The Dark Man

by Desmond Doane

  I decide on a combination of all three and lean in with my elbows on my knees, asking him, “Lots of nice things here. You decorate the place yourself?” It’s such a pointless, baseline question that I’m not even sure why I asked it. I think maybe I’m simply trying to fill up the sucking void in here that’s taking every ounce of energy out of this room. I hear the toilet flush down the hallway and say a silent thanks. As good as I can be with people at times—you have to be in this line of work—Craghorn seems more comfortable around Detective Thomas. He hasn’t said a word since the detective excused himself.

  Craghorn flits a hand around the room and blandly answers, “Most of it belonged to my wife. She won’t let me get rid of anything.”

  Present tense. Won’t let me. It’s a clear hint regarding his feelings about the situation, though I can’t yet tell if he’s hanging on to the past or if he means her spirit is here and dictating what does and does not go out with the garbage.

  He adds, “And, really, it’s all part of the scenery now. I barely notice.”

  Detective Thomas walks back into the living room, giving one final swipe across his mouth. I’m sure I heard retching while he was in there, or what it sounds like when someone is holding it back. His skin has turned a pasty white, and there’s no life in his eyes.

  “What?” he snaps when he catches me looking at him.

  “Nothing. You just … you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I fake a laugh. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried that joke just to lighten the mood before an investigation. I can count on one hand how many times it’s actually worked over the past decade, yet it doesn’t stop me from trying.

  Thankfully, Craghorn snickers, and now I can graduate to counting on two hands.

  I continue, trying to sound upbeat between the fearful shaking of Detective Thomas and the morose gloom of Dave Craghorn. What they’re projecting doubles the effect of the blackness billowing into this room. “Normally, this is the part where I’d start out with a line of questioning to sorta gather up the history about what’s going on with your property. Everybody has a story, right? Even those who have moved on. But since you, Mr. Craghorn, didn’t necessarily ask me for help, and since Detective Thomas did, I’m going to let him paint the picture, and we’ll go from there, okay?”

  Craghorn nods without making eye contact. He almost reminds me of a witness for the prosecution who is too afraid to say yes, too afraid to point out the bad man in the room. Instead, he’s focused on his fingernails and what’s underneath them, and makes no further attempt at communication. His shallow breathing and a knee that bounces like chattering teeth on a cold day are enough to reveal his anxiety.

  Detective Thomas coughs into his fist and then cups his hands. He blows into them, trying to warm them up and then rubs his palms together. He huffs a fat breath of air, like he’s expecting it to plume. It doesn’t, and he almost seems perplexed.

  Cold spots are another sign of a potential spiritual presence. Normally, it’s nothing more than a chilly area in the center of a warm room, maybe five, ten, fifteen degrees cooler than the ambient temperature. It’s where a spirit is absorbing energy, hoping to compile enough to communicate with the living.

  Craghorn’s entire house feels like a meat locker.

  The detective’s next words drop the temperature even further.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHELSEA HOPPER

  TWO YEARS AGO

  A Very Special Live Halloween Episode

  “Ford,” said Mike Long, my fellow lead investigator, “you absolutely cannot use that little girl as a trigger object. How many times do I have to tell you? And fuck me, man, here we are! Again! It’s too dangerous, like, off-the-charts dangerous. You and I both know how sensitive children are to these things. You know this. And at five years old? She’s immaculate on the inside. There are no footprints in the mud of her mind.” He said this last bit with force, tapping the side of his head as he accentuated each syllable.

  Carla Hancock, my producer, put her hand on Mike’s shoulder and nudged him back, just enough to distance him from the circle of trust that she was trying to establish. Carla, Don Killian, Gavin Probst, and Timothy Shearing, all of my producers and co-producers, the directors, the sound guys, the whole lot of them were crowded around me. Graveyard: Classified had about four minutes before the live-feed broadcast began for what promised to be the biggest, most-watched paranormal investigation ever.

  Carla said, “I don’t need to remind you that we’re going live in forty-seven countries, do I? Millions of people are watching, Ford, and they want a show. They want the goddamn Super Bowl of paranormal investigations, and if you want to keep this freight train rolling, you’ll send her in there.”

  I shook my head. I felt the regret and remorse encroaching on my gut. I felt like, if I did it, if I really bent to Carla’s will and sent a five-year-old child into an attic, to face a demon, alone, then my soul would turn as black as the creature we were hunting.

  But the ratings. My God, the ratings. Astronomical.

  Rob and Leila Hopper stood off to the side, near the catering truck, giving Chelsea bites of ice cream and pieces of the peppermint candy that Mike always requested before every shoot. They’d agreed to this because … well, one, we were offering them more money for a single night in their house than Rob earned in a year as a customer support technician. They weren’t filled with bloodlust or anything like that. They weren’t demented, crazy freaks that got their jollies by torturing their daughter. They weren’t pageant parents who subjected their child to psychological trauma before she could even spell it.

  There was none of that. They were good people, and I knew that because I’d had extensive discussions with them. They just happened to live in the Most Haunted House in America for three terrifying years after Chelsea was born. Chelsea experienced more paranormal activity in those three years than I had my entire career.

  So why were her parents sending her in there? Because Carla went behind my back and convinced them that having Chelsea confront the demon would be the best way to get rid of her traumatic memories once and for all. I nearly walked away when I found out. I should’ve, but I didn’t.

  I had contractual obligations and, admittedly, once I thought about it for a little while, Carla’s arguments almost made sense.

  We were minutes away from going live, knowing there would be millions of people around the world who would judge, hate, condemn, and trash the Hoppers all over social media. They’d label them horrible parents. They’d say there was no way in hell that any self-respecting person would ever do that to a child, especially their own offspring. They’d type in all caps at them for being idiots, and likely call social services in an attempt to have Chelsea taken away. They’d tell their friends that the Hoppers were horrible, detestable, greedy human beings who were only in it for the money.

  The Hoppers had hundreds of reasons to change their minds, and every single one of them was the best one. We were offering them a ton of money, yeah, but there was more to it than that.

  Agreeing to something so completely ridiculous sounds insane, right? True, but think about it from their perspective.

  You try watching your daughter go through what Chelsea experienced for three years and what she suffered through every night in her dreams; you try saying no when someone approaches you with promises of redemption, vengeance, and relief. Imagine having a nasty, unbearable toothache every day of your life. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. You can’t take a nice, long drink of cool water without blinding pain screaming throughout your body. And then one day, a nice lady with an enchanting smile shows up at your front door and says, “I’ve got a magic pill that’ll fix what ails you. All you have to do is swallow it, and your troubles will be over. It doesn’t cost anything, and, as a matter of fact, we’ll pay you to take it.”

  Would you do it? Would you take the pill?

  As a parent, if it were your daughter who was in pain, would you take
the chance?

  I’d thought about this for weeks. Mike and I argued night after night leading up to the investigation, and he was still arguing with me mere minutes before we went on air. I’d met privately with the Hoppers and explained to them what we were going up against, and they knew, they understood. The worst part about it was, they said that they trusted me, that they knew I wouldn’t let anything happen to their little girl. They knew Chelsea was the vanguard in a horrifying war, and that she would win because I’d be by her side. They believed that, and I didn’t try to convince them otherwise.

  Why not?

  If … no, when she came out the victor, I originally believed that this single investigation would seal our place in paranormal history and in television ratings. Rich corporations would lock us into sponsorships and contracts lasting as long as we wanted them to.

  Big Burger City. Tire Monster. Avocado Giant. They were all standing by with ink pens and glimmers in their eyes.

  Rob and Leila trusted me, but I had to wonder, did I trust myself to do the right thing? I don’t know.

  I had about a minute thirty to change my mind, which was insane, because it was right before we investigated the Most Haunted House in America on a Very Special Live Halloween Episode. I still had a chance to back out.

  Decisions, decisions. Devil. Angel.

  Nobody but the crew and the Hoppers knew what the surprise was for the viewing audience. I had it all figured out. If I changed my mind, I would just switch up the intro and catch everyone off guard, including the producers and directors. The unassuming house in that quaint little neighborhood on the eastern side of Cleveland, Ohio, could be the surprise all by itself, with no need to include an innocent child.

  You’d never guess it, America, but this beautiful bungalow, on this quiet street where children play and puppies dance, is a place of such unimaginable horror, that I—me—Ford Atticus Ford, am terrified to go inside.

  I didn’t have to mention the Hoppers at all, and they understood that this was a possibility. I’d promised to cut them a check from my own bank account if I ripped up their contract in the final seconds. I couldn’t leave them hanging once I learned that they planned to set up a college fund for Chelsea with the money they earned from the show.

  An intern with a clipboard, an earpiece, and a puffy mic curled around in front of her lips darted over to us and tapped Carla on the shoulder. “One minute, twenty seconds, Miss Hancock.”

  “Thanks, Ambrosia.”

  Mike threw his hands in the air and backed away, shaking his head. “I can’t do it, Ford. I can’t. We can’t. We’re going to burn for this.” He stopped his retreat and locked his fingers at the base of his skull. “Actually, you know what? You’re going to burn for this. I’m done.” He said this with all the conviction he could muster, but he didn’t go anywhere. He knew that Carla Hancock had the power to ruin his career. Despite his reservations about the investigation, he loved what he did, and to have that and the money taken away …

  Carla said to me, “Don’t listen to him. You’re a professional. You’re a warrior, and we’re going to make cable television history. You, Ford, you will be Monday morning’s water-cooler discussion for a long, long time.”

  “Carla, I—”

  “Do it for her,” Carla said, pointing at the bouncy, happy, ponytailed child who barely had any idea what was coming next. All Chelsea knew was that her parents had brought her back to where she used to live and they wanted her to go with Mr. Ford to talk to the dark man. Aside from that, it was fun seeing all these people around. To her, it was a party.

  Chelsea slurped the chocolate ice cream off her cone and giggled when Rob tried to sneak a bite. Carla pointed, adding, “Give that little girl some peace. Get her life back.”

  “She looks fine to me,” I replied, but it was only because she had candy, ice cream, and a horde of people paying attention to her. It was a weak defense. I knew that Chelsea had been plagued by terrifying dreams, constantly waking up, screaming and crying.

  Ambrosia, the intern, nudged Carla with a little extra insistence and said, “Twenty seconds, Miss Hancock.”

  “Ford?”

  “What?”

  “You heard her. What’s it going to be?”

  “I—”

  “Beat this thing. Send it back to hell.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You’re up for a contract renegotiation soon, right?”

  Her question was her answer.

  Carla didn’t care about defeating a demon. She didn’t care what happened to Chelsea Hopper or me. All she wanted was the ratings.

  Ambrosia waved at me frantically, begging me to come to her, to get in front of the camera. “Five, four, three …”

  I took one quick peek at Chelsea, and then I realized that I desperately wanted her to keep that smile. I hated to admit it, but Carla was right. We needed to defeat that thing and send it back to the darkness so Chelsea could live her life in sunshine.

  I darted over to the walkway and hopped in front of the camera just as the live feed opened, clasping my hands together, fingers intertwined, giving the audience my signature bow.

  “Welcome, friends, families, and to the millions of you watching around the world. This is simply unbelievable.” I had to strain to keep the fake smile going. “We have the most incredible show you’ll ever see on this very special, live Halloween episode of Graveyard: Classified. We asked for it, you delivered. After watching the ghastly evidence the Hoppers collected on their own, choking back tears during their desperate pleas for help, hundreds of thousands of votes were cast online, and you picked the winner. Let me introduce you to the Most Haunted House in America.”

  The “Most Haunted House in America” might have been a misnomer, because we had no way to confirm that, but damn, it sounded good. For all we knew, the house down the street from your grandmother might have been as scary as a spare bedroom in hell. The age-old adage for news is, “If it bleeds, it leads.” In the world of paranormal reality shows, we said, “If it screams, it leads.”

  I stepped sideways, sweeping my hand back and up the walkway in the direction of the Hoppers’ former home.

  I felt like that was a rather anticlimactic speech, because it totally wasn’t what I was prepared to say. I had something deeper, stronger, more powerful and cogent written and ready to go. My indecision cost me, because I lost every damn memorized word of it and had to concoct that bland nonsense on the fly.

  Moving completely out of the way, I allowed the first camera to race up the cobblestone path to the front door, and as per the production plan, the live feed switched to a prerecorded segment. It cut to an interior tour of the house, with my voiceover in the background, as I narrated the inconceivable terrors that the Hoppers had endured while living there.

  It really was a quiet, unassuming house, sort of a faded pistachio color with off-white shutters, a wraparound porch, and a front door painted soft beige. Two stories tall, with a tiny attic—where the demon lived—and colorful landscaping, the house possessed a heart blacker than coal. If houses have auras, and some of my psychic acquaintances insist they do, then that one seethed with the absence of light.

  I knew that the intro piece—the tour of the home and my voiceover work—would last two minutes and seventeen seconds exactly. I used this time to dash over to the Hoppers who were standing patiently, though they looked nervous behind false grins, a pathetic attempt at convincing themselves that everything would be okay.

  “You’re sure about this?” I asked. “Last chance to back out.”

  Deep down, the part of my brain that governed rational thinking wanted them to. The emotional side was saying, “Let’s go for it. I can make this better for you,” and, also, “The ratings! Holy freakin’ cow, the ratings!”

  Rob Hopper said, “We just want it to be over, Mr. Ford.”

  “We trust you,” Leila added. “We know you won’t let anything happen to her.”

  I lea
ned down and took Chelsea’s soft, sticky hands. She had a ring of chocolate around her lips. Her sweet breath smelled like peppermint candy. “Chelsea, you ready to go beat up a ghost?”

  She giggled, put her chin down to her shoulder and twisted bashfully from side to side. “Uh-huh. But will it be scary?”

  “Maybe a little. I’ll protect you, though. If we go in there and kick this thing’s hiney, all those bad dreams might go away. Does that sound like a plan?”

  Chelsea scrunched up her nose. “You said ‘hiney.’”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  Over my shoulder, I heard Ambrosia softly calling my name. “Mr. Ford? Mr. Ford? Thirty seconds. Intro’s almost finished.”

  I stood and said to the Hoppers, “I’ll protect her. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

  Was I lying? The scary thing was, I didn’t know the answer to that.

  “Listen to the crew. They’ll give you directions and timing. We’re live for three hours tonight, but Chelsea will come in after thirty minutes—anyway, yeah. You’re in good hands with these guys.”

  I retreated a step, ready to jog up to my next mark on the front porch, and Chelsea brought me to a heartbreaking halt when she said, “Don’t let the dark man get me, okay?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Detective Thomas has to sit down before he says, “It was a black mass about five feet tall, looked almost like it was flowing. Malleable, you know? Swirling around itself. It was standing there in the doorway, watching me. I took a couple of steps back, and—and I blinked really hard, kinda rubbed my eyes, thinking maybe it was just a trick of the light, but then I thought, can’t be, I’ve already been inside for thirty minutes. You know how your eyes are sorta messed up when you look at the sun, like maybe out the window or whatever? You get those blobs in your vision? It was like that, but … real.” He points toward the living room entryway and the hall beyond. “The thing was solid. I couldn’t see past it. And I remember it as clear as day, I said, ‘What the—’ and before I could finish my sentence, I swear to God, I swear on the life of my poor mother, may she rest in peace, it was like this thing opened its eyes. Two red, glowing orbs revealed themselves slowly. I coulda screamed, Mr. Ford. I coulda called out to God but I was so … cold on the inside. Like looking at this thing froze my heart. All my happiness that I’d ever had, just poof, gone.”