In the Dead of Night

by Aiden James

  As for my darling wife, she assured me that she intends for the ‘kissing up’ bullshit to be a very temporary thing, and certainly not at all costs. Unfortunately, the smugness I detected from Tom appears to be genuine, and disappointingly from Jackie and Michelle, as well. I’m trying to understand why they were the ones who actually pushed for the Thomas brothers to take over as our co-hosts for George and Melissa Peters. It can’t be Jason and Jerry’s sex appeal, since neither girl has ever swung that way. Then again, admiration of the opposite sex doesn’t have to be about the sexual function aspect.

  But the timing for this decision, as well as the actual announcement as we closed our show, seemed especially crass and insensitive to both my wife and me. After all, we had just attended the Peters’ funeral two days prior, and then encountered four more brutal slayings in Columbia that night. Granted, a moment of silence took place before the Carter House footage was revealed. Yet, it seemed superficial and insincere to both of us—even though Fiona was forced to follow the script set before her by Lisa, with no wriggle room to linger for a moment longer in remembrance of our Mount Juliet friends, as well as our acquaintances further south.

  I honestly don’t know what to think. Perhaps Jackie and Michelle fell victim to Tom’s desire for a meal ticket at any cost, since he’s been in mid-life crisis mode from the night Angie clubbed him over the noggin when she intended to send us all off into the afterlife in bloody style. Sort of a near death, spiritual experience for him, I guess. But I would’ve thought that meant something much more altruistic from him.

  There was no other way to view his throwing Justin, Tony, and Ricky’s opinions under the bus for what it truly was. And, these guys’ feelings had been hurt. Hurt badly, and enough to where all three announced their intent to leave NashVegas Paranormal. This is especially painful coming from our vets, since I really like being around Justin, and Tony is one of the original four founders of our group, along with Fiona and Jackie.

  Needless to say, I’ve been pretty bummed these past two days, and it’s been all that I could think about. I’ve desperately needed a distraction, and believe it or not, getting together with my just as dysfunctional band mates seemed like it might be the perfect cure.

  It’s Wednesday night. A bitterly cold Wednesday night, I might add, where the current temperature of seventeen degrees is supposed to drop down to the low single digits in the wee hours after midnight. Now that’s frigging cold for Nashville, and y’all can join me in shivering. Brrrrr, indeed.

  We had planned to get together on Thursday, instead of our normal Wednesday night rehearsal time, since Ricky was picking some overtime hours at his machinist day gig. But, thankfully, the guys were able and willing to meet up at our Madison hideout to run through some new tunes a half hour later than our usual starting time. The new songs are actually older ones being reworked as we seek to reinvent ourselves once again. Plus, it gives us our first full practice with Melvin Schoels, the new bassist I mentioned a while back. Great player, whose only glaring flaws are his severe seriousness that I worry might limit his stage presence, and the sad fact that the Thomas twins come from the same town as him. Could this be Sleeping with the Enemy, part two?

  Such were my thoughts when I pulled the Camaro up to where Ricky Chamberlain—my oldest standing friend in Nashville—waited for me.

  “We’re just waiting on Mongo,” he announced as I climbed out of the car. Coatless, he bounced from foot to foot, and his long dark locks were pushed across his face by the wind. But, at least the intensity in his warm brown eyes was back. “Grab your shit and lets get inside!”

  Normally, I might’ve made him suffer a moment for being such an idiot for waiting out here like this. But, not knowing how many friends I’d still have by this weekend, I kept it to a playful snicker and grabbed my Fender out of the back seat.

  “You might not need your bass, since Melvin’s already figured out your parts.”

  He swung open the door to the warehouse that shelters our home away from home, and didn’t wait to see if I’d catch the door before it closed and locked. In fact, I had to run after him. It surprised me to see his Jim Morrison strut cover so much ground that quickly.

  I soon heard Max Racine’s screaming Les Paul along with some pretty sweet bass arpeggios, ala Stanley Clarke. I couldn’t help but smile at the possibilities Melvin would bring with his apparent virtuosity—something I hadn’t pictured when he laid down basic grooves in our earlier meetings. Dude sounded inspired.

  “Yo, Alea…get out your pen and paper for some lyrics and hash out a melody line with Ricky for this!” shouted Max, as I entered our room. Quagmire’s surliest member was wearing a smile that lit up his face—something we rarely get to see. Max gets a lot of comparisons to a young Rod Stewart, and even likes to wear his hair spiked up like the famed rocker in his earlier years. Well, maybe Max’s doo is a bit more ragged than Mr. Stewart’s, but it fits him.

  “Sure thing,” I said, sounding nonchalant, even though I was really liking how our rehearsal night was starting. Max isn’t one for Kumbaya moments, so the high-five I was dying to give Ricky would have to wait until after Max left our presence. “I’m hearing a little Van Halen in this…maybe with an Alice in Chains edge for the vocal lines. Might be cool.”

  “Sounds good…as long as it’s heavier like DLR and none of that Sammy sentimental shit,” he said, muting his strings while mimicking Melvin’s groove.

  “Hey, Melvin. You sound killer, man,” I said, nodding to our latest member. Again, without much excitement in the tone…gotta hide the admiration.

  Apparently, Ricky had decided to go all out with the fun that night, as the stage was lit up in crisscrossing colored lights. All that was missing was the frigging dry ice. Maybe that’s what inspired the fierce energy and creativity.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Thanks.”

  Melvin suddenly stopped playing, much to the chagrin of Max. He regarded me with a slight smile—the first I’d ever seen from him. I could even see his pearly whites. I had wondered if he had any teeth. Hell, if you never see ‘em, you’ve got to wonder if they exist. Right?

  I could imagine Melvin as a decent looking guy, although maybe not what most would consider strikingly handsome. He’s got smooth Anglo features that are largely obscured by a black bolero hat and dark glasses to go with a full beard—although the beard is closely cropped to where you can see a dimpled chin and cheeks. Perhaps he’s a little Hank Williams Jr. in the younger days of Bocephus. It would largely depend on Melvin’s eyes, as Fiona would say. Without seeing his eyes, I can only picture them as if they are as dark as his shoulder length hair.

  “I still prefer holding down a groove, but letting it out can be fun sometimes,” he said, pausing to offer a nod to Max, who returned the gesture with a look of appreciation that up until then had only been reserved for Chris in their shared heyday together. “If you really want to hear me tear it up, we’ll need to perform a bluegrass number.”

  He set his bass down next to his amp and stepped off the stage to join Ricky and me as we stood by our mixing console.

  To my surprise he came over and extended his hand for me to shake. I took it, for a moment wondering if there was a toy buzzer hidden within his large palm. His hands dwarf mine, which certainly explains the ease with which he had raced his long fingers across his instrument’s smooth fret board. His grip is strong, too, which didn’t surprise me as much, given his six-foot-four frame that’s as well muscled as an NFL linebacker.

  “So what’s up?” I asked him.

  “Ricky gave me the latest CD with the rough ideas y’all had worked up in New York before your buddy Chris left the band,” he said.

  “Chris is no friend of mine,” I said, evenly, before I could prevent the venom from leaving my mouth.

  “Yeah, I know…just a joke, son,” said Melvin, chuckling. “That song ‘Dragging the River’?... Man that’s so messed up.”

  I was confused. Did Melvin interrupt his ex
cellent jam with Max, shake my hand, and smile for the first time in my presence—just to diss a tune I wrote?

  “Chill, Jimmy…the song is awesome, and it’s the first thing I’ve heard that is a sure fire hit.”

  Well, I guess he hadn’t…sort of a back handed compliment, which in this part of the country can sometimes be more genuine than the flowery kind. I’d take it—especially from a guy that seemed to glower quite a bit. I guess this quiet giant is just selective with his praise.

  “I like Lady Jade better,” Ricky chimed in, just as David Harris—alias ‘Mongo’—stepped into the room. The cropped trench coat David likes to wear bore a light layer of snowflakes. “It’s the tune the label people like best.”

  A little defensive perhaps, but that’s to be expected when it has been our most championed tune for the past four months. Not to mention, Ricky relates more to a song about suicide than somebody simply running away from their problems, as is the theme in Dragging the River.

  “Lady Jade is a chick tune, bro,” said Melvin, with his usual emotionless delivery. “Just a cigarette lighter song…and not something you can build a serious legacy on.”

  I could feel Ricky’s annoyance as he stood next to me, and I wanted to tell him right then I didn’t share Melvin’s opinion. But it would be worse to come across as a sensitive pussy, since Max had long held the same opinion for Lady Jade until Chris convinced him otherwise. Meanwhile, Melvin turned his attention to David, offering him a similar handshake.

  “Is the snow sticking out there, Mongo?”

  “Nah…it’s just a dusting so far,” said David, nodding to Ricky and me. “Just for the record, I like Dragging the River better, too.”

  Great. If it didn’t bother my buddy as much as I knew it did, I’d be all for the loving feedback for another tune of mine. After all the bullshit from the past week, I needed the boost… but not at the expense of another pal’s feelings. I’d had enough of that crap since Sunday.

  Fortunately, though, Ricky hates to brood about stuff as much as I do. He eyed his Strat, but then grabbed his Telecaster instead before climbing onto the stage.

  “I thought we’d work on the groove that Melvin and I had cookin’?”

  Max’s indignant tone matched his scowl. It seemed to amuse Melvin and David, who both wore matching wry grins as they glanced at each other.

  “What groove is that?” David asked.

  “The one we ain’t working on tonight, Mongo,” said Ricky, sharply. “Since everyone seems to be in love with Dragging the River, let’s work on it. Besides, it has the shittiest demo arrangement, and now is as good a time as any to fix it.”

  I thought for a moment there might be another fight on stage, which would make the fifth or sixth since we returned from New York at the end of August. The first two battles involved Chris, until he was told in no uncertain terms that his services would no longer be needed. Then, there was a fight over whether or not to get a new front man instead of reverting back to using Ricky.

  I stayed out of that particular heated discussion. Hell, the only reason I agreed to accept the role of front man was on account of Ricky’s insistence and the fact he produced an old demo of me singing Primetime. Mongo and Max flipped out over the way I sang the tune, and I didn’t have the heart to say no to their pleading for me to take the gig. Still, I figured it would be nearly impossible to find a decent bassist to take over for me right away. Not to mention the fact I sincerely suck at singing and playing at the same time. However, one of Mongo’s Music Row buddies recommended Melvin, and after he auditioned and held his own with everything Max could throw at him, we had our new lineup.

  Thankfully, on this night peace prevailed. Since the work was mainly getting the rhythm parts in sync, I got to sit at the console and just observe. Actually, I’m glad I did, since it gave me a clearer picture of what the band will look like the next time we perform in public. Whereas before I thought that Melvin would be such a terrible downgrade from Chris’s charisma, the dude has his own charm after all. Sort of Bill Wyman-ish from the Stones, and even Max and Ricky have a little Keith Richards and Ron Wood in ‘em to where a Stones-like persona might fit us…at least in terms of physical presentation. Thank God that when David turns into ‘Mongo’ on stage, with his incredible repertoire of jazz and other percussion licks that he has the versatility to keep our music in line with what we’re up against in the local and national rock n’ roll scenes.

  For the first time since our ghost hunting cohorts started dying around us, I felt at peace. Things were looking up…at least for my band.

  ***

  After a productive rehearsal, everyone—including Ricky—felt good about the progress we had made. I drove home to Arrington with the same song lifting my heart as it blasted through the Camaro’s Boston speakers.

  Dragging the River. I knew the lyrics by heart, and sort of sang along while driving along mostly deserted roadways to the southern part of town.

  “…Never thought they’d come for me—they’re dragging the river…. I’m the one they wouldn’t see, they’re dragging—”

  I heard something, and stopped singing. It sounded like a rustling inside the bag of fast food wrappers from lunch earlier that day, which I had carelessly tossed into the backseat until I could dispose of it later. I glanced in the rearview mirror and thought I saw a shadow. It was hard to say for sure, since streetlights can play some tricks when you’re flying past them at eighty miles per hour. But the napkins suddenly floating in the air above the backseat sure as hell wasn’t an illusion caused by light and shadow.

  “Ah, shit!”

  No sooner than I whispered this, I heard a light chuckle emanating from the back seat. My heart raced, knowing who it was and worried about what was to come next.

  “Heh heh heh…. I see you just fine, Jimmy boy!”

  Angie. Sounding as if she was whispering through a hollow tube behind my right ear. It felt like the rear windows had suddenly been opened, and a rush of cold air had been allowed to flow into my car. But none of the windows were open. It was merely the ominous and frigid presence of a disembodied spirit. In this case, a psychopathic ghost.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I said, slowing down to seventy, just in case this bitch went crazy on me and I had to make an emergency stop. “Why don’t you go to the Light, and leave me the hell alone?”

  More chuckles, followed by what sounded like an incredibly deep breath. Was she going to try to blow my ass out of the car?

  “‘The one they wouldn’t see’? I see you very clearly, and do you know why? It’s because I’m not done yet!” she said, louder, but not near as deafening as I had feared. “I’ve got some ‘unfinished business’, as you creeps like to refer to it. I’ll be back to collect my prize very soon…. But it isn’t me that you should fear, Cracker Jack! I know who the killer is, and won’t you be surprised when it’s your fine ass that’s on the list and not some peripheral friends? You will indeed come to regret your stupidity…and that’s when I’ll be waiting for you on this side…. I’ve got lots of fun for you planned then!”

  I may never know for certain, but it felt like she suddenly passed through me from behind, somehow traveling through the heated leather of my seat. Regardless, it was the coldest sensation I’ve ever endured. Not even the shadow wraiths we encountered in Bethpage could deliver such an experience. At least not to me.

  As the snow began to fall again, and I was nearing the I-840 split that would take me home to the rural residence I share with my beloved wife and boys, I watched a wispy form rise up from the windshield and disappear into the air above. Impossible to know if it was Angie’s exit from the Camaro or not, I prayed fervently that she was gone. It took every ounce of determination not to look in the rearview mirror the rest of the way home.

  Chapter Seven

  It took the better part of two full days to get over this experience. Not that anyone else could tell, since I hid it well. I didn’t even share it
with Fiona, since she was working tirelessly to try and keep our group of sulking ghost hunters together as one entity. After she told me that Ricky, Justin, and Tony were considering starting their own new band of investigators, and that Tom, Jackie, and Michelle were digging their heels in to co-host our remaining Civil War investigations with our new Pulaski associates, I didn’t have the heart to tell her about what happened to me late Wednesday night. She needed the extra worry like she would an extra hole in her head.

  But I should’ve never questioned Fiona’s resourcefulness.

  On a whim, she contacted one of the sites that we had to turn down for our official Civil War ghost tour, and arranged for five of us to visit Thursday night. The owners of the mansion at Marshall’s Crossing, near Adams, were ecstatic about this opportunity, and advised for us to stop by there at any time. Fiona asked if we could come after work that Thursday night, and the owners, Ed and Judy Barnes, said yes.

  Unbeknownst to me, Fiona had contacted Tony and Justin during the day, and the two guys convinced Ricky to join them in the parking lot of the Tattered Pages at five o’clock. They were waiting for Fiona and me as we left the store for the night.

  I expected some tension—even though the guys readily acknowledged that they knew Monday night’s bullshit had nothing to do with Fiona or me. But to see the guys fully prepared and excited about visiting the noted plantation warmed my heart. Granted, we stood the chance of being ostracized from everyone else for this treachery, if Tom and the others ever found out. But, as I mentioned, my wife had a plan.

  Ricky owns a spacious SUV, so we all traveled north together in one vehicle. By the time we arrived at the site, just after 6:00 p.m., Fiona had not only smoothed over the hurt that each of the guys experienced the other night, but got their collective buy-in to rejoin us Saturday afternoon at one of the biggest investigative events on the tour: Stones River.