In the Dead of Night

by Aiden James

  “Well, there are some anomalies in a few of your pictures I had developed this morning, Justin,” Tom advised. “Along with a few orbs from Jimmy’s digital memory card.”

  He moved over to a desk in the room’s corner, where a pack of photographs sat. He brought them over to Fiona, who opened the pack while the rest of us gathered around her.

  “There could be evidence, at least in these pictures,” she said, pointing out the white, yellow, and red streaks that showed up in several of Justin’s pics. “But the orbs…I’m not sure about them since the house overlooks the river. They could be caused by moisture.”

  “What about this one?” asked Tony, pointing to an enormous orb, solid in its consistency, with yellow and red highlights along its edges.

  “I’m still not sure,” she confessed. “It could represent something, but I’d hesitate to claim it’s a spirit’s essence. Remember, gang, everything we review has to pass the most rigorous skepticism—“

  “And orbs can be caused by anything that refracts light,” I added, inadvertently interrupting her. Not a good habit of mine, and a sure invitation for an admonishment in private. “Water, dust, flying insects—you name it—can be a problem.”

  I’m sure my face turned bright red, because I felt fiery warmth spread across my cheeks. All three women, and Ali-G, were looking at me in a way that let me know my transgression hadn’t gone unnoticed. At least by them. Tom and Tony, both boorish in nature, seemed oblivious.

  Great. Just lump me in with the two Neanderthals in the group. Nothing like a slip of the tongue to hasten de-evolution. I resolved right then to do a better job of keeping my mouth shut until safe to open it again. At least in the presence of said company.

  “We could review the images from Jimmy’s photographs, but I’m afraid they are less conclusive than what Justin captured,” said Tom. “Tony’s results proved inconclusive as well.”

  “So, I guess that’s it for the preliminary run-through,” concluded Fiona, placing Justin’s photographs back inside the pack and returning it to Tom. “At least I’ll have something to offer Charlain when we chat this weekend.”

  She complimented Tom again about his nice set up, and turned to leave the studio. But, so soon? Maybe she and the girls really did have some clubbing plans. As for me, I needed to leave in the next few minutes, as eight-thirty rapidly approached.

  “Wait a second,” said Tony, whirling around in his chair. “What about the shadow person we caught just before we left last night?”

  “Yes, I almost forgot!” Tom’s excitement was revived. I’m sure he’d kick himself later for the near-oversight. “It should only take a moment to get there, since we caught the figure using the infrared camera. It’s near the end of the video clip currently queued up.”

  He was right. It took less than a minute, and since no one had previously viewed this video segment on Tom’s big screen, our collective amazement proved to be the most profound.

  “The figure looks so real…guys, I don’t think that’s a shadow person,” observed Jackie, squinting as if that’d help her see it more clearly.

  “I have to agree,” said Fiona, her suspicion evident in her tone. “Classic phantoms of this sort are featureless, completely. I can see the silver clip on the belt…and it looks like the figure is wearing a complete mask, like what I told Jimmy about earlier today.”

  They all looked at her and then me. She held me in her gaze as well, probably wondering how much detail I left out from last night’s investigation. Perhaps some of her irritation with me was because this information might’ve helped her define the images she psychically picked up from Dickey’s office earlier that day.

  “It does look like some ninja dude,” I observed, feeling the growing weight of everyone’s stares. “Or—”

  “It could be a female,” offered Angie, drawing some of the attention away from me, thank God. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “Look at the figure...svelte in build. Granted, the person’s crouched in the bushes, and maybe it’s other shadows across the chest, but….”

  “She’s got boobs,” said Jackie, picking up where Angie left off.

  “I’m not so sure,” Fiona advised, shaking her head. “If that’s an actual phantom and not physically tangible, then maybe it is female. But if it is somebody among the living…someone who followed you guys to the investigation, then I’m still convinced a male is involved here. Whoever killed my friends—our friends, since y’all have gotten to know them too—is a male. A bitterly angry guy.”

  Just as she finished talking, a loud noise resounded from the house. At least that’s where I thought it came from, since it sounded like something heavy crashed onto the kitchen floor. Hearing anything outside the studio would’ve been impossible, given the main room’s thick insulation, if Tom hadn’t left the main door open ajar.

  The color drained from his face, and I wasn’t sure he’d escape a real heart attack this time. Nor could I believe how quickly he clambered out of his chair and raced back to the house, with the rest of us running behind him

  “No-o-o!!”

  By the time we caught up with him, Tom was on his hands and knees cleaning up the broken plates and glasses thrown in a pile on the floor. Open flour and sugar sacks lay nearby, and a full drawer of silverware had been tossed upside down on top. Poking out of the mess beneath the drawer were the handles of several large cooking pots and pans from the kitchen island nearby.

  “Who in the hell did this?”

  Even before I voiced the question, I took a precautionary gaze around the kitchen, peering into the living room and down the hall to the bedrooms. Hard to say without a full search, but it didn’t feel like anyone else was there. Just a deeper coolness than when we loaded the dishwasher earlier, and its heat should’ve warmed the air around us. Not so.

  “Tom, I sense anger and protectiveness near us…in here,” said Fiona, who had joined him on the floor in his efforts to pick up the bigger porcelain and glass shards from the pile.

  Meanwhile, Justin and Angie headed down the hall, while Tony moved through the dining room on his way to the living room. Jackie went to look outside. That left me to find a broom and dustpan, which Tom told me would be in the pantry.

  “You haven’t told us everything about the house, or what attracted you to buy this one over the others you considered in Green Hills,” continued Fiona, to which he jerked his head around to face her. “I’ve felt this for awhile, but out of respect for your privacy I’ve never mentioned it.”

  “How’d you know?” he asked, his tone subdued, like a dirty little secret had just been revealed. For a moment he seemed to forget about the mess around him.

  Now I was confused. And no doubt the others would be, too, in a moment.

  “Whoever did this must’ve split, man!” Justin announced, once he and Angie returned to the kitchen. She shrugged her shoulders again, her confirmation the place was empty.

  “It’s getting too dark to know for sure, but we didn’t see anyone outside,” added Jackie, as she and Tony returned to the kitchen right after the others. “You don’t think this has anything to do with what happened last night and this morning, do you?”

  She looked at Fiona, who continued to clean the floor while everyone else awaited her response.

  “No…I don’t,” she said, standing up and carrying a handful of glass shards to the open trash container I’d brought over to the pile a moment ago. She dropped the pieces and brushed her hands over the container to rid them of flour and sugar grains, and no doubt a few small glass chips. “Tom doesn’t believe that either.”

  Now we all looked at him, eyebrows raised in puzzlement for most of us.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “She’s mostly right….but I think it could still be related to what’s going on elsewhere, or at least related to what we described tonight.”

  “What in the hell are you both talking about?”

  That was me, as I just looked down at my watch. 8:40 p.
m.

  “Nathaniel. Nathaniel Smith is still here,” Tom explained. “I know it sounds nuts, though it shouldn’t since this is what we look for in other places….the haunted locales we visit. The guy never left after his death. Yes, I told you the truth about the grave stone out back, but the reason I got this house for twenty grand less than the asking price was on account of the ‘resident ghost’.”

  “So you knew this place was haunted?” asked Justin, moving into his Wayan brother voice pitch. “And you bought it anyway?? Well at least we’ll know what you’re up to if you decide to skip an investigation….’Gotta play with my kitchen ghostie, don’t you know!’”

  Ah, another mirthful moment to ease tension. But Tom and Fiona were both dead serious, and eyed him like he’d just called on Satan to make it rain. Then something else happened. The cupboard next to Justin began to tremble, like a small tremor moving through the foundation from deep below the earth’s crust. Only, this quake remained inside the damned cupboard.

  “What the…,” Justin squeaked. The previous impish look in his eyes was vanquished by real fear.

  “Well you pissed him off!” seethed Tom, moving over to where Justin stood, while Angie looked on wearing another smirk—she’s such a smartass. He shooed them both away to the other side of the kitchen. The tremor ceased. “Nathaniel was a cook in the army, until he retired in 1932. After that, he continued his trade until he contracted lung cancer, in 1943. Then he died here in the back bedroom in 1945.”

  “The spirit here is very protective of you, am I right about that?” asked Fiona. “I wish to apologize for all of us if we made him upset by what we were talking about.”

  She waited before going on, shooting a serious look to both Justin and Angie. As weird as it sounds, the oppression in the air around us began to lift.

  “You’re right,” said Tom. “Nathaniel doesn’t care much for my younger brother, Albert, nor his wife, Beth. Al and I have never really been close, but since we’re both getting older, we’ve been trying to work on our relationship. But things are still tense between us.... When I moved in here and enlisted their help, we had something similar to this happen in the middle of the night while Al and Beth were sleeping in the guest room. It was just pots and pans that night, and the drawer turned upside down. Nathaniel must really be ticked off this time.”

  “I guess he doesn’t care much for a black dude, either, huh?”

  Justin said this jokingly, but given the way people used to think, he might’ve defined the source for the spirit’s hostility.

  “Nathaniel was an African-American, too,” said Tom, moving back to the pile to finish cleaning up. “But respect for one’s elders remains much the same as it was back when he walked among the living.”

  “Sounds like he’s still walking among the living, if you ask me,” Justin mumbled, out of direct earshot of Tom. Not so sure about Nathaniel’s.

  Angie and Jackie began picking up the pots, pans, and utensils. I stood ready with the broom and dustpan. Already thinking of an excuse to tell the band, there was no way in hell I’d make it to rehearsal on time. It was damn near nine o’clock.

  “I think Nathaniel feels threatened for what might happen to you, Tom,” said Fiona, finally, after wandering around the kitchen and acting as if she were listening intently to a conversation that was undetectable to the rest of us. She took the dustpan and motioned for me to help her clean up the rest of the debris on the floor. “To be honest, I feel the same thing….threatened. For all of us here tonight.”

  A large crystal bowl sitting atop the refrigerator began to vibrate, wobbling as if it might fall off. It gave my wife quite a start, since she stood in front of the fridge. When the bowl stopped vibrating, a soft ringing sound emanated from it that lasted more than a minute before it gradually died away.

  Creepy, man…very creepy.

  “Who’s with me on taking a little trip?” she asked.

  Everyone eagerly voted for it, once they learned she intended to revisit Johnny’s place that night. Despite being taped off by the police, Fiona has a knack for finding her way around such deterrents. Who knows? Maybe another message will come through from beyond the veil that separates the living from the dead, this time for her specifically.

  A message from Candi? If so, hopefully something to help bring a quick end to the craziness that’d started last night. Too bad I couldn’t be there. I had four ticked off music buddies to worry about.

  It’s the last thing I thought about before peeling out of Tom’s carport on the way to east Nashville.

  Chapter Eight

  East Nashville is a scary place, man. Lots of crime, seedy motels, and run-down neighborhoods. However, like any other metropolitan area, it has its good streets and a few upscale neighborhoods that border the less desirable locations.

  It might seem logical that our band would keep its rehearsal hangout in one of the nicer venues, maybe in the better sections of Madison and not nearby Inglewood. Especially with all of the expensive equipment involved…it would be risky otherwise.

  Well, the location is in Madison. But no, the building where my heavy metal band, Quagmire, rehearses is an old warehouse just off Gallatin Road. Anyone local would cringe a little, since the liabilities listed above surround us in abundance.

  So, why do we do it here? There are lots of good reasons, actually. Like the fact we can play as frigging loud and long as we like. And though the building looks really run down from outside, it’s pretty nice inside. The ac and heat work well, and the owners have let us build a soundstage and lay down some plush carpeting from where one of my band mates works in the daytime. Not to mention the place is really secure, and would take the skills of a Navy Seal or some other special operative to break in.

  “You’re lucky we heard the phone, Jimmy, or we would’ve gone ahead without your late ass!”

  Ricky Chamberlain, or better known as ‘RC’ in our little music world, was the first one to greet me. Co-founder of the band with me six years ago, he hails from Atlanta. Why in the hell he chose Nashville over L.A., Seattle, Phoenix, or even the Big Apple has always been a mystery to me. But I’m damned grateful he and I crossed paths.

  Yeah, he’s a little pissed with me, but he’ll get over it. He always does, and it’s not like he’s a little late now and then. 9:13 p.m., which ain’t bad considering I didn’t get out of south Nashville until almost nine o’clock. At least I called ahead to let em’ know.

  “Is everybody here?” I asked, grabbing my bass out of the back seat before running after Ricky as he disappeared into the building.

  “Yes.”

  I heard the echo of his voice and footsteps moving down the darkened corridor to our room, picturing his shoulder length wavy brown hair bouncing as his long strides carried him forward. Gangly in stature, he possesses the classic rocker look, with chiseled Jim Morrison facial features. I’m not the only one who thinks he resembles the legendary Door’s front man, and I must say he takes full advantage of his looks and innate charm, charisma, or whatever the hell it is that keeps a steady stream of females coming and going in his life. It’s the only area where we’re polar opposites, since I’ve always been a monogamous kind of guy.

  There are other differences, too, but very slight, since we’ve blended a bit over the years. I guess some folks would call that mutual respect, as with our favorite sports teams and such. Like I’ve acquired a taste for the Falcons and he keeps tabs on the Broncos. Even my interest in the paranormal has gradually become interesting to him as well. Now if I could just get the other dudes to buy in to ghostly investigations…. It’s my assumption that they all respect Fiona’s talent as a gifted psychic, since she’s done at least one reading for each member of the band.

  If they’re telling me the truth, and I have little reason to doubt them on this, she’s been quite accurate. Hell, everyone except our drummer has had her read for them a few times, and they’ve referred her to family members and friends, which speaks to s
ome customer satisfaction. My daytime employer should be so lucky.

  Anyway, by the time I reached our rehearsal room, Ricky had already claimed his Strat and climbed onto the stage. Everyone else gathered their instruments, and Max Racine, our lead guitarist, pointed meanly for me to take my place next to our drummer, David Harris, who prefers the name “Mongo” .

  I removed my five-string fretless from its case and leaped up on stage to join everyone else, hoping I’m as graceful at our upcoming gig, set for the weekend after next. A party affair, but one of the larger garden varieties, we’d been given the ‘heads-up’ from our manager, Michael Dickinson, that a few A&R folks (label people for those unfamiliar) would be in attendance. At a frigging party, no less. But that can happen when the invitees have deep connections via the industry here in Music City to their kin in New York and L.A. Or so I’m told.

  “We’re gonna start with ‘Primetime’ and move on to ‘Natural Religion’, ‘Mary’s Candy’, and ‘Little Miss Walker’,” Max advised, his blonde Mohawk shimmering in a strange mix of blue-green hues from a pair of colored spotlights just above his head. A slim cigar balanced precariously between his thin lips, he regarded me like I’d just grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead. Perpetual contempt for the married guy in the band.

  He’s always reminded me of what Rod Stewart would’ve looked like if he were part of Billy Idol’s band. The most surly and eccentric rocker among us.

  “Any particular reason we’re moving through this arrangement of our tunes?”

  I admit to a little smugness here, since I co-wrote three of the songs, and the other was completely written by me a few years back. Actually, all of Quagmire’s tunes are creations of Ricky and me, with a few newer ones that Max has contributed to. Mongo prefers credit on arrangements, since actual songwriting is not his forte.

  Mongo’s the one guy that Michael wasn’t keen on at first, in terms of image. Balding with non-descript eyewear and plain facial features, he sort of resembles a thumb with a bandana. Mongo could blend easily into any crowd, never to be noticed or missed. But the guy can’t be topped as far as laying a syncopated beat and creating a powerful groove. Really, his work has inspired us all to get better. So, in effect it’s like this: no Mongo equals a lesser product and no promising record deals.