Are they aliens? Are they supernatural beings?
It’s anybody’s guess.
The way the stories go, you’ll get a knock on your front door, or see these kids outside of a window, or maybe run into them in a deserted parking lot in the middle of the night. You’ve heard that old adage about how eyes are the windows to the soul?
Well, then, if that’s the case, these things are absolutely soulless, because they have the deepest, darkest black eyes, hollow and void of anything good.
Witnesses have reported that the black-eyed children range in age from eight to sixteen years old. They’re dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie. Or, on rarer occasions, hoodies and jeans. It varies. I’ve seen reports of both.
“Actually,” I tell Lauren, “you’re pretty much wearing what they wear. Jeans and a hoodie.”
“Are you trying to freak me out even more?”
I wink at her, slightly enjoying an obnoxious bit of payback from her stunt earlier.
I take a swig of beer, and continue where I left off.
Black-eyed children speak in pointed, quick sentences with a flat, monotone voice, usually asking if you have any food or if they can come inside.
No matter what, do not let them inside.
That’s the first and only rule that will keep you alive.
Lauren interrupts me to say, “That’s exactly what he said!”
“Tell me you didn’t let it in.”
“No. God, no.”
I continue: no paranormal researcher has ever been close enough to study them, nor has anyone ever caught evidence of these kids on camera. They exist, but I’ve yet to see proof, which is so baffling to me. It’s almost like they know how to avoid security cameras, things like that.
Not a single person has ever gone on record about what happens if you let them inside, and it’s my educated guess that they didn’t live to tell the tale.
The best hypothesis I’ve heard, and the one that makes the most sense to me in all my years covering the paranormal, is that they’re definitely something alien that’s chosen a host. Maybe they want information or maybe they want to do some anal probing—no idea.
See, the alien-host possibility seems to be the most plausible, at least to me, because how many children vanish each year, never to be seen again? And if anyone actually has recognized one from the back of a milk carton, they haven’t come forward to announce it.
On the other hand, they could be powerful demonic entities, like the right-hander we fought in Norfolk, who have discovered a way to walk the earth, looking for more souls to devour.
Disguised as children.
Creepy. Makes my skin crawl thinking about it.
Regardless of what they are, if it’s some form of possession, whether it be alien or demonic, the thing doing the possessing has yet to realize that people are generally freaked the hell out by black, soulless eyeballs.
Am I right, or am I right?
That’s about as smart as a serial killer showing up on your front porch wearing a t-shirt that has I’M HERE TO EAT YOUR LIVER in big, bold letters emblazoned across his chest.
So, that could be why there are no reports of someone letting them inside. Nobody is that dumb.
But I doubt it. I don’t have that much faith in humanity. Oh, hi, honey. Are you really hungry? Have some lemonade. Maybe it’ll put some color in your eyes again, you poor thing.
Would not surprise me in the slightest.
Out of all the paranormal entities I’ve encountered over the years, the black-eyed children probably scare me the most.
It’s the fear of the unknown, because there’s simply so little information about them.
Loch Ness Monster? Easy. Giant lizard-like dinosaur.
Sasquatch? Missing link. Huge, hairy ape dude.
Aliens? Little green men in spaceships.
The Mothman? An extremely convenient, monstrous bird. Well… close enough.
But black-eyed children?
I’m clueless, and there’s just something about evil-looking children that makes me want to hide in the corner and suck my thumb.
I think it’s the idea of corrupted innocence, black blood pumping behind an angelic smile.
And those soulless eyes.
Jesus help me.
My hand goes up to my crucifix necklace, and I close my fingers around it.
“That’s insane,” Lauren says. “God, I need another drink for this conversation.”
“Have at it.” I watch her pour more scotch. Her hands have finally stopped shaking. “Easy, though. I don’t do well with puke.”
“Don’t worry. This is like a normal breakfast.”
I leave that one alone. I remember the mornings before we would film. No matter how many locations or episodes, I would get the shakes. It was natural, and besides, I always figured that if I ever didn’t get nervous, there was something wrong. Being ‘on’ in front of the camera takes a lot of work and mental acuity—nerves of steel, especially when you have an audience as large as the one for Graveyard. Lauren too. I know millions of people watch Weekend Report.
“Your turn,” I tell her. “What happened?”
“Everything you said. Just like that.”
“Details, Coeburn.”
“Do I have to?”
I cross my arms and nod.
Lauren’s eyes go blank as she looks past me, absently shaking her head. She’s staring at a memory in her mind. “I went back to Grandma’s house—”
“What’s that, honey?” Grandma Ellen is leaning up in her chair, sunglass-covered eyes turned in our direction.
“Nothing, Grandma. Just talking to Ford.”
“Okay. Let me know if you’re hungry. I have cereal.”
Lauren grins at me and mouths, “Sorry about that,” and with another glance into the living room, she adds in a whisper, “Blind and almost deaf. Poor thing. I don’t know how she manages.”
“The kids, Coeburn.”
“Right. Um, okay. After you so gallantly left me there with a broken ankle,” she says around a smile, “I went by the bookstore and then back to Grandma’s to ice it.” She points north. “She lives up the hill, that way, about half a mile. Great little house right along the street. Still got a view, even with all these condos and hotels going up. She raised my dad there. So, yeah, I’m in the kitchen, putting ice in a big plastic bag, and something catches my eye out the window. The kitchen is around back, and from over the sink, you can see into the yard. It’s pretty small but it’s fenced in, so it kinda spooked me because I’m freaked out that something got inside the gate. It was big, and I’m standing there thinking that maybe a dog got into the yard somehow, then wondering how in the hell that could happen because there’s no—I’m rambling, sorry.”
“You’re fine. Keep going.”
She clears her throat and leans in. “I went over to the sink and looked, right? Gone. Nothing. Empty yard, which spooked me even worse because I know I saw something. Here I am with a sprained ankle, a ninety-year-old blind grandmother, and we’re about to get robbed. That’s what I’m thinking. Then I thought maybe somebody had seen the local show this morning, and he’s out there stalking me. I’m panicking, trying to find anything I can use as a weapon, just in case, and the first thing I can think of is the broom. I look around and it’s propped up right beside the back door. I scrambled over to grab it, and, oh my God, Ford, I literally pissed myself. Literally. Pee came out. It really did because when I reached for the broom, he popped up right in the window, right there in the middle of the door.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, like he was waiting on me. I screamed like a goddamn maniac. There was pee running down my leg. I tripped over the broom. If it hadn’t been so freaking scary, it would’ve been comical. Then I realized it was a kid, just like you said, but those eyes. Those horrible, black little eyes.”
“Wow. You actually saw one.”
“From what you described, yeah.”
“Look at the chill bumps on my arm.” I’ve seen some crazy ass shit in my time, I’m one of the most well-known paranormal investigators in the world, and yet, my goosebumps have goosebumps. I might need another beer for this.
“It didn’t register at first that it was something paranormal. Grandma’s blind, so that’s the first place my mind went, and I thought he might be some neighborhood kid. Like a little blind buddy.”
“Makes sense.”
“Then again, I’d never seen or heard about anybody being blind quite like that. I’m standing there with pee on the side of my leg, pee on the floor, and there’s this kid staring at me. I opened the door and asked him what his name was. He goes, ‘You need to let me inside.’ We go back and forth a couple of times like this; what’s your name, let me in; no, not until you tell me who you are and stuff like that. I ask if he’s here to see Grandma Ellen—‘cause that’s what all the neighborhood kids call her—and he stares at me and I swear, it felt like he was freezing my soul. He finally smiles and says, ‘I’m hungry. I need to come in so you can feed me.’”
“Matches everything I’ve heard. What’d you do?”
“I’d had enough of the little fucker’s shit, so I slammed the door in his face.”
“Good for you.”
“Even then, I hadn’t registered that it was paranormal or that I should be afraid. I mean, yeah, he was kinda scary looking and maybe he’s autistic too, doesn’t have social skills. Something like that. It’s not until another one—shit, man, I can still feel how many back flips my stomach did when I saw the second one come around the corner.”
“Same thing? Like twins?”
“No, totally different. This one was older. Around fifteen, sixteen, maybe? Definitely bigger. Dressed the way you described.”
“What’d you do when the second one showed up?”
“Locked the door and told them to go away. What else could I do?”
“Did the bigger one say anything?”
“Same flat tone as the other one, right off the bat. He looked at me—no, more like through me—and he said, ‘Let us in. We’re hungry. You need to let us in. We have to come inside. Let us in.’ The longer I stood there, the more insistent he got, but he never got louder or angrier. Just like, ‘Let us in. We’re hungry. Let us in, let us in, let us in.’ I screamed for them to leave or I’d call the cops, then Grandma starts yelling from the other room, asking what was going on, was I okay.”
“Then what?”
Lauren stares into her scotch glass, swirls the liquid around, watches it spin in circles.
“Lauren?”
She wipes a tear from her cheek and looks up at me.
“Promise you won’t make us leave?”
“I… guess, yeah.”
“Promise.”
“Fine. I promise. You can stay.”
“No matter what I tell you?”
“Yes. Really. If you’re worried about earlier… I was already in a shitty mood and I overreacted. My fault. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” I place my hand on the counter, palm down, and swipe it in a wide arc. “Slate clean. You’re still an asshole for gutting me two years ago, but we’ll forget that for now.”
“I’ll make that up to you. That’s my promise. But about the kids… I kinda lied a little.” She tentatively nibbles her bottom lip and waits on my reaction.
You have to be kidding me. I fell for this? Really?
Exactly what I expected. She made up some bullshit story to get close to me again. Yet another attempt to squeeze blood from a rock. She’s not getting anything from me. I’m going to string her along, though, because I haven’t come up with the perfect comeback yet, and whatever it is, whatever the words are that finally come out, I want them to absolutely destroy her.
“It wasn’t so much of a lie—more like an omission of certain… details.”
“If you’re making all of this up just to ask about the documentary, so help me God—”
“I’m not, Ford. Just listen.”
“To what, more of your bullshit?”
“I’m trying to tell you the truth. All of it. You were the first person I thought of because they, um… they specifically mentioned you by name.”
“Nuh-uh. Shut up.” Wasn’t expecting that.
“Hand to God, the little one said, ‘Tell Ford we’re waiting for him.’”
CHAPTER NINE
Mike Long
Back in the kitchen, Toni and Dakota are whispering and giggling over something like a couple of teen girls at a pajama party. I haven’t seen Toni smile like this in months, if not a year or more. Maybe since before Graveyard was cancelled.
Dakota’s laughter is throaty and full of life, like she has nothing against the world. That’s what real happiness sounds like. Not the forced chuckles I push out once in a while.
“What’s so funny?” I ask as I lay a small pelican case on the black marbled island where they’re sitting on hand-crafted stools that cost more than the annual GDP of Cambodia. Way back when, in the days of sponsorships and big contracts, I didn’t blink when Toni begged for them, saying they’d really bring the kitchen together. Now they’re a symbol of an excessive past that I both wish I had again and thoroughly hate at the same time. It’s a weird sensation.
My wife and my celebrity crush go silent and try to contain themselves, sharing in their secret humor, and I have to admit, I feel a bit betrayed by Dakota.
Not a bit. A lot.
I thought I gave her an appropriate description of the cold shell my wife had become. Why is she actually enjoying Toni’s company? Boggles the mind.
Toni snorts first, followed by Dakota, and then they both explode in cackles.
I feign my best dismissive, “Oh, you two,” and occupy myself by re-checking every item of equipment I have in my case. For an initial investigation, I only brought the essentials, like an EMF detector, a digital video camera, and a couple of DVRs—digital voice recorders—in hopes of catching some EVPs, or electronic voice phenomenon.
It’s obvious that I’m annoyed once I slam the lid closed.
Dakota lifts both eyebrows and Toni lowers hers.
Toni asks, “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Frustrated. Haven’t brought any of this stuff out in so long, most of the batteries are dead.”
“There’s some in the garage, next to that giant box of toilet paper. You know that.”
I disappear for a few minutes and hang out, waiting, pretending like I’m taking the time to find all the right batteries while I take a breather. Okay, fine, fair enough. They hit it off. No big deal.
Breathe, Mikey Sweetheart. That charm is why you fell in love with Toni in the first place. You know she’s magnetic when she wants to be.
Pockets full of batteries, with my cargo shorts hanging low on my hips from the weight, I head back into the kitchen one last time. Dakota is at the door, one foot on the deck like she’s ready to leave, and Toni stands beside her, arms crossed and flashing that million-watt-sparkle of a smile.
I ask Dakota, “You’re not coming, are you?”
“I can’t let you go back there alone.”
“What? Of course you can. I did this for a living, remember?”
Obviously I want her to come back with me, but we can’t let Toni know that, now can we?
Toni says, “Why don’t you stay, Dakota? I’ll show you around.” She pats me on the bottom. I definitely haven’t felt that in two years, then she ruins it by saying, “I’ll tell you more secrets about chubby Mikey before he turned into a meathead.”
So that’s what they were laughing about. Thanks, Toni.
Dakota grins. “But look at him now, huh? Lucky you.”
Now I’m uncomfortable. And shy. And probably blushing.
When I get back, I’m sure Toni will come at me with her jealousy guns blazing after a comment like that. She surprises me with another gentle touch as she affectionately replies, “Y
eah, he’s not so bad.”
I risk a kiss on her cheek and she doesn’t pull away. Could our relationship be salvageable after all?
Dakota backs onto the deck, and says, “Ready?”
“You’re definitely coming?”
“It’s not like you’re gonna stop me.”
“Can’t argue with that. Off we go.”
“Don’t bring anything home… and be careful,” Toni says, shutting the door behind us, and for a moment, I think she actually means it. Which leaves me wondering if bringing Dakota around sparked Toni’s territorial claim. Could that have been enough to rekindle something?
Dakota and I are silent as we walk along the beach. She looks determined, striding with her spine straight and shoulders back. Ford always loved that episode in the ghost town where we marched down the dirt-road main street, dressed like gunfighters preparing to assault the OK Corral. Admittedly, that’s one of my favorite episodes too.
That was one of the times when the spirits were truly malevolent, and it legitimately felt like we were the vanguard marching headfirst into a battle of good versus evil.
Have I mentioned I miss that shit?
Dakota gives a quick glance back at my house and says, “All right, I think we’re far enough away.”
“For what?”
“For me to tell you I was totally faking.”
“You were?”
“The laughing. At you. It wasn’t bad, actually, she was just poking fun about how you used to be a little overweight and—I think the word she used was ‘fluffy’.”
“Clouds are fluffy. I was fat,” I admit.
“She really does seem proud of you. It’s just a shame that you’re…unhappy.” I’m looking at Dakota when she says this, and I don’t know why, but I can sense there’s something else hidden in her tone the way it drifts off, the way she looks out at the ocean, pensively, like there’s more she wants to tell me.
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