Midnight Whispers

by Curtis Christopher Comer

  Blake shushed her as Clive continued speaking. “And I would like to thank my esteemed colleague, Blake Danzig,” his smile looked almost painful, “who was kind enough to show me a wonderful time during my visit to New Mexico.”

  Melody gave Blake a curious look, and he avoided her eyes.

  “What the hell did that mean?” she asked.

  “We had a couple of drinks. That’s all.” Blake felt sheepish.

  As the show’s theme music cued up and credits began flashing on the screen, Blake rose and walked to the kitchen, empty wineglass in hand.

  Melody followed him. “A couple of drinks? You can’t stand that man.”

  Hope and Joe watched the exchange from their seats, clearly amused.

  “Melody,” Blake sighed, “he was there and I was there. It was a weird coincidence, but I had to be polite.”

  Melody’s expression softened from disgust to something that looked like pity. “You’re too nice,” she said, emptying the remains of a wine bottle into her glass.

  “He suggested that we team up.” Blake walked back to the sofa and sat next to Joe. “But I think the wine was talking. He didn’t say anything specific.”

  Melody sat back down next to Hope and shook her head. “Our show’s so much better than his, I can’t imagine him having the nerve to think you’d be interested. In my opinion, the two bus drivers from T.A.G.S. are way better than his show.”

  “I agree,” Blake said.

  “Do you realize,” Joe looked at his watch, “that we just sat through four hours of television?”

  Blake and Melody shared a guilty look. “It’s serious research for us,” Blake said. “We do it every Tuesday.”

  Hope looked at her own watch. “I should really be getting home. I have an early day tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get us a cab,” Melody said, rising from the sofa.

  “What about you?” Blake asked Joe. “Do you need to get home, or do you want to stay?”

  Joe kissed Blake on the neck and whispered, “I’ll stay if you like. I wouldn’t mind repeating last night.”

  Blake walked Melody and Hope to the door. “Call me tomorrow,” he said as he kissed Melody’s cheek. “It was wonderful to meet you, Hope.”

  The two women boarded the elevator.

  Blake locked the door behind them and went back to the living room, where Joe was gathering wineglasses and plates. “I had a really good time tonight,” Joe said.

  “Me, too.” Blake wrapped his arms around Joe’s muscular torso. “Put those dishes down. The night’s fun is just getting started.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Blake woke before Joe the next morning. Joe groaned lightly as Blake freed his arm from under him and got up. As Blake stood at the sink brushing his teeth, he felt content. Not only had everyone seemed to have gotten along the night before, but the sex with Joe had been amazing. But was he moving too quickly? When Blake walked back into the bedroom, Joe was still sleeping. He entertained crawling back into the bed and waking him, but decided against it. Instead, he pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and began gathering up the neglected dishes from the previous night’s gathering. He had just finished loading the dishwasher when Joe entered, looking adorable with his messy hair. Unfortunately, Joe had put on his underwear and T-shirt.

  “Good morning.” Blake kissed Joe on the lips. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Good morning.” Joe yawned. “No. I haven’t slept at home for two days and I should probably go.”

  Blake nodded. He would be gracious and not show his disappointment. “I don’t blame you.” He kissed Joe again and poured himself a cup. “I had another good time last night.”

  “I did, too. Your friend Melody and her girlfriend were really cool people.”

  “Yeah,” Blake said. “I meant I had a good time after Melody and Hope left.”

  “Oh…that…” Joe winked at him. “It was good, too.”

  Blake gazed at Joe for a moment, slowly licking his lips. He put his cup on the counter, but before he could move, Joe was already running toward the bedroom. When Blake caught up with him they both collapsed, laughing, on the bed.

  And it only took a minute to strip off their underwear.

  “Promise you’ll call as soon as your shift is over,” Blake said, once they were dressing once again.

  “I will.”

  “And promise me you’ll be very careful around that psychotic spirit.”

  “I ain’t afraid of no ghost,” Joe said jokingly.

  “Promise.”

  “I promise. I’ll be very careful.”

  After Joe had gone, Blake was pulling on a pair of jeans when the telephone in the living room rang. He answered on the third ring.

  “It’s Brian.” Blake could hear excitement in Brian’s voice.

  “What’s up?” he asked, buttoning his jeans.

  “You’ll never believe it, but we arrested the former landlord from that abandoned building and the guy actually confessed to the murders.”

  “Seriously?” Their gamble had paid off.

  “The guy seemed proud he had killed so many prostitutes,” Brian said. “He acted like we should have been awarding him a medal or something.”

  “And the writing on the closet wall?”

  “I played it off like you said. Everybody assumes it was a clue the police missed back at the time of the murders. I told the chief you were psychically drawn to the closet, which was how we found it.”

  “Thanks, and congratulations on catching the bad guy.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Blake.”

  They were silent for a moment. “Well, I should go,” Brian said. “I’ll call you if any new cold-case files come across my desk.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can. Bye.”

  Blake hung up and returned to the bedroom, where he pulled a light blue button-down from the closet. As he fastened the shirt, he felt relieved that, thanks to Joe, Brian no longer had a hold over him.

  He slipped on a pair of sneakers and walked out the front door, which he locked behind him. It had been over a week since he had been to his office, and he was determined to put in a real day’s work. At the very least, he would pay attention to the bills.

  He tossed a stack of unopened mail on the floor onto his already cluttered desk. The light on the answering machine was blinking, Blake pushed the “play” button and sat down as the playbacks began. The first message was a sales call, and Blake hit the “skip” button. The next one was from one of the local television stations interested in an interview, and he grabbed a pen and copied down the caller’s name and number, which he would pass along to Donatella.

  The third and last message was from an obviously distressed woman. “My name is Ellen,” she said. “I need for you to come to my house…” Blake thought for a moment she had hung up.

  “Look,” she finally said. “I don’t really believe in this ghost nonsense, but something’s in my house.” The woman left a telephone number and hung up.

  Blake dialed it and said to the woman who answered on the second ring, “I’m returning a call from Ellen. This is Danzig Paranormal Investigations.”

  “This is Ellen. Something’s very wrong with my multimillion-dollar town house on Lombard Street. And while I hesitate to attribute anything to ghosts, I’m absolutely terrified by recent events.”

  “What sort of things are you experiencing? I mean, if you’re not sure the activity is paranormal, why call us?”

  His question was borderline rude, but nonbelievers always pissed him off. Ellen seemed to bristle at his question. Blake wasn’t sure whether the woman was angry or distraught, but her reply was terse.

  “When can you come over? You’ll see what I mean.”

  “I can come over right now, if that works for you.”

  The woman agreed and Blake jotted down the address, grateful for an excuse to not have to open the stack of mail on his desk. He locked the office and began walking nor
th, toward Lombard Street. North Beach was alive with activity and Blake passed restaurants getting ready for the evening’s diners, bars and cafes already filled with tourists, and shoppers scurrying along the sidewalks, darting from one shop to the next in search of souvenirs. He passed tourists, headed to Fisherman’s Wharf and Alcatraz and the beaches.

  Where Mason met Columbus, Blake continued north and looked up at Coit Tower, shining like a torch in the brilliant sunlight. A cable car, heavily laden with tourists, snaked its way toward Fisherman’s Wharf, and Blake turned left onto Lombard Street. Up ahead, he could see the crooked old thoroughfare, packed with the rental cars of out-of-towners, slowly snaking their way to the hill’s base. Finally, right at the foot of the hill, he found the address he had been given.

  The town house, which was set up on the hill and partially obscured by overgrown shrubbery, appeared to be Art Deco in design. Blake pressed a button affixed to a gate and a buzzing sound signaled his permission to enter. He opened the gate, stepped inside, and made his way up twisting stone steps. He stopped at a red door and rapped lightly. After a few minutes, the door opened and Blake found himself standing in front of a woman in her early forties. Only about five-one, with short, blond hair, she wore white slacks, a tan, sleeveless top, and leather sandals. Her lined, leathery face suggested either stress or too many days in the sun or stress, Blake wasn’t sure which, but the lines under her blue eyes hinted at fatigue.

  “Ellen?”

  “Mr. Danzig.” She stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

  Blake walked into a spacious foyer. The room was tastefully decorated, with only a large mahogany table that held a flower arrangement and a single Louis XV gilt chair. A lone painting, a portrait by an eighteenth-century painter, graced the darkly paneled wall. To his left was a living room.

  “Thank you for coming,” Ellen said, directing Blake to the living room.

  “No problem. Now, what seems to be the—”

  A specter walked through the living room. She was dressed as though she had died in the 1970s, and half of her face was horribly burned.

  “You have a ghost.” Blake turned to Ellen. “She just walked through the room.”

  “Look,” Ellen said, clearly agitated, “as I told you on the phone, I don’t really believe in this sort of thing, but I want whatever it is gone.”

  Blake considered his host for a moment, then took a seat on the sofa. “What is it your ghost doing?” He was as polite as possible.

  “It…she opens drawers and cupboards,” Ellen stammered. “She turns on lights.”

  “Has she ever harmed you?”

  “Mr. Danzig,” Ellen’s voice was icy, “I paid a great deal of money for this town house, and I do not intend to share it with a ghost.”

  Blake’s face grew hot, but he remained silent.

  “I’ll pay you anything you want just get that bitch out of my house and send her wherever it is that you send them.”

  “We won’t discuss payment until I know what needs to be done.” He rose and looked in the direction the ghost had gone. “I’ll need to talk to her,” he said, “do you mind?”

  “By all means,” Ellen replied coolly, “as long as you take her with you.”

  Blake ignored Ellen’s last comment and walked into the kitchen. Obviously the poor woman was merely under a great deal of stress. Unfortunately, he didn’t see any sign of the ghost in the kitchen, so he returned to the living room.

  “Well?” Ellen asked.

  “She wasn’t in there. May I look upstairs?”

  Ellen threw her hands up in reply and Blake climbed the carpeted stairs. In a bedroom, he found the spirit rummaging through a drawer. She looked up, surprised.

  “Hello,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.”

  To his amazement, the ghost smiled and sat on the edge of the bed.

  *

  “Well?” Ellen asked, once Blake got back to the living room. He had been upstairs for half an hour, and Ellen seemed about to go crazy.

  “She died here in nineteen sixty-nine,” Blake explained, “in a fire. She doesn’t mean you any harm.”

  “I don’t give a damn. It’s my house and I want her out of here.”

  “It was her house first, and she doesn’t intend to leave it. I did make her promise to stop turning on your lights, however.”

  “Mr. Danzig,” Ellen said, her voice rising, “I simply refuse to share my home with a…with…”

  “A ghost.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you call it. Just get rid of it.”

  She went to a table and, from a drawer, retrieved a pen and a checkbook. “Name your price,” she said, a crazed expression on her face. “I’ll pay you anything to help me.”

  Blake, who had already headed for the door, stopped and faced her. “I can only help these ghosts move on when they’re ready. This one,” he motioned to the stairs, “loves this house and is not ready to move on. I’m sorry.”

  “Mr. Danzig,” Ellen’s eyes were suddenly moist, “I’m terrified. I don’t know if I can live here with a…a ghost.”

  “She won’t harm you. But, please, call me if you need anything else.”

  Blake stepped out onto the walkway and strode back down the hill, leaving Ellen to deal with her ghost. As he headed home, he hoped that the ghost at the Bayside Bar was willing to move on.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blake arrived at the Bayside Bar at one thirty, just in time for last call. Joe, who was serving a beer to one of the last hangers-on, grinned and waved.

  “Hey,” he said, leaning over the bar and kissing Blake on the lips. “You ready for some ghost-busting?”

  “Ready. Anything weird happen tonight?”

  “Nothing besides the usual. A couple of broken glasses, some jukebox trickery, but other than that, nothing.”

  As Blake turned to see clientele departing, he glimpsed the blond spirit standing beside the jukebox and leering at him. As before, he walked to the bathroom and disappeared.

  This time Blake followed.

  “Where are you going?” Joe asked.

  “Our boy just went into the men’s room.”

  He cautiously pushed the door open, aware the ghost was capable of inflicting harm. Instead, the spirit was propped against the wall beside the urinal. He gazed at Blake, a sad hunger lingering in his eyes.

  “Why are you here?” Blake ignored the ghost’s flirtations.

  “Same reason you are.” The spirit came across the room and stopped in front of Blake. “You’re hot,” he said.

  “You’ve been following me. Why?”

  The ghost smiled coyly and returned toward the urinal.

  “You hurt my friend.” Blake said. “That’s not cool.”

  “The lesbian?” The ghost laughed. “What do you need with a lesbian?”

  “She’s a friend who happens to be a lesbian, and nobody hurts my friends.”

  “I’m sorry,” the ghost replied, insincerely. “Don’t you want to fuck me?”

  “I hate to be the one to break it to you,” Blake locked eyes with the ghost, “but you’re dead.”

  The ghost looked stunned but his expression quickly changed to rage. He kicked over the metal garbage can beside the sink and flew through the door. The sounds of shattering glass in the bar brought Blake rushing out of the bathroom. The bar was empty of patrons, and Joe stood behind the bar, his shoulders slumped.

  “Joe?” Blake called. “Did he hurt you?”

  Joe didn’t respond. Blake rounded the bar and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Joe?”

  When Joe still didn’t reply, Blake gently spun him around. “Joe, did the ghost hurt you?”

  Joe slowly lifted his head, but to Blake’s horror, his blue eyes were black. The blackness even covered the whites of his eyes. A twisted, evil grin spread over his face. “Joe’s gone,” the spirit’s voice said.

  “Shit!” Blake pushed his possessed boyfriend back. �
�Get out of him, you asshole.”

  “Now you can make love to me, Blake,” the spirit replied. “Come on…fuck me.”

  He attempted to put his arms around Blake’s neck, but Blake pushed him away. “No. I love Joe, not you.”

  Joe’s face contorted into the most fearsome grimace Blake had ever seen. “Fine. Then Joe can join me!”

  He reached for a kitchen knife, which was lying on the bar next to the sliced fruit containers. Before Blake could comprehend what was happening, the ghost stabbed Joe in the stomach with the sharp blade.

  For the first time since he became possessed, Joe spoke. “Blake,” he gasped. “Help me.”

  Joe fell to the floor, and the ghost left Joe’s body and disappeared through the back wall.

  *

  Thinking quickly despite feeling he was underwater, Blake grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911.

  “Please,” he said, his heart pounding, “my boyfriend has been stabbed. He needs an ambulance. We’re at the Bayside Bar. Hurry!”

  “Who stabbed him?” the dispatcher asked.

  “It…it was an attempted robbery.”

  “Is the attacker still there?”

  “No.” Blake looked down at poor Joe, a pool of blood growing under him. “Please hurry!”

  Blake ended the call and dialed Brian’s cell phone. “Brian,” he said, grateful that he had actually answered. “I need you. I’m at the Bayside Bar, and a friend of mine has been stabbed.”

  “Call the police,” Brian said. “I’ll be right there, okay?”

  Dazed, Blake called 911 again. He had just finished the call when Brian walked in. “What happened?”

  “A ghost stabbed him.” Blake suddenly felt dizzy. This had just proved Brian’s point, right? Date Blake Danzig and you deal with all kinds of crazy, paranormal shit. Maybe even die.

  Brian seemed to sense Blake’s discomfort. “Blake,” he said, touching Blake’s shoulder tenderly, “this isn’t your fault. I know that.”

  Blake nodded, his throat constricting and making it impossible to speak.

  “Just get this bastard,” Brian said, his voice low. “That’s what you do, right?”