Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  The cat calmed down as a burst of warm air spilled from the heater and made the car more comfortable. Looking up at him with reflective eyes, Beardsley set a paw on his leg and sniffed at his coat.

  "It's a bit late for it, but we're getting out of town. Taking a short trip to Moorlake," he said, running a hand against his cheek and palming the wheel feebly. "There's someone there who might be able to help us." Gulping, he added, "Maybe."

  12

  It'd been more than twenty years since Harlan Ulrich had set foot in Moorlake, Ohio. The sleepy college town was a mere half hour away, separated from Toledo by long stretches of empty highway and acres of farmland that were now caked in snow and ice. There was a state university there and a bustling assortment of businesses downtown where the student body spent long nights drinking and partying.

  Would that his visit was such a pleasant errand as that. He was speeding down the lonesome highway, eyes peeled for cops, in the hopes of visiting a psychic. The Passat's tires thrummed against the asphalt, the mile markers flashing past as he reached into his memory and tried to recall the best route into town. Madame Zarnubius, a psychic and self-professed clairvoyant, ran a consultation business out of her home in Moorlake, and though the hour was ungodly, he prayed the woman would see him. He'd pay whatever she wished so long as she could provide some sort of legitimate insight into the problem he was now faced with.

  Holding his breath, he looked into his backseat.

  Only Beardsley was there, peeking out of the window.

  Thank God, he thought. Since bolting from the Internet cafe, there'd been no sign of Vivian. Though he couldn't be one-hundred percent sure, he felt reasonably confident that he'd built enough distance between himself and the shambling spirit to allow for some breathing room. Tapping nervously at the steering wheel, Ulrich came upon a lone stoplight, the red reflecting eerily off of the wet road.

  He'd never dealt with a psychic before, had never sought out or put much stock into their services. But times were desperate and he found himself in need of an expert. If Madame Zarnubius was even remotely as attuned to the world of the dead as she claimed, then perhaps she'd be able to help.

  Otherwise he was out of luck until morning.

  The light changed and he was moving again, the car skittering as he accelerated. He was entering town now, the outline of a car dealership coming into view on his right, then a bank, a Burger King, a laundromat on the left. Fumbling with his notebook, he peered down at the harsh scrawl he'd taken down and referenced her address. The psychic's home was on Waterman Street. He was unsure precisely where that was, but after rounding a corner and passing several rows of dormitories, he stumbled upon a squat little house with a neon sign mounted in its front window advertising love potions and palm readings.

  This was the place. Rolling to a stop in the driveway behind an aged black Buick, Ulrich leaned forward and looked for signs of occupancy. It was nearing 5 AM, but a few lights remained on within the abode. He looked down again at his notes, wondered if he shouldn't call her instead. No, he quickly decided. She wouldn't pick up, not at this hour. But if I go up to the door and knock, then...

  Leaving the key in the ignition, Ulrich gave the cat a nod and stepped out. He started up the crunchy lawn, the blades of grass rigid and icy, and then found his way to the screen door, upon which he struck three noisy blows. Hands in his pockets, he waited with bated breath, listening for any signs of movement within.

  Minutes passed without any such cue.

  Feeling extra vulnerable on the darkened porch, Ulrich knocked once more, constantly canvassing his surroundings in search of Vivian. It felt like she'd materialize at any moment on the sidewalk or across the street, like she was watching him from a distance. He listened for the shuffling of her feet, but only the creaking of a shutter broke the silence.

  This time, there was movement within. The sound of slippered feet on carpet met his ears as someone approached the door. There was a pause, and then a disgruntled, somewhat slurred voice called out. "Who the hell is it at this hour? Better be the cops, else I ain't opening the door. Closed for business, come back tomorrow."

  Ulrich shook his head, cracking a grin. "Not the cops, no," he replied loudly. "I'm a detective, though, if that makes any difference."

  At this, the door shot open just a crack and a diminutive woman with dark, permed hair looked out at him. She stood a foot shorter than he and her eyes were somewhat red, framed in penciled-on brows. Even from the narrow opening Ulrich could smell the alcohol on her breath, and sure enough the woman clutched a wine glass in one fist from which she took a guarded sip. "A detective, eh? So that's what it's come down to, is it?" She gave an awful frown. "I'm not surprised he'd stoop this low."

  Ulrich took a step back. "E-excuse me?"

  The door opened further and the woman rubbed at her forehead with her palm. "How much is he paying you? My husband, that is. I'll give you a big tip if you'll just fuck off." She disappeared into the living room of her home for a few moments, returning with a bit of cash, which she tried to force into Ulrich's hand. "And tell him I said he could go fuck himself. I don't want his ass checking up on me like this."

  The investigator shook his head. "I'm sorry, but there's been some sort of misunderstanding. My name is Harlan Ulrich. I'm a private investigator, but I wasn't hired by your husband or anything like that. Rather, I came here from Toledo in the hopes that I could speak to you about a very particular problem. Something I was hoping you could help me with."

  It took a few moments for these words to sink into her wine-soaked brain, but when they did, she began to laugh, almost losing balance. She opened the door further, wiping a tear from her eye and taking a big gulp of white wine. "Oh, that's a relief. For a second there, I thought... Oh, goodness. That prick hasn't stopped trying to keep tabs on me since we separated years back. Moved out of town, he did. Usually sends his friends by to check up on me." She stepped closer, lowering her voice, and winked with drunken awkwardness. "I think he wants to get back together, but he's too chickenshit to come back here and admit he was wrong for leavin'. Got himself a new squeeze, last I heard, but she's run off on him and now he's feeling homesick," she hiccoughed.

  This was loads more information about the psychic's private life than Ulrich had ever wished to learn, and to find the woman tripping over herself in the dead of night, drunk, made his errand feel all the more hopeless. Nevertheless, he pressed on in the vain hope that she could help him put Vivian to rest. "Listen," he said, "I'm sorry to take up your time, especially at this late hour, however I've got a serious problem on my hands. Usually I'm not the kind of person to do things like this... or to visit people with your... skill set. But I don't have anywhere else to turn, and I think I may be in danger."

  Madame Zarnubius bobbed her head, but didn't say anything for a long while. It seemed as though she was considering Ulrich's request, but when she suddenly denied it outright, he was crushed. "No, I'm not open for business right now. Was just having a nightcap when you thumped on my door, as a matter of fact. I can pencil you in for tomorrow, possibly. Come back then. Or better yet, give me a call."

  "B-but!" Ulrich began to plead as the door closed.

  Madame Zarnubius had nearly shut the door when she suddenly hesitated. Opening it just a touch, she looked out at Ulrich once again, eyes narrowed, and then smirked. "Hold on a minute. You're that detective, aren't you? The one from the newspaper? I feel like I've seen you some place before..."

  Ulrich nodded. "Yes, that's right. I was featured in a story related to one of my investigations. A series of murders linked to the Exeter House in downtown Toledo--"

  "Exeter House, that's right! I knew you looked familiar. A real local celebrity, you are! The real deal. Well, I'll be..." She straightened out her curls a bit and then held the door open. "What can I do for you, detective? I suppose I've got a little time if you're really in such a rush." She paused. "What is it you're working on this time around? Think they'
ll give you another write-up in the Blade? If so, I hope you'll remember to give me a little shout-out..."

  "Of course," replied Ulrich.

  "Come on in," offered the psychic. "How can I help you?"

  Ulrich wasted no time. Refusing all offers of drink, he sat down on the sofa and shared his troubles with the plastered psychic. "I've been investigating a certain individual, a woman, who committed suicide ten years ago. The funny thing, though, is that she doesn't seem all that dead to me. I've seen her out and about, and she's been following me, too. I don't know why she's latched onto me, but I need to find some way to get away from her. To lay her to rest." He paused, waiting for the psychic to burst into laughter at the outrageousness of his claim. She did not, however. To his surprise, she was stone-faced, contemplative, and asked him to go on. "This isn't the first time this has happened, either. As of late, I've been encountering, well... ghosts. I've been seeing the spirits of the dead, and I have no idea why. I went most of my life without witnessing anything remarkable, but now..."

  "You can't seem to get away from it?" Madame Zarnubius nodded. "Your situation isn't such a rarity. I see it all the time." Hiccoughing, she raised her glass to her lips. "Something has changed in you. Your third eye has opened."

  "Excuse me?"

  The psychic waved her hand playfully. "I don't mean it literally. It's not like you've got an extra eyeball in your forehead or something. What it means is that there's been some change inside of you, mentally or physically, which has opened you up to the supernatural. You've gained a gift of extrasensory perception. It happened out of the blue, didn't it? Yes, I know this very well. There could be a hundred different reasons for it. And it could be gone before you know it; you could wake up in the morning and never see a ghost again should something change in just the right way." She shrugged. "Near-death experiences can trigger certain parts of the brain to awaken. Drugs can alter the senses; sometimes permanently. Brain tumors, too. Gotta watch out for those."

  Ulrich frowned. None of this sounded at all scientific. The woman seemed to him an expert bullshit artist, and he didn't feel like he was getting anywhere with this little interview. "OK, let's assume that's the case. Maybe I bumped my head a few months ago and now I can see ghosts. But why is one following me now? I've... I've seen this girl twice tonight. She's trailing me and I don't know why. How is it possible? Usually the spirits I see are more or less confined to certain areas. The places where they died. You know?"

  Madame Zarnubius set her glass aside and folded her hands, taking on something of thoughtfulness. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. Ghosts don't simply latch onto places, investigator. People can become haunted, too. This spirit; what is her name, and why did she end her life?"

  "Her name is Vivian," replied Ulrich. "The reasoning behind her suicide is... unclear. Depression, maybe. It sounds like she had a rough childhood."

  "Did you know her in life?" was the psychic's next question.

  "No. I never met her while she was alive. But when I saw her tonight, she reached out to me, called me a liar. I don't know why she did that, or why she's decided to follow me of all people. Her father is the one who hired me, but..."

  Nodding, Madame Zarnubius went on. "The dead are tricky like that. Those who are no longer among the living, but who haven't yet moved on, live in a state of perpetual chaos. They manifest before those who they think can give them what they seek. It could be that she isn't calling you a liar, but that her reason for lingering has to do with a great deal of angst that exists in relation to a lie that was told, probably by someone close to her. The best way--the only way of which I'm aware--to get rid of her is to give her what she wants."

  Ulrich flinched. "B-but what does she want? What could I possibly give her?"

  "That isn't for me to say. You'll have to take that up with the spirit herself." Madame Zarnubius pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her robe and lit one up. "The dead just want to be heard. Lend them your ear and they'll tell you what it is they want soon enough. But you must listen." She took a long drag. "Listen and uncover the truth. That's all any of them ever want."

  The psychic's advice seemed credible enough, though there was one thing that kept Ulrich from embracing it outright. "There's a problem. This spirit is... it's horrific, frightening. I get the distinct impression that she's not the benevolent kind. There's a sinister bent to her, like she's not tagging along innocently or looking for help."

  Tapping her cigarette against a crystal ashtray, she shrugged. "It can seem that way to us mortals, sure. Death ain't pretty. It isn't comfortable, either. When you see something like this--encounter such a presence--it can be upsetting, sure. But don't lose your nerve. Doesn't matter how scared you are, you've got to listen to her. That's the best advice I can give."

  Ulrich wondered if the psychic's tune would've changed if she herself were faced with the specter of Vivian Poole. "And if it doesn't work?" he challenged.

  She exhaled a stream of smoke. "Well, then I guess you're screwed." She grinned.

  It was fast becoming clear that he wasn't going to extract anything else from the woman, and remembering Beardsley, who was sitting in his idling car outside, he decided to get a move on. "Thank you for your time," he said, offering her a few twenties. "I appreciate it."

  The psychic counted the bills and then rolled them into her palm. "No problem, no problem. I'm always willing to work with a fellow professional. You be sure to refer any of your clients should they find themselves in need of my services. And if you get picked up for another story in the paper--"

  "I'll be sure to let the journalist know that I couldn't have done it without you," replied Ulrich, standing up and heading for the door. "See you around."

  Closing the door to the little house behind him, Ulrich jogged out to his car. It was still running and the interior was nice and warm. Beardsley sat sleeping in the passenger seat, purring softly. Putting on his seatbelt, Ulrich backed out of the drive slowly and started looking for the nearest highway entrance ramp. "You've got the right idea, pal. I'd kill for some sleep right about now."

  He was armed with the psychic's advice but hardly felt prepared for what was to come. He couldn't exactly sit around in his apartment and wait for Vivian to show up to chat over coffee. Merging onto the highway and fighting against the heaviness in his eyes, he was determined to get home and sleep till the early afternoon. When the time came, he'd see about following his other lead; the contact information he'd stumbled upon for Ligeia Poole. Maybe something would come of it. When that was through, Michael and his wife, Meredith, would be his only remaining avenues for more information.

  When he got back to the apartment, Ulrich took the cat in his arms, carried him up the stairs and barely took the time to remove his coat before flopping into his bed. It took him only a moment to slip into a coma-like sleep, and when he finally did awaken in the late afternoon, with traces of light breaking through his dark curtains and a few missed calls on his cell phone, he found he could hardly remember getting home and laying down in the first place.

  13

  Michael had called twice. He seemed eager for an update.

  Standing in the shower, Ulrich struggled to come up with an agreeable sound bite for him. "Oh, everything's fine. The investigation is going smoothly. I woke up last night to find your terrifying daughter clawing at the foot of my bed, so then I went to consult a psychic about it." He shook his head and rinsed the last of the shampoo away, basking in the warm water.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  When he'd toweled off and changed into fresh clothes, Ulrich dialed his client and had to wait only an instant before he picked up breathlessly. "Mr. Ulrich, is that you? How's it going?"

  Ulrich licked his lips, walking around his living room and staring at the turntable. "It's going well," he said, not a little unconvincingly.

  "Is it?" asked Michael. "You don't sound so enthused. Did you learn anything new? Did you make contact with Vivian's
spirit?"

  Oh boy, did I, was what Ulrich wanted to say. He also felt like broaching the subject of Ligeia Poole and the possibility that she was still alive, despite Michael's claim to the contrary, but he held his tongue. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of your daughter," he lied, "but I'll be hanging around the Prescott today. I'll see what I can do. You needn't worry. I'll get to the bottom of this one way or another."

  Michael sighed. "So, there's nothing new? Nothing at all?"

  "I'm afraid not. It was a quiet night. I did some reading into the phenomenon of haunting, but didn't learn anything worthwhile. I'll let you know as soon as the situation changes, of course."

  Defeatedly, Michael accepted this and said his goodbye. Hanging up the phone, Ulrich hovered over the kitchen counter and tried to decide what his day would really consist of. There'd be no tooling around the Prescott. He'd been there already, picked up everything of value that the place could offer. Now it was time for him to fact-check his client, figure out whether Michael was lying to him on the subject of his ex-wife. Michael had painted Ligeia, Vivian's mother, as a wicked, uncaring soul. Referencing his notes, Ulrich zeroed in on the phone number and address he'd taken down, and wondered what would happen if he made the call.

  Worst case scenario, it's a wrong number and she hangs up. But if she's the real deal, you can get another side of the story. You've nothing to lose. Still, he hesitated. He knew that Michael would disapprove of this move, that he'd likely be offended to know that Ulrich had gone behind his back and contacted his ex-wife. This was a line that Ulrich seldom crossed as a private investigator. It usually wasn't a good idea to piss off one's clients, lest they break contract and move on.

  This case was different, though.

  Preparing himself some toast and coffee, Ulrich greeted Beardsley, who emerged sleepily from the bedroom, and then sat down at the card table with a mug of hot brew and his Moleskine. Punching the number into his phone, he waited nervously as the line began to ring.