Midnight Whispers

by Curtis Christopher Comer

  Clive Damon was host of the televised show Haunted Isle, which each week investigated supposed hauntings at various castles, inns, and cemeteries all over the U.K. Blake loathed the show and its treatment of the paranormal, even though he watched it faithfully, if only to compare notes for his own show. He hated Haunted Isle first because the show’s producers insisted upon filming in night vision, which, in Blake’s opinion, was merely a cheap way to heighten the suspense and basically force its viewers to be frightened. Second, Clive’s co-stars were prone to hysterics; any sound, real or imagined, was made virtually indecipherable in the recordings, drowned out by their frenzied screams of terror. But, most maddening, Clive Damon was an absolute fraud, who could no more talk to ghosts than he could Martians. Unfortunately, Clive was quite handsome, standing at an impressive six-one with straw-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Even at the age of forty, he had a porcelain complexion. He looked like royalty, in a linen suit and silk tie, and he played his role to the hilt. While Blake hated to admit it, Clive was hot. Not Blake’s type, but still hot.

  Blake had met Clive once, during a stop on a book tour in New York, and though they were technically rivals, the meeting had been cordial. Blake silently prayed the Brit wouldn’t notice him. Otherwise, he would be forced to listen to Clive talk about how wonderful his own show was during the entire flight.

  However, Clive was seated in the same row, just on the other side of the aisle. Blake’s heart sank when he realized his misfortune and he tried, unsuccessfully, to squeeze past his seatmate, a young, blond female in her thirties, before Clive could see him.

  “Danzig?” Clive drawled. “Is that Blake Danzig?”

  His face red, Blake busied himself stowing his bag in the overhead compartment “Hello, Clive,” he said graciously. “What a coincidence.”

  “Isn’t it?” Clive grasped Blake’s hand firmly.

  Blake sat down in his seat and nodded at the blonde, wishing for nothing more than silence for the rest of the flight. However, Clive leaned over and continued talking.

  “What sends you to New Mexico, old boy?” He flashed his dazzling smile.

  “My parents retired there, near Albuquerque. I’m just going down to visit them for a week.”

  “Marvelous, simply marvelous.”

  “How about you? What brings you to America’s Southwest?”

  “I’m meeting with some gentlemen from the New Mexico Ghost Hunters’ Investigations in Albuquerque. I’ve watched their show and was quite impressed.”

  The young woman seated on the aisle looked at Clive. “Would you like to trade seats?”

  Blake was about to politely decline her offer but Clive cut him off.

  “That would be most kind of you,” he said, rising from his seat as he spoke, “very kind, indeed.”

  The blonde turned to Blake as she gathered her bag from under the seat in front of her.

  “I really like your show,” she whispered.

  This kindness—the fact she had recognized him yet not made a huge scene—made Blake soften a bit. He thanked her as she moved across the aisle to Clive’s seat and Clive settled into her recently vacated spot. Blake sighed and couldn’t help but notice the faint, sweet scent of Clive’s cologne, vetiver, perhaps.

  “I saw your show on Mary, Queen of Scots,” Blake said. “It was fascinating.”

  “Thank you. I believe it was one of our best so far.”

  Blake wanted to add that it was a pity that no actual images or recordings were captured and that Clive had presented “a feeling” as the only “proof” of the ghost’s existence, but he held his tongue.

  “I saw the bit your people did on the Winchester Mystery House. Smashing…absolutely smashing!”

  “Thank you. We just taped a segment at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel in LA, which will air on Halloween.”

  “Wonderful. And the Roosevelt—is it quite haunted?”

  “Quite. Marilyn Monroe still inhabits the place.”

  “Fascinating.” Clive leaned close and whispered, conspiratorially, “You must see what we’ve put together for All Hallows Eve.”

  “What is it?”

  Clive looked from side to side to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “The ghost of William Shakespeare at an inn at Stratford upon Avon!”

  “Really?” Blake was unable to resist a slight dig. “And you managed to capture him on camera?”

  “You’ll be surprised,” Clive replied, nonchalantly, though Blake could tell from his expression he had struck a nerve.

  *

  As the passengers prepared to exit the plane at Albuquerque International Sunport, Clive hastily jotted down the name of his hotel in Albuquerque and insisted Blake visit him while he was in town.

  “I’ll try,” Blake lied, “but I’m sure I’ll be very busy with my parents.”

  “Just one drink. Besides, you might want to come with me to meet these ghost-hunter chaps.”

  Blake tucked the piece of paper into the back pocket of his jeans and nodded. Meeting other ghost hunters, while often disappointing, was never a bad idea. Sometimes he learned something.

  “I’ll give you a call,” he said, and they shook hands before parting in the busy terminal. Out on the sidewalk, Blake waited in line for a taxi. The air was warm and dry, and though it was a pleasant change from the weather in chilly San Francisco, sweat quickly appeared under the arms of Blake’s light gray T-shirt. Finally it was his turn in line, and Blake quickly got in the next taxi. He gave the driver, an older Latino man in his late forties, the address of his parents’ house in nearby Pajarito.

  As they sped away from the airport and got on the highway, the driver made small talk about his family and the weather, two safe topics for engaging strangers. They passed through the small suburbs of Atrisco, Los Padillas, Kinney, and Mountain View on the way, magnificent mountains looming in the foreground. Once in Pajarito, an area known locally as the south valley and traditionally farmland, Blake marveled at all the new construction.

  “Always more new subdivisions,” the cab driver lamented. “Soon there will be no land left for agriculture.”

  Before the cab driver even stopped the car, Blake recognized his parents’ house, though he had never been there. The house, which Blake surmised was built sometime in the thirties, was painted in garish pink and purple tones, and hundreds of wind chimes hung from the trees in the front yard. Although they had retired from the circus, apparently his parents would always be circus people deep inside. Blake paid the fare and thanked the driver before getting out. As he approached the house by way of a winding sidewalk, his mother appeared in the doorway. She was in her sixties, and her long brown hair had turned white, but she still had the same youthful glow and sparkling brown eyes.

  She threw open the screen door and hugged him. “Blake, it’s so good to see you.”

  She led him into the house, the interior as eclectic as its exterior, and into the living room. Small crystals hung in every window and, on a table under a window, a tarot spread lay open next to a crystal ball. A black cat, named Dexter, rested on the sill. Beads and bells hung in every doorway. Myriad pillows in every pattern imaginable were scattered across the floor, tossed onto thick Oriental rugs, and books, some very old and valuable, were stacked in a corner of the room. It was as if his parents had robbed a gypsy caravan.

  “How was your flight?” She touched Blake’s cheek. “Are you hungry?”

  “The flight was okay,” Blake said, placing his bag on the floor. “I had the misfortune of sitting next to Clive Damon the entire time, though.”

  Lila Danzig’s face screwed up into a scowl. “That awful British fraud? Your show is so much better than his.”

  “I know, but thank you for saying so.”

  “Your father and I never miss your show,” she said, beaming. “We’re so proud of you.”

  “Where is Dad?” Blake was embarrassed by the flattery.

  “In the backyard.” Lila waved toward the back of the
house. “These days his little vegetable garden is about all he has time for.”

  Just then a young girl in a ruffled white dress skipped through an interior wall, across the living room, then through the wall leading to the side yard before disappearing.

  “Um, Mom, do you know you have the ghost of a little girl here?”

  “Of course.” Lila laughed. “Her name is Jacqueline and she used to live in the house next door. I contacted her during a séance. Things kept disappearing around the house, so we were suspicious. But she’s a harmless little thing.”

  Blake mused at his mother’s nonchalance. Why couldn’t Brian have accepted the existence of spirits so easily? Then again, Blake reminded himself, his family was anything but normal, so why did he assume everyone he met could so easily accept him?

  “You’ll see lots of ghosts while you’re here,” Lila said. “I believe it’s because of the ley lines.”

  Blake nodded, but hesitated to respond. Even though he was far from being a skeptic when it came to the supernatural, the theory of ley lines—supposed invisible, mystical lines that ran under the ground—was something he had no opinion about.

  “Let’s go find your father.” Lila led him into a bright, yellow kitchen and to a screened back door leading out into the garden.

  As she had predicted, Ben Danzig was on his knees fighting with a bamboo stake, meant to support a pea plant. Blake marveled at the mini-oasis stretched out before him. His parents had obviously put a lot of effort into the small space allotted to them. Various plants and wildflowers filled the walled garden. It was crowned by a koi pond, placed against the back wall and fed by a gurgling fountain. Blake almost forgot he was in the desert and wondered how his father had coaxed so many species of flowers and plants to grow in the arid soil. The bright orange koi moved smoothly just beneath the surface of the clear water, their languid movements almost hypnotically soothing.

  His father turned at the approach of visitors and his face lit up.

  “Hi, Dad,” Blake said.

  Just like his mother, his father had aged considerably, and white hair poked out from under his straw hat. The stoop of Ben Danzig’s shoulders contrasted to his otherwise healthy appearance, his still-thin body in excellent shape from his years as a contortionist.

  He struggled to his feet and hugged Blake warmly. “When did you get here?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. How’ve you been, Dad?”

  “Good, good.” Ben gestured to the garden behind him. “If only I could keep the rabbits out of my vegetables!”

  “It’s a nice garden,” Blake said. “You can’t really blame them.”

  “How’s Brian?” Although Ben had no problem with homosexuals, he had always been slightly disappointed with the knowledge he would never have grandchildren. Still, his love for his son was strong and—grandchildren or not—he was determined to be supportive.

  “Brian and I broke up.”

  “What happened?” Lila looked concerned. “I thought things were going well.”

  “It’s a long story.” Blake was in no mood to relive the breakup. “Can we talk about it later?”

  “Of course. Why don’t we all go in and eat a little lunch? I’ve got leftover lasagna I can heat up, and we’ll open a nice bottle of wine.”

  “Sounds excellent.” Blake suddenly realized he was, indeed, hungry.

  Lila placed her arm around his waist and led him back into the house, with Ben following closely behind.

  Chapter Ten

  For the first few days at his parents’ house, Blake felt more relaxed than he had in a long while. He slept late, watched television with his parents, and read in the garden while his father tended to his vegetables. More importantly, he was finally beginning to make progress on his manuscript for the new book, the peace and quiet of his parents’ house apparently the stimulus he needed. For Blake, it was a welcome change to allow himself to be taken care of, and his parents were all too happy to indulge him. Lila cooked more than she had in years, making Blake the most elaborate of meals and causing Ben to wisecrack to his son that he needed to visit more often, if only to inspire Lila to cook.

  Ignoring her husband’s joke, she turned to Blake, her face serious. “You really should come and visit more often,” she said, in a way only a mother could. “Perhaps you could come back in October for the balloon festival.”

  Ben explained to Blake that in October, Albuquerque hosted the International Balloon Fiesta, one of the largest gatherings of hot-air balloons in the world.

  “It’s quite something to see, hundreds and hundreds of hot-air balloons of every color imaginable in the sky.”

  “It sounds great. I’ll have to look at my calendar and see if I’ve got anything going on, but—”

  “No pressure,” Ben said. “Your mother is just trying to say we wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of you.”

  Just then, Blake’s cell phone rang. Grateful for the momentary reprieve from the well-intentioned lecture he felt coming, he looked at the familiar number displayed on the phone’s screen. Melody had decided at the last minute to man the office in Blake’s absence. As a concession, she agreed to take the week off after Blake returned.

  “It’s Melody,” he said. “I should take this in case she needs something.”

  “Tell her we said hello,” Lila called as Blake stepped out into the garden.

  “Hey,” Blake said, once he was outside, “how are things in San Francisco?”

  “Fine. It’s been quiet here. How are the parents?”

  “They’re fine, but I was just getting the ‘you need to come and visit more often’ talk when you called.”

  “Ouch.” Melody laughed. “Nobody likes to be reminded of what a negligent child they’ve been.”

  “Tell me about it. They mean well, but I’m going to try to get out of the house today. Maybe do a little sightseeing.”

  “How’s the manuscript?”

  “It’s coming along nicely. You were right, of course. I was making it more difficult than it really was. But I think the change of scenery has been good for me, and for the book.”

  “That’s great, Blake. Well, I should let you go. I just wanted to check in. When are you coming back to San Francisco?”

  “I’m flying back this weekend, on Saturday. I’ll call you when I get in.”

  He hung up and went back in the house, where his parents were still seated at the small kitchen table.

  “If you guys don’t mind,” he said, “I’m going into town today to do a little looking around.”

  “Of course not, dear,” Lila replied. “Will you be home for dinner?”

  “Yes, Mom.” Blake kissed her on the forehead. “I don’t plan to stay out all night and paint the town red.”

  “Well, you never know who you might meet,” Lila said.

  Blake ignored his mother’s comment and went up to the spare room that he was using. He slipped off his khaki shorts and picked up his jeans, which he had tossed over the back of a nearby chair. As he did so, a piece of paper fell from the back pocket onto the hardwood floor. It was the telephone number to Clive Damon’s hotel. Impulsively, he dialed the number and the front-desk clerk connected him to Clive’s room. The familiar voice answered on the third ring.

  “Blake,” he said cheerfully. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten that I was in town. But here you are, and just in time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m meeting with the paranormal chaps this afternoon. You must accompany me.”

  “Sure.” As long as he had to endure Clive Damon’s company, he was happy he could perhaps make it worthwhile. “Where should I meet you?”

  “Take a taxi to my hotel, and we’ll go there together.”

  Blake agreed and hung up. Downstairs, Lila called a taxi and, ten minutes later, Blake was headed toward Albuquerque’s Old Town.

  Normally, given his unique predilection for seeing ghosts, he would have been apprehensive about goi
ng to a place called Old Town. But, relieved to feel a sense of independence, Blake decided not to worry about it. He arrived at Clive’s hotel before he knew it. As he had suspected, the area was crawling with ghosts. Men and women wandered the streets in turn-of-the-century Western gear, the spirits of Native Americans walked the streets leading horses, and the occasional 1940s-era soldier passed by on the sidewalk. Fortunately Clive was waiting in front of the hotel as they pulled up. He waved and joined Blake in the backseat, then gave the address of their destination to the driver. The driver thought for a moment, then turned to them.

  “I don’t mind driving you there,” he said, “but that’s just a block up, around the next corner.”

  “I don’t mind walking, if you don’t,” Blake said, looking at Clive.

  “It’s just that it’s so hot.” Clive had a pained expression on his face.

  “Suit yourself,” the cabbie replied. “It’s your dime.”

  True to his word, at the end of the block, the driver turned right onto the next street and stopped in front of a two-story building in the middle of the block. Unlike the majority of the adobe-style buildings in Old Town, the building was wooden and looked straight out of an old Western, complete with swinging doors. And although the street was paved, there were hitching posts in front for horses. Blake paid the fare and they emerged from the cab and out onto the sidewalk, where the spirit of a saloon girl passed right through Clive’s body. Not surprisingly, his face registered no knowledge of this having happened, strengthening Blake’s conviction that his peer was nothing more than a charlatan.

  “Shall we?” Clive led the way up onto the wooden porch of the building and through the swinging doors. A large man, who Blake recognized as Hank Duffy, the host and creator of the New Mexico Ghost Hunters’ Investigations show, approached as they entered. He wore a cowboy hat and was built like a linebacker, but he greeted them warmly.