Deep Night

by Ambrose Ibsen

  A single person stood there.

  And they were clutching an umbrella.

  Seizing with fear, Ulrich shut his eyes and tried to calm himself. His pulse battered his eardrums, the nape of his neck tingled as another round of rapping sounded.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  He held his breath, wondered if the spirit might disappear if he just ignored it. Cowering in the driver's seat, he tried—not a few times—to take another look through the back window. Every time he thought to open his eyes however, his mind was flooded with the memory of the footage he'd shot the night before. The knowledge that that thing—with its horrific visage—was lurking just outside made him squirm.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “What do you want from me?” he muttered, cupping his ears and trying to block out the infernal rapping. “What do you want? The painting's in the house... I'm not even the owner!” Cornered in his own vehicle, Ulrich felt himself slipping into a full-on panic. He would have driven off if only he'd been thinking straight; as it was, he'd forgotten that his keys were in his pocket, his mind too addled with terror.

  When the tapping came again—this time from a closer window, that of the rear driver's side—Ulrich loosed a yelp and shifted towards the center column. “What do you want?” he growled. Reaching out, he smacked at the roof of the car, at his window, as if the blows might scare the thing off. Was that possible? Could one startle away a ghost? Hell, it didn't matter—he made a huge clatter, stamped his feet. “What do you want?”

  When next he took in his surroundings, he saw the figure had drawn away somewhat from the car—it now stood just over the fence, where it cut a curious niche into the otherwise obscuring fog. The umbrella caught what little moonlight could make it through the haze, and the thing glowed a fiery red, like a gushing wound in the fabric of the night. Though the specter huddled beneath its prop, its upper body shielded from view by the crimson tatters, Ulrich could still feel its eyes on him. He remembered, too, what those eyes were like—empty and vacuous.

  Several breathless moments passed. The figure didn't budge from this new location, and the investigator could hardly find it in himself to move a muscle, lest he somehow draw the thing back to the car. What does it want? He racked his brain, gripped his knees to stop his shaking. It's given me some breathing room... Maybe it came out here for something in particular... Maybe it has a message for me...

  Earlier in the evening, Ulrich had wondered whether the spirit would actually show. There'd been some doubt whether it would manifest without Nancy present. Without knowing what drove the spirit to appear each night, or whether it was bound to the painting as well as its owner, it'd been a toss-up. The question had been answered now, however. The apparition had appeared while his client was some two hours away and was now trying to get his attention.

  But what could a ghost want with him? Since his investigation had started the night before, the thing hadn't once spoken. Its only form of communication had been that sinister tapping. Maybe it wants to show you something, he wagered. But then, he wasn't altogether sure he cared to see what it meant to show him...

  The phantom had remained still so long it had practically become a part of the scenery. Its intentions were impossible to read; was it waiting until he exited the car to lash out at him? Was it remaining still to put him at ease?

  Nothing would happen until Ulrich found the courage to make his move. Finally, still shuddering, he did. With a wince, he opened the car door and staggered out into the misty night, nearly tripping over the curb as he did so. Slamming the car door shut, he pressed his back to the vehicle and steeled himself for a great fright.

  But there was none. A nervous glance over the fence turned up no trace of the ghostly visitor; rather, she'd moved further onto the property, towards the back door. Ulrich stared at the thing a long while, ratcheting his nerve. The woman's hair was a mess of black tendrils, and they mingled with the swirling fog like the arms of some many-legged insect. The umbrella remained in place, and the pull of her gaze on him didn't wane in the least.

  It's trying to lead me somewhere... He licked his lips, took a step forward. Another. His belly was pressed to the chain-link fence now. To the house...?

  In the space of an instant, the phantom had relocated again. She now stood beside the back door, just below the glowing porch bulb. Perhaps it was simply Ulrich's imagination, but the slant of the figure towards the back door seemed intentional. Step by step, it was luring him towards the house. It wanted him inside—that much seemed clear.

  Ulrich began from the fence, up the front lawn. As he reached the porch, he fumbled with the terracotta pot—managing to chip it in his haste—and reclaimed the spare key. Unlocking the door, Ulrich stepped once again into the dark abode. He shut the door behind him then swiped madly against the walls for a light switch. The entryway was soon lit up, and the nearby hall, too. Fortified by the light, he crept in the direction of the kitchen, putting on the lights over the table and sink. He even turned on the stove light.

  He whipped around, scanning every nook in sight for signs of the phantom and—mercifully—finding none. Holding himself up against the counter, he managed his breathing for a bit, negotiated his blood pressure out of the two-hundreds. She probably doesn't mean you any harm, he assured himself. If she did, she'd have shown her hand by now. Ulrich wasn't sure he really believed that, but he nourished the thought exclusively in the hopes that it might catch on and strangle off the more ominous roots of weedier variants.

  Stepping past the counter, he walked half-way out of the kitchen and summoned his voice. “What is it you want, spirit? Why have you brought me here?”

  As if in soundless reply, the light in the hallway across from him began to flicker. The bulb dimmed considerably, then went out, leaving the corridor in darkness. And in that darkness, something stirred—furtively, at first, and then with a roiling intensity.

  She stood at the far end of the hall, her two ivory arms—thin as toothpicks—occupied in the hoisting of a red umbrella. Bony fists choked the life out of the black handle. These were connected to a hunched and shuddering body draped in rags. Also belonging to that sorry body was a head, hung low, with a twisted mop of black locks matted to the shoulders and back. The straining, forward curvature of the neck was so considerable that the figure's face was nearly parallel to its breast, and as she began her advance, her visage remained out of view as though she were studiously staring at the floor, or at her own navel.

  The specter didn't walk; she came forth in a series of jerks, as though being pulled by some unseen string. Her feet—as white and bare as the rest of her—dragged silently against the floor as she advanced and her legs made no movement. Watching her approach in this way sent his heart up into his throat, made his guts do a somersault.

  He watched, tense and slack-jawed, as she exited the hall and cut into the living room, slowly disappearing around a corner. Presently, Ulrich saw and heard nothing. He would have been all too happy to turn around and leave just then, but the air was heavy with expectation. He knew the thing was in the next room, and more than that, that she was waiting for him.

  When he started into the living room, he couldn't even feel his feet. The blood had drained from his body, had seemingly gone out of him, leaving him an empty, fidgeting shell. Grasping the wall to keep himself upright, he latched a hand against the corner and slowly turned into the living room.

  Immediately, there were hands upon him.

  The fingers that dug into his arms did so with a jarring firmness, and even through the sleeves of his blazer he was struck by their chill. He was pushed against the wall, and his captor leaned into him. With a noisy jerk of that twisted neck, the woman looked up at him suddenly, brought her warped face within an inch of his. Her countenance undulated like the fog outside; only the lines of her skull remained a constant, while every other feature shifted in and out of focus. Staring eyes of the deepest black bore into his. Her mouth burst
open, revealing a jumble of teeth, and after some retching, she loosed a torrent of soil. The dry earth poured out of her, onto the carpet, where the red umbrella now sat. When the blockage had been cleared, a piercing howl issued from deep within the cadaverous thing—a howl that shook him to the marrow.

  Pinned by the specter, forced to stare into its empty eyes, Ulrich found himself screaming back at her. He felt his strength leave him, began to slump.

  Then, unexpectedly, everything went dark.

  His first thought upon waking was one of slight amusement. He came to on the floor and had some fuzzy idea of how he'd gotten there. Did... did I faint?

  He had only to consider what it was that'd shocked him into unconsciousness to wipe the sleepy grin from his face.

  Ulrich dug his heels into the carpet and immediately clutched at his knees. Fully cognizant now, he pressed his back to the wall and surveyed his environment.

  He was still in Nancy's living room, and at the moment, at least, there was no one with him. He scanned the beige carpet for signs of soil, but found only what he'd managed to track in with his own shoes. The detective drew in a shaky breath, chancing a look at the time. He'd only been out a few minutes by the looks of it.

  He remained on the floor for awhile; even when he'd regained the strength to stand, he'd lacked the nerve. When he did finally get up, he did so very slowly, as though seeking to slip out of a hostage situation. Repeated glances about the room yielded no evidence of a captor, though. Only the memory of the apparition remained—that, and the feel of cold hands digging into his upper arms. It would be well into the morning before he managed to fully banish that sensation.

  The only thing that looked to be out of place in the room was that damned painting. Ulrich looked it over narrowly, noticing that it had been knocked a bit askew. He didn't waste time adjusting it, but instead plucked it off the wall completely.

  This was what the spirit had wanted him to look at. She was bound up with the painting, all right, and it had some significance that he'd hitherto overlooked. The key to wrapping this case—and ending the haunting—was in the picture. He grimaced as he revisited the figure on the canvas—and the feel of its grip on his arms only intensified as he studied it anew.

  Carrying the painting into the kitchen, Ulrich set it face-down across the counter and then plopped down at the table. Pulling out his phone, he dialed Nancy at once, clearing his throat and struggling to sound unbothered as he began. “Hello, it's me.”

  “How are things, Mr. Ulrich?” she asked. “I'm just having a few drinks with the girls. The traffic out here was terrible, and—”

  Ulrich cared nothing about the details of her trip and subsequently steamrolled her. “So, I take it you haven't seen your little friend with the umbrella tonight, eh?”

  “No,” she replied, “I haven't. Thank goodness.” She paused and could be heard to step away to a quieter spot. “I've been keeping my eyes peeled, but I haven't seen anything.”

  “Well, I have. In fact, she just left the building.” He gulped down a breath and continued slowly. He didn't want to sound shaken up. “It would appear that this thing is tied to your painting. If you get rid of the painting, this whole thing might be wrapped up. At the very least, it won't bother you anymore.”

  Nancy laughed. “That's swell. I'll find something else to hang in that spot, then.” She took a loud sip of her drink. Then, less jovially, she continued. “So, you saw her again tonight? What happened? Are you OK? And why do you think this creep is hung up on the painting?”

  Ulrich didn't have many answers yet, and he didn't want to relive his most recent encounter with the spirit so soon. “You could say we bumped into each other,” he offered, vaguely enough. “In order to answer those other questions, I'm going to have to do a deep dive on this painting. In fact, I'll need to borrow it.”

  “Oh,” she interrupted, “if you think that spook is tied up with the damn thing, I'll be pleased to let you keep it! You feel free to get it the hell out of my house and I'll write you a check for the rest of your fee the minute I get back in Tanglewood—provided it never shows up at my window again!”

  “All right, I'll be taking it with me then.”

  “If you do find out what's behind this spirit,” she added, “lemme know. I'm curious. Why do you think it's been appearing, night after night?”

  “I don't know yet,” he replied flatly. “My best guess is that it's been trying to get your attention—pass on some sort of message. Tonight, I didn't freak out when it appeared, and I let it lead me to the painting. There's something significant about this picture, I don't know what. When I figure that out, I reckon it'll all fall into place. When are you getting back?”

  “I'll be here tonight and tomorrow night. Back the next morning.”

  Ulrich nodded. “OK. Let's see if I don't have this wrapped up by then.”

  Nancy hiccoughed, chuckling to herself. “You know, when I hired you, I didn't expect this sort of thing. I thought someone was following me, trying to break into my house. Ghosts never crossed my mind. If I'd known ahead of time that it was the painting—that we were dealing with something unnatural—well, I'd have called a priest or something!”

  It's funny, he thought, if I'd known you were dragging me into another paranormal investigation, I wouldn't have taken the job in the first place. “I'll be in touch,” he finished, cutting the line.

  It became clear that his night was just beginning. With a frown, Ulrich picked up the painting—holding it at arm's length as though it were contaminated with radioactive waste—and filed out the door. Locking up, he dropped the key into the flower pot and then carried the wretched picture to his car, setting it in the back seat.

  Leaving Nancy's in the rearview, the detective felt a profound unease.

  Every time he looked into his mirrors, he felt like he had a backseat passenger.

  13

  It wasn't like him to hang around the Otterbein building so late at night, but then he needed a place to study the painting in detail and he sure as hell wasn't going to bring it home with him. Ulrich pulled into the rear lot and tucked the picture under one arm. With his free hand, he fussed with his keys and managed to slip in through the side door. Locking it behind him, he marched up the stairs, sore and winded.

  It was as he emerged out into the dim third story that he was forced to stop. The clatter of the metal door had broken a longstanding silence, and in its wake Ulrich heard a mess of new sounds—unwelcome sounds. Frantic footfalls sounded from down the hall, across from his office door, and with them came lengthy shadows cast against the walls.

  Ulrich nearly dropped the painting. “W-Who's there?” he demanded. If it had been able, his pounding heart would have crawled out of him and gone looking for a better place to hide right then.

  The shadows soon gave way to their maker. “Whoa, now!” came a voice from down the hall.

  Ulrich recognized that voice. He straightened himself. “P-Percy, is that you?” he asked, white-faced.

  The custodian stepped cautiously down the hall, a mop handle gripped in both hands. His sinewy arms relaxed as he caught sight of the detective. “Shit, of course it's me! Who else is gonna be playing around in this building at such an hour?” He laughed, allowing himself to lean against the wall. “You scared the hell out of me! If anyone has some explaining to do, it's you, ain't it? What're you doing here so late?”

  Though still quaking for the fright, Ulrich found himself more than a little thankful to have another human being to talk to. “I'm sorry, I'm working a case and decided to stop in to the office. I'd rather work here than at home. Didn't mean to startle you.”

  Percy waved him off. “No worries. Just call ahead next time, will ya?” With a nod, Percy put his headphones on and retreated back down the hall.

  Stepping into his office, Ulrich tripped over several boxes in search of the crummy light in the corner. When he'd finally switched it on, he locked his door and then set the painting a
top his desk. He stared down at it, hands on his hips. “So, where to begin...?”

  Harlan Ulrich was hardly an art expert. The study and care of oil paintings was a foreign language to him. He only cared about sussing out its significance to the case at hand. He wanted answers—wanted to know why the spirit insisted on clinging to the thing, and why it emerged from it night after night. If he couldn't figure that out in short order, he planned to burn it out back.

  And so he spent the wee small hours inspecting it closely.

  He felt he was familiar enough with the painting itself, and so turned his attention to other things; namely, the frame and its backing. Easing the picture out of the frame—a handsome thing of carved wood—the detective studied its lines and grooves for traces of aberrancy. He went so far as to look it over under magnification, inch by inch, but nearly an hour's work gave him nothing but sore eyes to show for it.

  He moved next to the backing of the painting, but there was nothing much to see there, either. The reverse side of the canvas, too, was bare. If not for the ghoulish thing that stepped out of the picture every night, it would have seemed a completely innocuous piece. Putting it all back together and flipping it over to the painted side, he brought his magnifying lens to the image itself and started to pick apart the composition, looking for clues or details he'd overlooked.

  Until he brought the lens over to that slapdash figure with the red umbrella, the only thing Ulrich found in the painting was a new appreciation for Cosloy's technique. Under magnification he could better appreciate the deft strokes that had rendered the building and landscape so realistically—the brushwork was careful and considered, clearly the work of someone well-established in their craft.

  This brought him back to the figure, and at studying it with the same closeness, the detective found himself disgusted—not solely because of the horrific specter it represented, but because its presence spoiled what was otherwise a masterwork. He bent over his desk, dissecting the composition of the hunched, umbrella-wielding thing till his eyes crossed and his neck grew stiff.