The Dark Man

by Desmond Doane

  The day Detective Thomas called, I heard the words, “Virginia Beach,” and immediately thought, “Hey, that’s close to Mike.”

  So it goes.

  Mike says, “I figured those big city boys would think twice about tarnishing their badges with the likes of—”

  “Enough, okay? I get it. You hate me for ruining the show, you hate me for ignoring your advice, and you hate me for sending Chelsea into that attic. That’s okay. That’s fine. I can never apologize enough, and maybe I won’t ever be able to redeem myself in your eyes, but let’s put all that to the side for the moment. Please? I’m here in Portsmouth, and I’ve got a right-hander. Maybe the strongest one I’ve ever seen.”

  A “right-hander” is our slang for a Tier One demon that sits at the right hand of Satan. One of his go-to guys.

  This grabs Mike’s attention. He says, “Stronger than the Hopper house?”

  “Possibly.”

  There’s a hint of disbelief, along with a smile forming around his words as he says, “Wouldn’t it be some shit if that thing was following you, and now it’s, like, on steroids or something?”

  “I … doubt that’s the case.”

  The idea is both intriguing and frightening, and for a moment, I actually do entertain the thought. I’ve been through things that most people in the paranormal field haven’t. Early on, mistakes were made. Mike and I both screwed up one too many times before we learned how to protect ourselves. We’ve been through minor possessions. Things followed us home. Our wives—Mike’s current, my former—experienced too much, more than they deserved, in places that were supposed to be their private sanctuaries away from what Mike and I did publicly.

  Then I remember … back at the old farmhouse, on the outskirts of Portland, the spirit had said Chelsea’s name during the first investigation, and then the unbelievable things I caught when I was there with Ulie the other night.

  I decide not to tell Mike about that yet. It’ll cloud his judgment around whatever is going on here with Dave Craghorn, his house, his deceased wife, and Detective Thomas’s investigation. And that’s if I can talk him into helping.

  I tell Mike, “Can’t be. The right-hander in this house was here before they called me in. The detective I’m working with, and the homeowner, both of them, have seen a shadow figure in the past. Humanoid, about five feet tall, with glowing red eyes. That’s why I’m here. This poor guy, Craghorn, he’s living here all by himself and, no lie, during the interview earlier, I’m standing there in the living room with him and the detective. Neither of us can see what’s going on, but Craghorn starts trying to get away from this thing—it never did manifest, but it creeps up on the guy and boom, his hair gets yanked hard enough to toss him like a dishtowel. Whole clump of it came right out of his head. Swear to God.”

  What Mike hears, out of all that, is this: “Did I hear you right? Did you say Craghorn?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Oh God, Ford, you’re not chasing the ambulances now, are you? That’s the case with the mayor and the dead secretary? Showed up on the news again about six months ago?”

  I exhale, feeling the thick, humid air escaping my lungs, then reach up and wipe a sopping layer of sweat off my forehead. “That’s the one.”

  “And what angle are you working? Hoping to get the show back with a high profile case?”

  “No, but it can’t hurt.” I hate to admit it openly, but there’s no use in trying to hide my submotivations from Mike. He knows me too well.

  “Ford, this is ridiculous.”

  “What happens in the future has no bearing on what’s happening right now. This poor guy … Mike, he seriously needs our help. He needs some peace. From what I can see, he seems like he could be normal, but he also looks like an emaciated meth head just by trying to exist in his own home. I have no idea how a right-hander ties in with Craghorn’s murdered wife, but I promised the detective I’d do whatever I could to help him with any possible leads.

  “If this thing has been here all along, maybe it wasn’t a murder. Maybe she was having an affair, the demon got into her head, and she threw herself off a bridge. Detective Thomas told me that her body showed signs of choking, but what if this thing got into her mind? We’ve seen it before—people trying to gouge out their own eyes, trying to choke themselves to death. Remember that one lady who tried to pull out her own tongue with a set of pliers? I need to get back in there. I need to ask it some questions, and I sure as hell would feel a lot better about doing it if you were here. And it doesn’t have to be for me. Help the detective. Help Craghorn. That’s what we used to be all about, right? At least back in the day? Whether they were alive or dead, we are always trying to give somebody peace.”

  There’s a long spate of silence on the other end. For a moment, I think he might have hung up on me, and I delivered my best speech to dead air.

  I’m about to ask if he’s still on the line when I hear a resigned, “Text me the address. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mike arrives.

  I meet him up the street, about half a block from the Craghorn place. Detective Thomas and Dave hang back, staring at the front door with wary glances, as if they’re waiting on something to step outside and slither down the stairs.

  Mike is dressed in his usual attire of khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. He used to be one of those heavier guys who wore shorts no matter what time of year it was, whether we were in the upper reaches of North Dakota in the middle of January, investigating a haunted ranch, or if we were down in Key West hunting Hemingway’s ghost.

  Used to be. I haven’t seen him in two years—he was never much for Facebook or Twitter back when the show was on, choosing to keep his private life to himself—so I’ve missed out on the fact that he seems to have lost close to a hundred pounds. Seriously. I barely recognize the dude.

  He looks healthy. Tanned. The sleeves of his T-shirt are straining against his biceps, and now, rather than stretching tight around a spare tire, the soft cotton pulls against his pecs.

  “Mike,” I say, unable to contain a smile, “look at you, man. You’re—damn, I bet Toni loves this, huh?” I offer my hand to shake.

  He ignores my compliment, and my hand, as he gives me one of two pelican cases, these large, black boxes that are like suitcases on steroids. They come with an interior made of forgiving foam for cushions, and over the years, they saved our sensitive equipment more times than Jesus saved souls. “Here, take this,” he says, continuing his purposeful march down the sidewalk, flip-flops slapping sharply against his heels. Glancing back, he scrutinizes me and says, “Seems like we’re going in opposite directions, chief. Put on a pound or twelve, huh? And what’s that shit in your hair? It looks like somebody dipped a porcupine in black lard.”

  “Leave the gel out of this. I’m trying something new. Besides, I’m still better looking, no matter how many pounds you dropped.”

  “If you’re desperate enough to base your confidence on the word of thirteen-year-old girls, don’t let me stop you.” He’s not smiling. I don’t think he’s joking. “Anyway, I came to work. Somebody else can stroke your ego.”

  What I thought was a nice start, with cajoling and good-natured ribbing, might actually be Mike sniping at me, which I should’ve expected. I change the subject, hoping that by talking shop, he might lighten up. “You brought your own equipment?” I try to match his pace.

  “Why wouldn’t I? You never came prepared before, and I doubt you’ve changed much.”

  Mike’s right, sort of, and I humbly admit it. “Preparation, probably not, but mentally, I’m nowhere near where I was two years ago. I can promise you that. Chelsea changed me.”

  “She changed your paycheck.” A car honks down at the end of the block, like it’s an exclamation mark at the end of his sentence.

  “Come on now, that’s not fair—”

  “Ford, save it. I’m not here for you or to have that discussion again. I�
�m here to keep you from screwing up somebody else’s life with another right-hander, got it?”

  “I—fine.” He knows I’m just as qualified as he is, even if I was unprepared with the technical stuff on occasion, but I was as equally adept at investigating—if not better—at least when it came to tapping into the emotional side of spirits and hauntings. This vitriol, it’s about punishing me, and until he gets it out of his system, there’s no use in trying to fight it or convince him otherwise.

  When I was a kid, my grandmother used to tell me this old wives’ tale about how if a snapping turtle latched on to you, it wouldn’t let go until the sky thundered. That’s how Mike is when he gets an idea into his head.

  I think that maybe if we can get into the groove of an investigation, just like old times, he might soften a bit, and then I can have a real conversation with him.

  We reach the detective and Craghorn, making quick work of the introductions. Mike is all business with the detective and soft and reassuring with the diminutive man who’s been beaten down in his own home. Craghorn barely meets Mike’s eyes, then he resumes the unrelenting study of his shoes.

  Mike says to Detective Thomas, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “You mean now, or before?”

  I start to explain, and Mike flashes me an annoyed look, holding up his palm. “I asked him.”

  “Okay. Whatever.” I’d like to keep the peace here, so shutting up seems to be the best approach.

  Mike listens intently as Detective Thomas goes through his story again, starting at the beginning with the original investigation as he did with me back at his desk. I’ve heard all of this already, and it’s fresh in my mind, so I tune out their discussion. I should be paying attention. I should be listening for any more clues that I may not have picked up on earlier, but I can’t help it. I’m gone, thinking about the glory days when Mike and I, and the rest of the gang, would arrive at a location and do our initial interviews with our clients.

  There was always this excited hum in the air as the crew set up their equipment and we listened to the clients’ stories, took notes, and crossed our fingers that, yeah, we could give them some closure, some answers, but at the same time, we were always hoping for another Holy Grail moment. Another full-bodied apparition caught on camera or a levitating dinner plate, something that couldn’t be explained away by the doubters who accused us of trickery and crafty video editing.

  It’s hard to explain what an investigation is really like until you’ve done one, or several hundred, or a thousand.

  Often, there’s a lot of waiting, a lot of silence, a lot of waking Mike up at three in the morning when he’s snoozing on a forgotten mattress. A lot of crossing your fingers that something will present itself. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. Just because a spirit doesn’t provide some sort of evidence on the random Tuesday and Wednesday you’re there investigating doesn’t mean the place isn’t haunted; it just means that the spirit world wasn’t highly active that day.

  Back when the show was chugging along and we were doing twenty-two episodes per season, there was a lot of down time while the crew set up and scouted angles. Mics were checked. Cameras and recorders had batteries replaced.

  Oh, man, the batteries. Batteries upon batteries. We probably kept Duracell in business on our own.

  With or without Graveyard: Classified, every investigation I’ve been on is a coin flip that’s governed by chance, luck, and timing; life and the afterlife are bonded by those three things.

  But when it all works out, and the investigation is a winner?

  I’ll take an espresso and two shots of adrenaline to go, please. Sign me up.

  Things that go bump in the night have terrified people since we had to look out for nocturnal predators, praying that our campfires didn’t burn out. No matter how many times you’ve flipped off the last switch and encased yourself in darkness, daring or begging something to show itself, there are times when you’ll get spooked.

  You’ll hold your breath and feel every square inch of skin prickle. You’ll want to scream. You’ll want to run, but damn it, you have to fight that flight instinct because there’s something out there, something from the other side, and it’s dragging a sharp fingernail down a window, or some Civil War soldier is pleading for you to get a message to his children, or a shamed servant is apologizing for taking her own life. A piano plays by itself in another room. Footsteps echo across the wooden floor overhead when you know you’re alone.

  I’ve seen and heard so much. I’ve never faked even the tiniest of things, like a piece of dust on a camera lens. What do the hip kids say these days? Haters gonna hate, right?

  Well, doubters gonna doubt.

  As I daydream about past investigations, the good ol’ days, my eyes drift around the neighborhood, inspecting the nearby homes.

  Like I said, I normally don’t pause to appreciate this stuff, but since Detective Thomas seems to be retelling his story starting with the book of Genesis, I have a couple of minutes. In the beginning, God created demons and shitheels…

  Despite my typical reservations, the architecture here actually is pretty fantastic with a lot of stones and crenellations, high windows, and pure craftsmanship displayed in the front doors. These homes were built back when people took pride in their hard work. It’s nothing like the homes in my neighborhood that are governed by a snippy HOA board: mow your grass to a quarter of an inch below standard; you have too many dandelions; you’re not allowed to have a gnome in your flowerbed.

  I swear an entire house popped up in a week around the corner from me. One day it was an empty lot, I left for an investigative trip to Lansing, Michigan, and when I got back, boom, house.

  Anyway, if you didn’t know what lurked inside his walls, Craghorn’s place is beautiful and does the neighborhood justice. Minus the dying flowers and shrubs that haven’t been tended to in God knows how long, minus the powerful demon controlling the interior, I’d love to call this place home.

  “Ford!”

  “Hmm?” I mumble, daydream interrupted.

  Mike asks, “Did you see that?”

  I clear my throat and cross my arms, making a decent attempt at looking like I was paying attention. “Yeah, it was up there, and, uh …”

  “Second floor window. The curtain dropped back like somebody pulled away.”

  For the first time in an hour … no, longer, since he was attacked and we retreated to the safety of the sidewalk, Craghorn speaks a coherent sentence. He says, “That’s where it likes to stay.”

  “It?” Mike asks. “You mean the …”

  “Yeah. Him.”

  There’s a layer of sharp acrimony in Craghorn’s voice that I’m hearing for the first time. Perhaps he’s recovering from earlier. Perhaps he feels emboldened now that the paranormal defense team is fully present.

  “That was my wife’s study. She used to paint in there.” Craghorn clenches his jaw, the muscle rising and falling underneath loose skin. His mouth purses, his nose scrunches as he glares up at the window. I halfway expect him to make a fist and shake it like some old codger.

  Mike is about to ask another question when Detective Thomas excuses himself and takes a phone call. We wait patiently while he listens to his caller, lifting his shoulders in a sorry-can’t-help-it apology. Finally, he hangs up and tells us he has to go. “Wife was reminding me about my visit to the doc. Checking out the ticker today,” he says, patting his chest. “After what happened in there, I feel like I should keep the appointment. Tell you what, Mr. Craghorn is in good hands here. You know what you’re doing, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going back inside that goddamn place ever again. So, you do what you do, and then come meet me back at the station. That work for you guys?”

  Craghorn’s gaze flitters upward, looking as if he’s slightly worried that the man with the gun is leaving, and I don’t bother telling him that bullets would only tickle that thing inside his house.

  I say to Detective Tho
mas, “We’ve got it all under control,” then toss another subtle compliment at Mike. “He’s the best at what he does, so if we’re able to find anything for you, it’ll be because he’s here.”

  You catch more bees with honey.

  The detective gives us a cordial salute and spins on his heels. He’s down the sidewalk, around the corner with his step looking lighter, and gone before anyone else speaks again.

  Craghorn is the first to say something. “Good thing for him.”

  “Why’s that?” Mike asks.

  “I can’t repeat what the dark man inside said about the detective.”

  My lungs clench, and Mike flashes me a worried glance.

  Maybe it’s just coincidence—could be nothing at all—but it’s so odd that he refers to it using the same words as Chelsea Hopper.

  “Don’t let the dark man get me, okay?”

  I can see tremors of the past rippling across Mike’s face. At first, I think he’s reliving the moment with that little blonde angel bobbing down the hallway, excited to help and so thrilled to be with her new friends from TV. A thousand pounds of regret fill my stomach. I’m aching and anxious to get back to fighting for her retribution.

  I think Mike is going to sympathize with me. He’s going to tell Dave Craghorn that it’ll be okay. We’ve fought things like this before, and we’re going to get his life back. We’re going to give his wife the everlasting rest she deserves. I think this, and I’m about to say something to Craghorn, but Mike’s fist connects with my jaw, and I drop like my chute didn’t open. I blink, trying to see around the sparkles dancing in my vision.

  Before I can clear my head, there are rough hands on my shirt, yanking me up. Mike says, “You put him up to this, didn’t you? The dark man? Really, Ford? Did you think I’d come running back for that?”

  I taste blood. I try to tell him no, that I never said a word to Craghorn about Chelsea or the dark man, but I’m dizzy and confused. My words come out jumbled. I can make out the red hue in Mike’s skin, the rage twisting his features, and then his forehead meets the bridge of my nose.