The Dark Man (3 page)

“I’ll never forget it,” he answers with that somber tone I’ve come to recognize so well.

We’re standing in front of the Craghorn residence. It’s too damn hot in the Hampton Roads area this time of year, and I can feel the sweat beading up in places where I don’t enjoy being swampy. It’s part of the gig, though, and I agreed to let Detective Thomas explain himself here rather than back at the station. He said it would make more sense if Dave Craghorn, husband of the deceased, was there to back him up.

Detective Thomas tucks his hands into his pockets and looks up at the top floor of the three-story home. We’re over in Portsmouth, a small city adjacent to Virginia Beach, where some of the residences are centuries old, built back when the masons didn’t mind stacking stones thirty or forty feet in the air on all sides. These things were built to last.

The detective admires it, head tilted, back angled as we look up toward the hand-carved molding along the eaves. He says, “Beautiful place, ain’t it?”

I lie to him and say yeah, it’s nice, while I try to see it through his eyes. I get what he’s saying; the place has a strong presence. It’s bulky and broad-shouldered, reminds me of a middle linebacker, but I don’t really see the
beauty
in it, per se. To me, it’s a giant collection of rocks and cement that’s covered in moss with vines climbing up the sides. Maybe it’s because, over the years, too many houses have become enemies to me, burdened with evil, demonic spirits that torture families and drive them from the place where they wanted to live out their dreams. Instead, they suffer through nightmares.

So, yeah. Houses? I don’t really trust them, not until I’ve had a chance to get to know one. Mine back in Portland, high up on the hill overlooking the Willamette River, has had so many incantations, prayers, and positive vibes bestowed upon it that you might as well say it’s guarded by a soothing, white light that envelops the whole thing. That’s my sanctuary, the place where I retreat after I’ve battled with the darkness.

Not every house that’s haunted is black on the inside, just like not every spirit is a demonic, evil entity. Sometimes it’s somebody’s sweet old grandma who never got a chance to say goodbye before she left this world, and once I help her with that, the fog lifts.

Point is, until I know what I’m dealing with, I approach each place—each home, each train station, each barn, whatever—with full shields, and every now and then, if I’ve come out unscathed, I’ll take a moment to appreciate the architecture, but not until I know I’m going home without any unwanted guests tagging along.

The detective clears his throat, and I can hear a bit of emotion in there, like he’s trying to cough it up and maybe swallow it, down where the rest of his feelings stay buried.

I ask, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, then looks past me down the sidewalk. “There’s Craghorn. I won’t go in there without him, and to be honest, I don’t know how he lives here by himself.”

Pardon the expression, but I’m
dying
to know what happened here. After all these years and literally a thousand investigations, I still don’t feel like I’ve seen everything there is to see, at least when it comes to the paranormal world.

I still get confused, spooked, scared, excited, and thrilled when something—notice I said some
thing
—reaches out from the other side. You’d think I’d be desensitized by now, but the truth is, this shit will never get old for me.

There’s the job, then there’s the wonder.

Detective Thomas doesn’t smile when he lifts a hand, waves to Dave Craghorn and says, “Good to see you again, Dave. Thanks for doing this.”

Dave offers a morose smile as fake as the day is long, and we shake hands. He’s somewhere in his mid-forties, a little older than me, with long salt-and-pepper hair and a matching goatee that extends down past his Adam’s apple. His tan jacket hangs loosely on his shoulders, like it might have fit one day, but now it’s nothing more than a piece of clothing draped over shoulders as thin as a wire hanger. Which, of course, adds another layer to his odd vibe. It’s gotta be well over ninety degrees out here and 100 percent humidity. He has to be swimming in that thing.

He says, “Nice of you to come, Mr. Ford. Big fan of your old show.” It’s a flat, emotionless voice, no heft to it at all, like he’s a prisoner who’s afraid to speak up in front of his captors.

“Happy to help,” I respond, studying him. Let me just say this: I take my B-list fame with a grain of salt. I’ve been to the big parties and hobnobbed with the elites of entertainment, but I’ve never been one to abuse the privileges of celebrity. I’m lucky and I know it. I don’t throw my soup in waiters’ faces, I don’t whine and complain when I’m not given the best table, nor when I actually have to
wait
for a table just like everyone else. That said, I can always tell when someone has no idea who I am, or has never seen an episode of
Graveyard: Classified
, or more than likely, just doesn’t give a shit. In fact, I think I appreciate the latter the most. It allows me to investigate a site on level grounds.

Dave lifts a shaking finger, pointing up the tall set of stairs as he mumbles, “It’s, um, it’s right up there.”

“Here we go.” Detective Thomas groans, pauses in midstep, and pushes bravely forth.

Not really, but I have to give the guy credit. Whatever happened in there spooked him all to hell, and he’s going anyway. I follow him up, taking the steps in twos, with Dave Craghorn following us both. I glance over my shoulder and he’s climbing the steps as if each foot is encased in cement—big, heavy blocks that he struggles with as he pushes himself onward, one after the other. I can almost hear the thick clunk with each step. He’s dreading this just as much as Detective Thomas is, and I feel for him. Poor guy comes home to this every single day.

The front door is thick wood, painted a shade of cloudy gray that seems to fit perfectly with the gloom and doom motif of this place. Craghorn’s key makes a deep, metallic thunk, reminding me of a jailer in an ancient castle dungeon, and I immediately feel the cold of the interior racing out as the door swings inward.

Detective Thomas shivers.

Now I know why Craghorn is wearing the jacket. He says, “It’s always like this now. The cold never leaves my bones. It follows me.”

I don’t shiver from the temperature. I do it because of the defeat in his voice.

He adds, “Come on in. Might want to say a little prayer first, if you’re the religious sort.”

Out of habit, my fingers go up to the crucifix dangling at my chest. It feels warmer than usual against my skin. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign.

Craghorn stares down the hallway, and Detective Thomas follows with a resigned grunt. “To serve and protect,” he says.

As soon as I step across the threshold, I feel it. Not just the cold, but what’s buried within it. Remorse. Loss. Regret.

And so much anger.

I pause because it’s been a while since I’ve felt such a …
presence
right away. Not since the Alexander house six months ago, the one up in Lansing, Michigan, with the pissed-off spirit of an ex-con who was haunting a young single mother and her three children. She’d sent me a pleading e-mail, and once in a while, I’ll take on a special case pro bono, because when it comes to kids, I simply can’t let that go. It’s why I’m still battling with what happened to Chelsea Hopper.

This, whatever it is, actually feels stronger than the ghost of Delmar Jackson, and that’s saying a lot. It took me, three Catholic priests, and enough holy water to fill a bathtub to get him gone.

My goosebumps get goosebumps. No matter how many times I’ve done this, the chill of evil prickles my skin. It’s not the fiery, burning, licking flames of hell like the Bible and your Sunday pastor would have you believe.

Evil is the darkness. It’s the cold.

It’s the absence of love and light.

“Ford,” says Detective Thomas, leaning back into the hallway, “you coming?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just getting a feel for the house.”

“And?”

“You were right. This place is
dark
.”

Craghorn sits on a sofa that looks like it might have been purchased at a yard sale in 1973. In fact, I’m fairly certain that my parents had this exact same couch with the exact same pattern in our living room back when Nixon was in office. Instinctively, I look at the far left cushion to see if the hot chocolate stain is there. My sister, Amy, spooked me with a Halloween mask when I was nine. The contents of the steaming mug went all over me, her, and the couch, and left behind a brown memory that refused to go away no matter how much we scrubbed.

It’s not there, by the way, but surveying the couch does give me a chance to check out Craghorn some more while we wait on Detective Thomas to emerge from the bathroom. I can’t tell if Craghorn is a small man in general, or if he’s
making
himself smaller, like he’s trying to hide from something. Or it could be the fact that the springs and cushions are so worn out on his couch that the damn thing is trying to swallow him whole.

I decide on a combination of all three and lean in with my elbows on my knees, asking him, “Lots of nice things here. You decorate the place yourself?” It’s such a pointless, baseline question that I’m not even sure why I asked it. I think maybe I’m simply trying to fill up the sucking void in here that’s taking every ounce of energy out of this room. I hear the toilet flush down the hallway and say a silent thanks. As good as I can be with people at times—you have to be in this line of work—Craghorn seems more comfortable around Detective Thomas. He hasn’t said a word since the detective excused himself.

Craghorn flits a hand around the room and blandly answers, “Most of it belonged to my wife. She won’t let me get rid of anything.”

Present tense.
Won’t let me
. It’s a clear hint regarding his feelings about the situation, though I can’t yet tell if he’s hanging on to the past or if he means her spirit is here and dictating what does and does not go out with the garbage.

He adds, “And, really, it’s all part of the scenery now. I barely notice.”

Detective Thomas walks back into the living room, giving one final swipe across his mouth. I’m sure I heard retching while he was in there, or what it sounds like when someone is holding it back. His skin has turned a pasty white, and there’s no life in his eyes.

“What?” he snaps when he catches me looking at him.

“Nothing. You just … you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I fake a laugh. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried that joke just to lighten the mood before an investigation. I can count on one hand how many times it’s actually worked over the past decade, yet it doesn’t stop me from trying.

Thankfully, Craghorn snickers, and now I can graduate to counting on two hands.

I continue, trying to sound upbeat between the fearful shaking of Detective Thomas and the morose gloom of Dave Craghorn. What they’re projecting doubles the effect of the blackness billowing into this room. “Normally, this is the part where I’d start out with a line of questioning to sorta gather up the history about what’s going on with your property. Everybody has a story, right? Even those who have moved on. But since you, Mr. Craghorn, didn’t necessarily ask me for help, and since Detective Thomas did, I’m going to let him paint the picture, and we’ll go from there, okay?”

Craghorn nods without making eye contact. He almost reminds me of a witness for the prosecution who is too afraid to say yes, too afraid to point out the bad man in the room. Instead, he’s focused on his fingernails and what’s underneath them, and makes no further attempt at communication. His shallow breathing and a knee that bounces like chattering teeth on a cold day are enough to reveal his anxiety.

Detective Thomas coughs into his fist and then cups his hands. He blows into them, trying to warm them up and then rubs his palms together. He huffs a fat breath of air, like he’s expecting it to plume. It doesn’t, and he almost seems perplexed.

Cold spots are another sign of a potential spiritual presence. Normally, it’s nothing more than a chilly area in the center of a warm room, maybe five, ten, fifteen degrees cooler than the ambient temperature. It’s where a spirit is absorbing energy, hoping to compile enough to communicate with the living.

Craghorn’s entire house feels like a meat locker.

The detective’s next words drop the temperature even further.

CHELSEA HOPPER

TWO YEARS AGO

A Very Special Live Halloween Episode

“
Ford
,” said Mike Long, my fellow lead investigator, “you absolutely can
not
use that little girl as a trigger object. How many times do I have to tell you? And fuck me, man, here we are! Again! It’s too dangerous, like, off-the-charts dangerous. You and I both know how sensitive children are to these things. You
know
this. And at five years old? She’s immaculate on the inside. There are no footprints in the mud of her mind.” He said this last bit with force, tapping the side of his head as he accentuated each syllable.