank recordings from a night out ‘spook chasing’. The best pictures and audio evidence come when you least expect it. I guess ghosts are pranksters too.

  “Yes, he promised,” she said. “Hopefully, we’ll also get something tonight…something that has nothing to do with what’s recently happened.”

  “I hope so, babe.”

  I‘m sure I sounded sincere this time, and no effort to do so. My heart ached for her pain. Wish I could just suck it out of her, like some venomous poison. Time can be a real bitch when you’d like things to not take so long. But I know true healing requires time, sometimes lots of it.

  Ms. Knowles took her seat next to mine, and Dennis motioned that she was ready to go over her most recent call recordings.

  I told Fiona, reluctantly, that I had to go. At least she knows I’m totally jazzed about our evening plans. Just a few hours until I’ll meet her at the Franklin Chophouse for dinner with the gang, I assured her I’d be there by five-thirty, Friday night traffic willing.

  As I prepared to sit down at my desk, Shakarra offered a wink and a seductive smile.

  Damn I forgot my shades, and the flirtatious advances for the day were in full swing. I almost never perform a one on one session without em’. Left the suckers back in the conference room, I bet. Damned Mel Gibson blue eyes... such sapphire pools of illicit temptation. Forced to ignore subtle comments and not so subtle dreamy-eyed stares, five o’clock couldn’t get there fast enough.

  Chapter Ten

  “I thought we’d get to see you all d
ressed up!”

  Justin sounded disappointed, but his impish smile said otherwise.

  “I brought a change of clothes in my duffle,” I told him, moving over to the long table where everyone was seated. Our regular meeting place at the Franklin Chophouse. Great food and quiet ambience. “Sorry, dude, but I wore my clown outfit for as long as I could stand. Wish I could’ve split right after the circus left town.”

  “Jimmy looks just fine dressed the way he is!” gushed Jackie, who looked over at Fiona. My wife motioned for me to sit beside her, next to Justin, who commanded the table’s head spot.

  Fine indeed. My chosen apparel tonight: faded Wranglers and a tight black T-shirt, and my hair set free, bouncing off my shoulders as I stepped through the room. My boot heels clicking along the wooden floor, I fancied myself for a moment as a modern-day cowboy, or better yet, a long-lost member of Metallica.

  “Well, shit-t-t-t….I guess we ain’t gonna get no P.I.E. from Dog the Bounty Hunter tonight after all, huh?”

  Justin laughed, his taunt pointed more at my employer’s fondness for silly acronyms that represent…well, corporate silliness. P.I.E. stands for ‘Performance, Image, Exposure’, and is what Senior Leadership uses to evaluate an employee’s promote-ability. Yep, there’s another word from corporate America that isn’t really a word, and it’s used to support a subjective concept to evaluate talent. Not to mention talking about how good or bad ‘pie’ is can get a dude in a lot of trouble when referring to the females I work with.

  After a dexterous handshake with Justin, I took my place next to my wife, sharing a warm kiss scented by the Zinfandel she sipped on. I nodded to the rest of the gang with Angie and Jackie across from me and Tony and Tom huddled at the table’s other end, apparently looking over the photos from last night’s investigation.

  “I’ve decided to try the smothered chop steak that Fi likes so much,” Justin announced, nodding toward Fiona.

  “Good choice!” she beamed. “We’ve already ordered, and I think you said you wanted the usual, too, when you called me from the highway.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  Just as big a fan of the Chophouse specialty my wife prefers, I wasn’t sure she’d heard me right. Garbled conversation for the most part, despite my Bluetooth connection on the bike, made me think I’d have to reorder once I arrived. That saves some valuable time …we should get out to the Carnton Plantation just before it starts to get dark.

  “So, Tom…Fiona told me earlier that you guys captured some pretty cool stuff last night.”

  He looked up at me and then motioned for Tony to be silent. I guess he’s still smarting from last night’s upstage.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Another dryer-hose image showed up in a photograph taken near the back door at Johnny and Brenda’s place.”

  “What about the image of the face in the kitchen window?” asked Jackie, her tone a little indignant. “Fiona showed us the facial features, like a prominent nose and strong brow, remember?”

  I assumed they must be talking about Johnny’s spirit possibly hanging around the murder scene. Hell, it’s still his and Brenda’s house, until their next-of-kin figures out what to do with the place. That is, once the police finally remove the yellow tape from the home’s entrances. The ‘dryer-hose’ reference of Tom’s is investigator lingo for spirit evidence in light forms, strongly resembling the hose on the back of a standard clothes dryer. Just goes to show how non-scientific our field is. It’s not like someone can go to college and get a degree in paranormal investigation techniques. At least not yet.

  “It might not be anything we can prove,” offered Tony, when Tom merely shrugged his shoulders and went back to view the pictures under a magnifier he brought with him. “Remember the faces we’ve seen before that turned out to be just weird light reflections?”

  “Yes,” she sighed, looking over at Angie, before the two women looked over at Fiona.

  “He’s right,” Fiona conceded. “But, why not let Jimmy take a look at the pictures anyway? Who knows…he might see something else we’ve missed.”

  True. It’s sort of my forte. Other than Fiona’s keen eye, I’ve found more faint anomalies than anyone else in the group.

  Tom handed the pack to Tony and he gave it to Angie, who passed it on to Fiona. Why Angie didn’t just give it directly to me…well whatever. Fiona handed the pictures to me, and asked Tom to lend me his magnifier. Just then our food arrived.

  While everyone was being served their dinner entrees, I scanned through the pictures. I readily believed the dryer-hose shots were legitimate evidence of something paranormal. Especially one photograph, where the image bore reddish and yellow hues along its edges. It was solid in its consistency too. That’s something we look for.

  As for the image in the window…damn, it really did look like a face. But I sincerely hoped it wasn’t. It looked an awful lot like Johnny...his face, full of anguish and acute sorrow.

  I shuddered.

  For the first time ever, the smothered chop steak didn’t quite hit the spot. I couldn’t quit thinking about the photo and how Johnny and Brenda looked when I last saw them…weeping bullet wounds and intense terror, while the blood-halo around Candi’s surprised expression spread across the kitchen floor.

  ***

  The Carnton Plantation is probably Middle Tennessee’s biggest Civil War tourist attraction. One of its esteemed owners, Carrie McGavock, played a gallant role in the historic Battle of Franklin. Credited with offering her home up as a military hospital, she later took it upon herself to recover hundreds of individual soldiers who were buried in mass trenches on her property. Successful in identifying many of these fallen heroes of the Confederacy, they are interred within the graveyard she created for them, sectioned by the southern regiments they represented going into the battle.

  This brings us to our nefarious ambitions tonight.

  Well, maybe that’s a bit strong. More accurately…we are gathered in the graveyard afterhours. After dark. After the Plantation tourist center has closed up and the Carnton’s employees have gone home for the day.

  We’re trespassing. Violators of Franklin’s penal code.

  But I like to think of us as violators with a noble cause. Ambitious seekers of paranormal truths and century-old secrets only revealed in the dead of night.

  Our plan tonight is this: First, sneak into the graveyard. Then, after spending an hour or so exploring and gathering evidence in video, audio, and from our own sensory perceptions—both physical and extrasensory, we will move on to exploring the grounds surrounding the house.

  The first phase can merit a stern warning, if we’re caught. But the second phase of tonight’s agenda is actually the one that could get us arrested by Franklin’s finest, and our asses thrown in jail for the entire weekend. Yeah, that’s made me think twice on more than one occasion when we’ve done this before. But when Fiona runs an investigation, everyone better get used to the fact she likes living on the edge. Even more than her rock n’ roll husband does.

  So, we are here. Seven figures clad in dark clothing, carrying cameras, voice recorders, EMF detectors, and flashlights. After traveling in two SUVs—Tom’s and Jackie’s—we parked a quarter of a mile from the graveyard. Sprawling mansions border what’s left of the battlefield and plantation.

  “Man, did y’all feel the temperature drop just now?” whispered Justin, shortly after we crept inside the wrought-iron gate that marks the graveyard’s main entrance. “Last I checked it was still your typical humid July night back there in the parking lot.”

  He pointed back to the small parking lot that separated the graveyard from the entrance road that leads to the plantation house.

  “Yeah, I’d say it’s a noticeable drop,” I agreed.

  I looked over at Tom and Tony, and they nodded while testing the settings for the infrared camera and a new digital EVP recorder Tony picked up that morning before work, using the proceeds from his latest bonus check from our employer. Mi
ne has been set aside for the kids, and Fiona and I plan to spend some of that cash tomorrow afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese’s and a matinee movie.

  “It could just be the fact we stepped under a few tall trees that have prevented the sun’s rays from warming the ground, as well as the very air around us,” offered Angie from behind me.

  She and Jackie flanked Fiona, who now giggled.

  “Or it could be that even the spirits quiver before your powerful presence and fearsome strength, Muscle Mutt!”

  Just teasing, of course, but even in darkness I could’ve sworn she glowered at me, as a warm tingling sensation suddenly traveled up my spine.

  “So, are you suggesting the restless souls of the Confederacy now tremble before the ladies in our little group, Cracker Jack-asshole?”

  Ooh, always a bad thing when the uncomplimentary nickname gains a hyphenated add-on.

  “Just kidding, Angie,” I told her, peering over my shoulder to offer her a smile, and a tender wink to my wife. I’m not sure that either gesture was witnessed, given the twilight’s steady decline into deeper darkness. “By the way, did any of you sense something unusual last night at Johnny and Brenda’s place?”

  “There were a few cold spots,” said Tony, who looked over at Tom, as if waiting on a nod to confirm this.

  Tom glanced up from his camera’s video playback screen and offered a slight nod to Tony, while we all waited for him to continue. I couldn’t help but wonder what had transpired since dinner to make surly Tom so amenable.

  “I thought for sure we’d leave there with all kinds of evidence,” Tony continued, pausing to adjust his UK baseball cap. “But nothing showed up other than in the still shots, unless we count the two EMF spikes we noted near the backdoor. No video, no EVPs, and—“