For as long as I have been doing this, I’ll never understand why people allow themselves to be tortured. Sure, there are extenuating circumstances, like money issues, no family around, no place to go, along with a million other possibilities, but for the love of God, there has to be something you can do. If it were me, I would do whatever it took to get my wife, my husband, the kids, and the cat as far away from pure evil as I possibly could.
It took the Hoppers longer than it should have, but they were smart.
Eventually.
They left. They got Chelsea out.
And then this son of a bitch right here came along and brought her back.
Argh, Ford, stop it. There’s nothing you can do about it this very second. You’re working on fixing things. It’s a process.
I have to mentally acknowledge this on a daily basis, roughly 2.3 million times. My therapist tells me it’s a good thing to remind myself that we all make mistakes.
A mistake is putting pepper in the saltshaker.
What I allowed to happen was unforgiveable.
The upstairs hall seems fairly normal on this end. No new revelations into the mind of Craghorn. I hear Mike fumbling around in the office and listen for a moment. He sounds like he’s fine, but damn, I’m worried. You take a hit like that from an upper level right-hander, it’ll shake you for a while, especially if you’ve been off the bicycle for a spell like Mike has. If I send him home with a demon in his backpack, Toni might track me down and murder me.
If that happened, I’d come back and haunt her personally, because how perfect would that be?
Satisfied that my former partner, best friend, and brother-from-another-mother is okay back there by himself, I reach for the door handle closest to me. It’s warm, like ten or twenty degrees warmer than the rest of this freezing house. The temperature isn’t hot enough to burn me, however, but that doesn’t stop me from jerking my hand away like I’m grabbing a rattlesnake by the tail. The foreign sensation—heat, I mean—is a surprise.
Normally, I’d check it out with the thermal imaging camera, but the damn thing is all the way over there on the banister, and besides, I already know it’s a different temperature. I’m a bit concerned that something might be on fire in there, so rather than opening the door and fueling it with a fat, fresh supply of oxygen, I drop down to all fours and try to peek underneath the crack. I haven’t done this since seventh grade when Teddy Martin’s sister was changing out of her bikini.
I didn’t see anything then, of course, unlike now, when a set of shadowy legs scamper across the room.
I recoil and jump back to my feet, unsure of what I saw. My hands go numb with excitement. This is it. This is the kind of stuff I live for, regardless of the investigations I’m on or what I’m trying to accomplish for some police department detective that I’ll never see again. There’s something in there, something otherworldly, and I can barely contain myself as I call out to Mike and tell him to hurry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mike touches the doorknob and feels the difference in temperature. Like me, he yanks his arm back. “Yowsa.” He checks the palm of his hand, perhaps instinctively, and asks me what room it is.
“Is this the one where Craghorn said his wife painted? Maybe? And I didn’t even get a chance to check out the library and the sitting room over there on the right.” I look past Mike at the two rooms, whose doors are open, and don’t see anything scuttling around in there. “Should we check them out before we go in here for battle?”
“Are you nuts? Why’re you not in there already? The old Ford would’ve run in there with a Ouija board and a handful of batteries like he was handing out Halloween candy.”
“That giant clawed handprint on your side makes this one a little different.”
Because, honestly, while this is what I live for, I also have no intention of dying for it, either.
He nods. “Good point, but we gotta do it.”
“Rock-paper-scissors?”
Mike calls me a pansy, but not in the G-rated way, twists the doorknob, and pushes it open slowly. The moaning hinges are horror-movie creepy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a rattling skeleton dropped from the ceiling. Gotcha!
Instead, ropes of heated air crawl through the space, bringing with them the scent of something ancient. I have no way to describe the putrid aroma. It’s as if something slithered out of a crypt that had been buried a thousand years ago. I recognize it as the faint, musty smell I noticed earlier, only now it’s overwhelmingly pungent and sends my hand up over my nose and mouth.
Otherwise, the inside of the room is perfectly normal. It’s another bedroom. There’s a single bed with the long side against the wall. A flowery comforter lies on top of it, pristinely pressed, and a pillow with an equally wrinkle-free pillowcase sits at the head. There’s a bare bookcase that I would expect to be covered in dust. It’s not. It’s spotless. A clear vase, filled halfway with water, holds daffodils in front of a square-paned window.
A tic-tac-toe window.
Sometimes I’m a poet and I know it.
There’s a small desk underneath, which looks to be something straight off an Ikea showroom floor. It’s white, square, and plainly made. A matching chair accompanies it. The surface is also free of everything, including dust, and to our left is a 1970s-style love seat that could be nothing other than the matching unit to the couch downstairs.
Mike grunts and lifts the collar of his shirt over his nose. “Shields up.”
I don’t see any sign of the previous occupant—the Thing of the Scuttling Legs—and I have to admit, going against my earlier sentiments, I’m slightly disappointed. It’s always such a rush when you walk into a room and either catch an entity off guard, or spook something that’s hiding, and then watch as it freaks out while it tries to get away from you.
We both notice the one odd thing in the room, simultaneously, and move over to the loose floorboard beside a hole. Mike, who is never without the proper equipment, produces a miniature flashlight from his Batman-style tool belt, flicks it on, and shines it down into the orifice. It’s only about three inches wide, which means that craning my neck to see around Mike is doing no good. I wait until he’s finished examining it and then ask for the light.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a pentagram drawn in blood or the remnants of an animal sacrifice, something, anything evil.
It’s empty. Completely and entirely empty. It’s nothing but a hole that’s bordered by dusty joists with the splintery subflooring as its bottom.
Then it occurs to me. “Oh, shit. This is probably where the maid found the diary.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”
“She popped this open and unleashed all that negative energy. You think that’s why it smells so disgusting in here?”
“Nah, I’d say that’s the right-hander. This is where he hangs out.” Mike looks around the room at nothing in particular. “You hear me, you son of a bitch? You smell like shit! A big, stinking pile of ass goo, and once we’re done, we’re going to send you right back to the bottom of Satan’s toilet where you belong.”
“Yeah, Mike. Get ‘im.” I can’t help myself. It’s the Mike that I remember. The Mike that drove the ratings through the roof for any episode where he lost his cool and got all primeval on a spirit that pushed him too far. Carla and her marketing team were brilliant when it came to teasing those episodes with dark, gritty commercials. “On this week’s very special episode of Graveyard: Classified, the spirit world will finally experience the wrath of Mike Long.”
Truth be told, the spirit world “finally experienced” the wrath of Mike Long roughly twelve times over the course of the show’s run. I’m pretty sure there was only one guy who e-mailed to tell us we sounded like a broken record. I sent him an autographed headshot and never heard from him again.
“You feel that?” Mike asks.
“What?”
“The temperature. Feels like it’s back to normal.�
� He checks the black box in his hand. “EMF is back to normal. Zero-point-zero. And what’s that smell? It’s like clean laundry.”
“We scared it out of here. Damn thing retreated.”
Mike shouts, “Coward!” at the ceiling.
“What now?”
“The usual. Wait until nightfall. Then we get ready for battle.”
I can tell that, in most respects, Mike is far from being my bestest buddy in the whole wide world again, but I do manage to talk him into joining me for dinner. After everything that’s happened today, I need a break, and I’m in desperate need of some fuel before we gear up for war.
Mike balked for a bit, telling me he was only here on business, and all he wanted to do was help Craghorn get his life back. Reluctantly, he agreed to come along when I said he could pick the restaurant.
And so, here we sit at McCracken’s Crab Hut.
Mike knows I’m deathly allergic to seafood.
Very funny.
While he mows down the largest bucket of crab legs I’ve ever seen, I convince our amazingly attractive waitress, who goes by the awkward name Caribou, to run over to the deli across the street and get me a Black Forest ham and swiss on rye. There’s no denying that she recognizes the both of us, which seems to be exactly why she was willing to help me out. Or it could be the fact that if I so much as touch a plate that’s had seafood on it, I’ll blow up like a crimson pufferfish and go into convulsions, and that’s not a good visual for the other patrons.
I’m even sitting here about a foot back from the table, trying to avoid any potential crab juice flying my way as Mike plows through the crab legs like a wood chipper shredding an oak branch.
The kind, generous, sweet, and in-no-way-trying-to-kill-me Caribou arrives with a hoagie-shaped object wrapped in white deli paper. It doesn’t appear to be on rye bread, but she’s forgiven when I notice that underneath the clear tape holding the wrapping closed is a perfectly smooched set of lips.
Sealed with a kiss. Nice.
She winks at me, says to enjoy my meal—on the house—and when she walks away, I can’t help but notice the pert and perfectly shaped— “Ford.”
“Hmm?”
“Eyes front, soldier.”
“Give me a break, dude. You’re over there trying to kill me with your crab guts, the least you could do is let my eyes wander a bit.”
“And isn’t that exactly why you’re divorced?”
“Right, and now I can do as I please.”
Mike slams a half-ravaged crab leg into his metal bucket. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“How much that girl loved you.”
“Melanie from ward—I mean, Melanie?”
“Yes, Melanie from wardrobe, Ford.” He snatches up a brown paper napkin and angrily swipes at his juice-covered fingers. “I’m guessing you don’t know she calls Toni once in a while.”
“She does?”
“At least a couple times a month.”
That’s unanticipated, enough to stun me into silence, and I don’t respond right away. Over by the bar, I watch a young boy and girl, teenagers in love it seems, giggling next to the old-fashioned jukebox. He slips a coin into the slot, pushes a button, and the speakers immediately begin gagging on the early ‘90s sensation, Boyz II Men. Even the girl can’t handle the syrupy sweetness because she teasingly punches him in the shoulder, shakes her head like she absolutely cannot believe he picked that song to play, and marches off with her arms crossed, feigning embarrassment. The boy comes up behind her, tickles her, and they scamper back to their table. Young. In love. Clueless.
How godawful disgustingly appropriate, too, and just another sign that the universe is out there pointing and laughing. The first night I took Melanie out, post after-party once we finished wrapping an international shoot in Prague, the discothèque we visited played nothing but Boyz II Men. All. Night. Long. On repeat.
I ask Mike, “Why would she call Toni?”
“They’re talking about their cycles.”
“Really?”
“No, moron, why do you think? She calls to check on you, as if I have anything to do with where you put your dick or which city you’re terrorizing on a weekly basis.”
“What? Why would she call Toni for that? Doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t seen or talked to either of you in over two years.”
“I know how long it’s been. Let me rephrase. Toni says that Melanie calls to shoot the breeze and catch up, but it always feels like she’s somehow trying to work you into the conversation. Like no matter what they’re talking about, Melanie will eventually get around to saying something like, ‘Oh, speaking of the Moose Lodge, has Mike talked to Ford lately?’”
“But why would she do that? We talk fairly regularly. Not about anything important, just quick how-are-you type stuff.”
“And you tell her how you’re doing?”
I nod and mumble into my beer.
“What?”
“I said, kinda, but not really.”
“And that’s the thing. Toni’s guess is, Melanie, she sounds like she’s hoping we’ll reconnect.”
“You and me?”
“You and me.”
“Why?”
“Because, Ford, she thinks I’m good for you. Am. Or was. Who knows? She knows that Toni has no idea what’s going on with you, and she knows that Toni would probably pour gas on your dick if you were pissing fire—”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch. Mel … she’s planting seeds.”
Caribou arrives at the table and asks Mike if he would like more crab legs since it’s Bottomless Crab Leg night, which is total bullcrap because crab legs are too expensive to be bottomless anything. It’s quick proof that she, and probably the manager, are former fans of the show, and they’re being nice to the has-beens. Mike says he’s good, then Caribou asks me if I need anything else. The look of disappointment on her face—when she sees that I’ve yet to open the sandwich that she so accommodatingly retrieved for me—is enough for me to thank her and pry it open. She’s gone before I can look up again, and on the inside flap, I find the prize inside: her cell number, a smiley face, and a heart over the letter i in her name.
I fold it over before Mike can see.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?”
“Later,” I tell him. “But, man, I’m deliberately not being obtuse, honest to God, but why in the hell is Melanie ‘planting seeds’ or whatever it is you think she’s doing? I don’t get it.”
Mike drains the last of his Budweiser and leans up on his elbows. He belches, pauses, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “The only thing I can think of is, if she can get Toni to corral me into making amends with you, and maybe we hang out again, then that’ll be good for, I don’t know, future possibilities.”
“What fucking future possibilities, Mike?”
“You. Her. The two of you, dipshit.”
This punches me in the chest with about the same force as when the right-hander lifted Mike off his feet back at the Craghorn house. Only in a good way.
I think.
There won’t be any demonic handprints left on my skin, but it hits equally as hard.
I had been holding out the tiniest bit of hope, and on occasion, had considered begging to atone for my sins, but I thought I’d have a better chance bringing some of my dead counterparts back to life.
“Melanie wants me back?”
Mike closes his eyes, lifts one corner of his mouth, and gives me a bemused, “Beats the hell out of me. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea why.”
“Going through you is just—”
“Ford,” Mike says, stopping my blathering. “I have no clue, bro. She’s obviously not going to come right out and say it to your face. You cheated on her. Many, many times.”
“Six,” I remind him.
“Whatever. You absolutely shredded her heart, and she can’t come around asking you to try again because how pathetic would th
at be? No way, no how. She’s not going to give up that kind of power, and, by taking the long road of, you know, trying to get us hanging out again, maybe it’ll get you on the straight and narrow. You’ll see how much of an idiot you were, and you’ll approach her. It’s the long con. She’s got nothing to lose.”
“That’s …”
“Sneaky?”
“I was going to say risky. What if I didn’t bite?”
“How the hell should I know? She probably would’ve found a different way.”
My stomach is growling, yet I’m too dumbfounded to eat this hoagie. I ask Mike, “Did you figure all this out just by Melanie calling Toni and asking about me?”
“Pffffft,” Mike scoffs. “Me? Fuck no. Toni said so.”
“So the woman who would pour gas on my dick if I was pissing fire, your peach of a wife, she told you to come see me and tell me that my ex-wife is using this elaborate ruse to win me back?”
“Toni? Please.”
“Melanie?”
“Nope.”
“Then will you tell me what’s going on? Enough with the twenty questions.”
“I told you. I’m here to help Craghorn. That other stuff about Melanie, that’s just B-roll footage. Side story. So there’s that, and then there’s this other thing.” Mike stops Caribou as she’s passing by with the remnants of someone’s mangled crab. He orders two more beers, and once she winks at me and leaves, he says, “There’s an offer on the table. A big one.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHELSEA HOPPER
TWO YEARS AGO
A Very Special Live Halloween Episode
“You’re so brave,” I told Chelsea as she climbed the ladder into the attic. It’s amazing how often kids are absolutely fearless unless they’re taught to be afraid or something happens that dissuades any further attempts at exploring certain areas of life. Case in point, I haven’t touched tequila since I took a sip of my dad’s back when I was eight.
Chelsea was five. Her birthday was three weeks earlier.
The Dark Man Page 10