The Dark Man

by Desmond Doane

  It occurs to me that we’ve been wasting too much time. “Shit, Mike. Let’s move. Hurry, hurry.” He’s chasing me up the stairs, asking what the problem is, as we take them in leaps of twos and threes. “We should’ve been up here right away trying to talk to Louisa while that fucking thing charges up again.”

  Mike says, “I’m out of practice. You should have known better.”

  I let the jab go because it’s the truth. Then again, I haven’t faced anything this overwhelming since the Hopper house. I’ve spent the past two years tracking down murderers and victims in the afterlife, but nothing like this.

  I start the digital voice recorder in my hand, pop the earbuds in, and say, “Louisa? Are you here? It’s Ford and Mike. Do you remember us from earlier? We just want to ask you a few questions. And listen to me, Louisa, you don’t have to be afraid of us, but you do have to be afraid of that thing when it comes back. It knows why we’re here, it knows we want to give you peace, and as soon as it can, it’s going to come for us, and for you. Can you tell me if you can hear my voice?”

  We wait in relative silence. I hear nothing but the thin whisper of white noise humming through the minuscule speakers wedged in my ears.

  The floorboards creak underneath Mike’s feet, and I don’t bother to mark it on the recording because, for the time being, I don’t care about reviewing these tapes tomorrow. I’m not concerned about what I’ll be doing in a week. I am focused on the now.

  I want this fight to end before sunrise.

  I want to have some solid evidence for Detective Thomas.

  I want to walk out of here victorious, with the demon gone, Louisa drifting toward the light, and Dave able to enter his own home again, without fear of pain, possession, or more scratches marking his damaged skin.

  Can we do it? Can we be successful?

  Or are we a couple of ants trying to take down an elephant?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  While we wait for Louisa to make contact, I go over the details of the day in my mind, and something from earlier pokes its head out at me.

  “Mike?”

  He mumbles, “Mmm hmm?” in response, focused on the thermal imager in his hand.

  “Didn’t you say there was something weird about the scratches all over Craghorn? Did it ever come to you? I was thinking about it just now, and—”

  Mike says, “Hang on, I think I’m getting something here. Take a look at this. Down there at the end of the hall. You see it?”

  I lean over to look at the small screen. Just like before, it’s too cold in here to get an accurate reading with the rainbow version of the heat signatures, so Mike has it on the black-and-white setting. It’s almost as bad, but better than nothing.

  He points to a small white blob in the doorway of the western-facing guest room. “Right there. Doesn’t that look like something is peeking out at us?”

  “Um, maybe a head and—whoa!” The thing, whatever it was, darts back inside the room. “Move, move, move,” I tell Mike, and we’re darting down the hall, bravely running into battle. I won’t say we’re storming the beaches of Normandy, because yeah, we’re not facing down the German artillery, but this is still pretty damn scary. You drop onto those chilly beaches in France, take a bullet to the chest, and you’re a goner. Here, in this house, if it’s the demon we’re running toward and not Louisa, either one of us could face a full-bore demonic possession and a lifetime of sitting in a padded cell, trying to gouge out our own eyeballs with that morning’s gelatin spoon.

  Give me a German bullet any day. I’ll take the quick road home, thank you very much.

  In hindsight, maybe we should’ve tiptoed to the door, but son of a bitch, I’m so amped and ready to kick some ass that I don’t hold back, and neither does Mike. He’s taken two direct hits from this thing, and I’m sure he’s itching to do some waterboarding with holy water.

  We jam our shoulders together as we try to get into the guest bedroom, and it’s slightly comical. Three Stooges, Laurel and Hardy, Jerry Lewis—shit like that, and it’s the kind of thing that Carla would’ve loved to add into an episode to show the viewing audience that, yes, indeed, we are also human. Goofy ones.

  Mike wrenches his body to the side, and we fall through the doorway, stumbling into the open space. It’s undisturbed. Nothing has been moved. It looks exactly the same as when Craghorn showed me earlier today when I first arrived with the detective. It used to be a guest room, now it serves as a storage space, cluttered with a few cardboard boxes sitting about, some storage containers with multicolored lids, a pile of women’s clothes lying on the floor, still on hangers. My guess is, those belonged to Louisa, and this empty room is as far as he made it with them.

  The thing I notice right away is that there’s the barest trace of a flowery smell in here.

  It’s a good sign.

  Mike inhales deeply. “No demon farts. What is that? Roses?”

  “Perfume, yeah. Anything on the therm?”

  “Just the ambient room temp.”

  I hold up Mike’s GS-5000, readjust my earbuds, and say, “Louisa? Was that you? Please don’t be afraid. Do you remember us from earlier? This is Mike, and I’m Ford.”

  I’ve done this for more than a thousand investigations, but I will never get over the chills that creep up my arm when I hear a voice from beyond the grave.

  Every. Single. Time.

  “I’m … here …”

  I quickly rap Mike on the shoulder. “I got her,” I say, and then I offer him the right earbud. He plugs it into his left ear and leans closer. “There you are. Thank you, Louisa. Listen, this is important. We don’t have much time. That thing—”

  “ … demon …”

  It’s a whisper from a thousand miles away, but it’s right beside us, too. Distant, raspy, and full of fear.

  “Yes, the demon. We’re here to help you, so it’s important that you listen to us.”

  “ … trapped …”

  “Mike,” I say, nudging him. “Do you see her on the therm?”

  He shakes his head, looks at me with a sharp squint, his mouth pinched, and frantically motions for me to keep talking to her.

  “You’re trapped, yes, and we want to free you. I absolutely promise that we’re going to get you out of here, but in order to beat this thing, we need your help. We need a name, okay?” I slow down my words and make sure to enunciate. “Do you know its name?”

  “ … name … Azeraul …”

  Mike asks me, “Did she say ‘Azeraul’? I’m assuming that’s the demon’s name? Have you ever heard of that one before?”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar. Louisa? Are you still there?”

  “ … here …”

  “Thank you. We’re proud of you, and I know it’s going to be tough, but hang in there for a little bit. It won’t be much longer.”

  Mike is panning the thermal imager around the room, trying to find any sign of our companion, and then he takes a quick look back down the hall. It’s not like Azeraul would need to use the conventional methods to enter a space, but I can see how Mike would feel like it’s a natural reaction.

  “Ask her about the case,” he says. “Ask while we have her on the line.”

  “It’s too much. Not right now. Let’s get that thing out of here and then—”

  “Ford!” he barks. “We may not get that chance and you know it. She’s using up so much energy already just to communicate. If this Azeraul bastard builds up enough energy for another attack, she could be too weak. This is it, bro. We gotta do it now.”

  “I don’t want to put too much—”

  Again, he barks, “Ford!”

  “Okay, okay. Louisa, if you’re still here, if you can still communicate, there’s something else we can do for you. If you want to be at peace, if you want to go to the light, then tell us this: were you murdered?”

  “ … I … was … true …”

  “Can you tell us who did it? That’s what we need to know, okay? If you want
your soul to rest and finally leave this world behind, tell us now.”

  “ … can’t … weak …”

  “Stay with us. It’s okay, we’re almost there.”

  “ … demon … here …”

  “No,” I shout. “Don’t go. Fight him. Fight it, Louisa. Give us the name of the person who murdered you. We’re so close. Are you scared to tell the truth? Nothing can hurt you, I promise. It’ll be fine. Give us a name and then go to the light.”

  Thinking that it may have been the mayor himself, and that he may have learned that she had kept a diary of their illicit affair and then threatened her, possibly even murdered her, I ask, “Was it the mayor? Did Mayor Gardner kill you? He’s dead now. Died three years ago, and if it was him, I’m sure he’s burning in hell. He can’t reach you.”

  “ … still love … her … go …”

  “No, no, stay. Please stay. We can do this together, I promise. I can protect you.” I turn to Mike and order him to take out his holy water. He complies and begins saying a prayer that I don’t recognize as he splashes it around on the boxes, her pile of clothing, and the curtains.

  The main bulk of the approaching thunderstorm that has been threatening Hampton Roads all evening hangs in the distance, as if Mother Nature herself is too scared to approach. Small sparkles of lightning illuminate the night from the west. I’m glad the storm is hanging back because we don’t need another source of energy for Azeraul.

  I ask her again, “Mayor Gardner. Was it him?”

  “ … her …”

  “Her? Her who?”

  “ … Azeraul …”

  “I—what? I don’t understand. The demon is a female?”

  “No … but light … above …”

  “It’s not a male? You’re not making much sense. Can you explain what you mean? Louisa? Louisa?” And then the tape is filled with unbearable, deafening silence. I inhale the deepest breath possible, because I swear it feels like I haven’t taken in oxygen in fifteen minutes.

  Mike yanks the second earbud out and slings it hard enough to pull the other one out of mine. “Son of a fucking bitch,” he snaps. “We had her. We could’ve solved this whole thing and been done with it, and then she tells us some crap about being in love with a demon? Are you kidding me? I mean, what is this bullshit? Something like Stockholm Syndrome?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. Mike. Hey. Breathe for a second.”

  “Bah,” he grumbles, and shoves my arm away. He marches over to a window and leans up against it with his forehead, shoulders slumped, disappointed.

  “You know as well as I do that we only get a small percentage of clear answers. That’s how this works, and it’s the same thing that I tell every single police department that I’ve worked with. You remember that. I know you do. You’re not that far out of practice.”

  “Let me ask you this,” he says, staring out into the night, his breath leaving small condensation circles on the glass. “How often are you actually able to help with an investigation, huh? How often do you come away with something tangible that they can use? Because, to me, it was always gibberish, the stuff we caught during a case, you know? At least the EVPs most of the time. When we captured apparitions on camera or saw a ball roll across the floor, that’s what I could get behind. But the voices? I don’t know how many times I wanted to tell you that you were full of shit, the way you tried to read between the lines and convince the audience that these random words we captured meant something. That’s the part I never got, you know? Why do it? Why bother trying to force meaning onto nothing?”

  “It’s not nothing, Mike. It’s never nothing. They’re there. They’re communicating.”

  “And you’re making up stories around nonsensical crap.”

  “I’m trying to give these spirits an identity. They’re people. Are. Were. Doesn’t matter. They have a story and they’re trying to tell it. Think of it like a coloring book. The structure was there, it just needed filling in because that’s what worked for the fans. And to answer your question, I give the detectives actionable material about forty percent of the time, honestly. At least according to my case records.”

  “That much, huh?”

  “Yeah. You want, I can sit down with you and show you all my files.”

  “I believe you, Ford. It’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  “This is going to come out of left field, but I have to know,” he says, turning to me, crossing his arms. “Here’s your chance.”

  “For?”

  “I think, maybe—look, I can’t think of a way to say it without getting all worked up—but fuck me, Ford, why? Why did you do that to Chelsea? Huh? Can you explain it to me? I can’t even begin to tell you how goddamn let down I was. You were my brother. I thought I knew, man, and then … that. I don’t get it. You already had money. You already had fame. Give me a reason, not an excuse. I never gave you a chance before, so tell me now.”

  I sidestep over to a rickety stack of crates, grunting an exhausted old-man groan, as I lower myself onto them. I’m tired. Emotionally wrecked on so many different levels. “Really,” I say, tapping the digital voice recorder on my palm. “Really, truly, and honestly, I’ve been trying to figure that out for over two years now. Part of me got blinded by the moment, the potential to create, what? Television history? Who would’ve remembered it a year later other than our fans? The other part of me—on some delusional level—actually believed that if Chelsea was able to literally face down her demon, then she could take on the world.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t try to fool me or yourself with that horseshit. We didn’t send her in there to come out with a win. She was a goddamn trigger object and you know it. We sent her in there to draw out that right-hander and get some good shots for Halloween.”

  “Nah.” I shake my head. “That was me being ‘TV Ford’ around the producers and the network people. I thought I was doing the right thing. You and I, the crew, the producers, we’d all been through so many investigations together and we’ve all seen how horribly some families can get affected by the paranormal. Whether it’s a pissed-off spirit or an actual demon, everyone knows that lives get ruined all the time. I can’t even describe to you just how conflicted I was, but when I looked at Chelsea and her case, the ego was on one shoulder wearing the devil horns, carrying a pitchfork, and this overwhelming need to help her was on the other, wearing a halo and playing the harp.”

  Mike moves away from the window, steps over, and sits down beside me on the wooden crates. The slats creak under his added weight. “Fine, I get that. Here’s what I don’t get. Answer this, and we can drop it, okay? I’m so fucking tired of hating you for what you did. It’s exhausting carrying around so much mental baggage. I’m not saying that we can bro hug and be done with it, but what I need to know is, why bring her back to that house after they’d managed to break free? That’s the part I don’t get. We could have done the show without her. They were twenty miles away, and she showed every indication of being fine. Happy little kid, back to normal. Why subject her to that house again?”

  Here we go. I’ve been holding onto this for a long time. “Did I ever tell you that I went to see the Hoppers about a week before the investigation?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Wait, was that when you said you were taking Melanie to New York City for the weekend?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why lie about that?”

  “Because, I felt like, if I took you with me to do a pre-pre-interview, you’d squash the whole live show, and that’s kinda why I went. I wanted to gauge the situation with the family and get some feedback before we went in, right? Like you said, Chelsea seemed fine. Seemed like a normal kid, and I thought that there wasn’t any use in bringing her back.”

  “And?”

  “And she was fine, great, wonderful, until she said—I’ll never forget the chills I got—she said, ‘If you go back to our old house, can you tell the dark man to stay out
of my dreams?’ That’s when I knew. That’s when it occurred to me that we had one helluva show on our hands and that she needed to beat it if she ever wanted calm in her life again. I’ve regretted the decision since she fell out of that attic. You don’t need to hate me. I do enough of that to myself.”

  “Jesus,” Mike says, holding out his right arm. “Look at my goosebumps.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “No, not from that.” He snatches an EMF detector off his tool belt, flips it on, and the meter immediately pegs in the red. “Azeraul is back. Get ready.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We used to do that sometimes—have deep, philosophical chats during the down periods. It never made it onto the show because who wants to see two paranormal investigators sitting around, having a heart-to-heart discussion? Nah, save that for the behind-the-scenes menu item whenever the box set of seasonal DVDs comes out. We both know that after a giant explosion of energy, like our attack downstairs, it can take some time for a spirit or a right-hander to recharge itself. Depending on the strength of the entity in question, it could be a couple of hours, or a couple of days.

  Apparently, Azeraul needs about fifteen minutes to recover, which is just insane. We don’t have any EMF pumps running, and that approaching storm has yet to move any closer. Sure, tiny droplets of rain pepper the windows, and the lightning flickers once in a while and illuminates the house, but it’s not close enough for him to recharge his paranormal batteries.

  Mike hops to his feet. He’s thinking the same thing because he checks his watch and says, “That was just a little over fourteen minutes since the attack downstairs. Makes you wonder if that damn thing plugged itself into an outlet.”

  “Plan of attack? Stay put? Or, no, we should go back to that front room where we saw him earlier. Maybe Louisa was living in here, and he’s playing house over there.”

  “Not that I think it matters, because he’ll find us regardless, but I can tell you this much: dude is gonna be super pissed that his play-toy is gone. We could probably do a quick round to check, but it sounded to me like Louisa moved on.”