The Dark Man (6 page)

The phone rings and rings.

Detective Thomas paces. Craghorn hugs himself and rocks, muttering unintelligible words.

Finally, a voice on the other end of the line snarls, “What in the hell do you want?”

“Mike. Holy shit, thanks for picking up.”

“I’m not interested, whatever it is.”

“Wait.
Wait
. Don’t hang up.”

“In fact, I’m not even sure why I answered.”

I don’t believe this, not entirely. He saw my number. He could’ve dismissed it, deleted my inevitable voice mail sight unseen. No, he saw that it was me, and he knows I’d only call for something serious. The fact that he answered means there’s a tiny bit of Mike that may have forgiven me. It’s a start, at least.

“I need help, dude. I’m up against something righteous here. It’s powerful. I could really use you.”

He tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re shitting me, right? Are you still flying around the country, feeding bullshit to whoever will listen to you? Who is it this time? Some backwoods, trailer-park sheriff in the middle of nowhere? That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Consulting with law enforcement? Anybody that wants to cut you a check to hear the great Ford Atticus Ford tell them lies?”

Mike is lashing out, obviously, because he knows that none of what I do now, and what we did for over ten years together, is built on lies. Now, and in the past, I operate on solid evidence, tangible things that can’t be debunked. That was the one thing I would never compromise on when
Graveyard: Classified
aired; we absolutely would
not
allow content or evidence that could easily be debunked by tricks of the light, corrupted ambient noise, or anything of that sort. It had to be inexplicable and legitimate evidence before it would air. We tossed out thousands of hours of video and audio evidence—much to the chagrin of our producers—because we didn’t want to risk our reputations.

When a certain young assistant producer, Carla’s original understudy, suggested we fake evidence to liven up the show, he barely had the sentence out of his mouth before I was on the phone with the CEO of The Paranormal Channel. The guy was gone the next day.

Point is, Mike knows I don’t make this shit up. I tell him, “I’m with a client, yes, here in Virginia Beach.”

“And you didn’t call when you got into town? I’m so disappointed.” The sarcasm drips so thickly, he could douse an entire stack of flapjacks.

I accepted the job with Detective Thomas for several reasons. I was intrigued by the information he presented. I wanted to help with a case that was getting some national attention, because, if I really self-analyze, I’m looking for some of that old, familiar glory and a chance at redemption. Maybe there’ll be another show in my future.

And, honestly, I was drawn to the Hampton Roads area because Mike’s primary residence, one of his many multimillion dollar homes, is just over an hour and a half south, down in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. It sits on about an acre of shoreline, making the tourists just as jealous as they are curious. They filmed a movie there back in the ‘90s, some romantic comedy starring—hell, I can’t remember who, but the guy was about thirty years too old for the young lady.

The day Detective Thomas called, I heard the words, “Virginia Beach,” and immediately thought, “Hey, that’s close to Mike.”

So it goes.

Mike says, “I figured those big city boys would think twice about tarnishing their badges with the likes of—”

“Enough, okay? I get it. You hate me for ruining the show, you hate me for ignoring your advice, and you hate me for sending Chelsea into that attic. That’s okay. That’s fine. I can never apologize enough, and maybe I won’t ever be able to redeem myself in your eyes, but let’s put all that to the side for the moment. Please? I’m here in Portsmouth, and I’ve got a right-hander. Maybe the strongest one I’ve ever seen.”

A “right-hander” is our slang for a Tier One demon that sits at the right hand of Satan. One of his go-to guys.

This grabs Mike’s attention. He says, “Stronger than the Hopper house?”

“Possibly.”

There’s a hint of disbelief, along with a smile forming around his words as he says, “Wouldn’t it be some shit if that thing was following
you
, and now it’s, like, on steroids or something?”

“I … doubt that’s the case.”

The idea is both intriguing and frightening, and for a moment, I actually
do
entertain the thought. I’ve been through things that most people in the paranormal field haven’t. Early on, mistakes were made. Mike and I both screwed up one too many times before we learned how to protect ourselves. We’ve been through minor possessions. Things followed us home. Our wives—Mike’s current, my former—experienced too much, more than they deserved, in places that were supposed to be their private sanctuaries away from what Mike and I did publicly.

Then I remember … back at the old farmhouse, on the outskirts of Portland, the spirit had said Chelsea’s name during the first investigation, and then the unbelievable things I caught when I was there with Ulie the other night.

I decide not to tell Mike about that yet. It’ll cloud his judgment around whatever is going on here with Dave Craghorn, his house, his deceased wife, and Detective Thomas’s investigation. And that’s if I can talk him into helping.

I tell Mike, “Can’t be. The right-hander in this house was here before they called me in. The detective I’m working with, and the homeowner, both of them, have seen a shadow figure in the past. Humanoid, about five feet tall, with glowing red eyes. That’s why I’m here. This poor guy, Craghorn, he’s living here all by himself and, no lie, during the interview earlier, I’m standing there in the living room with him and the detective. Neither of us can see what’s going on, but Craghorn starts trying to get away from this thing—it never did manifest, but it creeps up on the guy and boom, his hair gets yanked hard enough to toss him like a dishtowel. Whole clump of it came right out of his head. Swear to God.”

What Mike hears, out of all that, is this: “Did I hear you right? Did you say Craghorn?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Oh God, Ford, you’re not chasing the ambulances now, are you? That’s the case with the mayor and the dead secretary? Showed up on the news again about six months ago?”

I exhale, feeling the thick, humid air escaping my lungs, then reach up and wipe a sopping layer of sweat off my forehead. “That’s the one.”

“And what angle are you working? Hoping to get the show back with a high profile case?”

“No, but it can’t hurt.” I hate to admit it openly, but there’s no use in trying to hide my submotivations from Mike. He knows me too well.

“Ford, this is ridiculous.”

“What happens in the future has no bearing on what’s happening right now. This poor guy … Mike, he seriously needs our help. He needs some peace. From what I can see, he seems like he could be normal, but he also looks like an emaciated meth head just by trying to exist in his own home. I have no idea how a right-hander ties in with Craghorn’s murdered wife, but I promised the detective I’d do whatever I could to help him with any possible leads.

“If this thing has been here all along, maybe it wasn’t a murder. Maybe she
was
having an affair, the demon got into her head, and she threw herself off a bridge. Detective Thomas told me that her body showed signs of choking, but what if this thing got into her mind? We’ve seen it before—people trying to gouge out their own eyes, trying to choke themselves to death. Remember that one lady who tried to pull out her own tongue with a set of pliers? I need to get back in there. I need to ask it some questions, and I sure as hell would feel a lot better about doing it if you were here. And it doesn’t have to be for me. Help the detective. Help Craghorn. That’s what we used to be all about, right? At least back in the day? Whether they were alive or dead, we are always trying to give somebody
peace
.”

There’s a long spate of silence on the other end. For a moment, I think he might have hung up on me, and I delivered my best speech to dead air.

I’m about to ask if he’s still on the line when I hear a resigned, “Text me the address. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

Mike arrives.

I meet him up the street, about half a block from the Craghorn place. Detective Thomas and Dave hang back, staring at the front door with wary glances, as if they’re waiting on something to step outside and slither down the stairs.

Mike is dressed in his usual attire of khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. He used to be one of those heavier guys who wore shorts no matter what time of year it was, whether we were in the upper reaches of North Dakota in the middle of January, investigating a haunted ranch, or if we were down in Key West hunting Hemingway’s ghost.

Used
to be. I haven’t seen him in two years—he was never much for Facebook or Twitter back when the show was on, choosing to keep his private life to himself—so I’ve missed out on the fact that he seems to have lost close to a hundred pounds. Seriously. I barely recognize the dude.

He looks healthy. Tanned. The sleeves of his T-shirt are straining against his biceps, and now, rather than stretching tight around a spare tire, the soft cotton pulls against his pecs.

“Mike,” I say, unable to contain a smile, “look at you, man. You’re—damn, I bet Toni
loves
this, huh?” I offer my hand to shake.

He ignores my compliment, and my hand, as he gives me one of two pelican cases, these large, black boxes that are like suitcases on steroids. They come with an interior made of forgiving foam for cushions, and over the years, they saved our sensitive equipment more times than Jesus saved souls. “Here, take this,” he says, continuing his purposeful march down the sidewalk, flip-flops slapping sharply against his heels. Glancing back, he scrutinizes me and says, “Seems like we’re going in opposite directions, chief. Put on a pound or twelve, huh? And what’s that shit in your hair? It looks like somebody dipped a porcupine in black lard.”

“Leave the gel out of this. I’m trying something new. Besides, I’m still better looking, no matter how many pounds you dropped.”

“If you’re desperate enough to base your confidence on the word of thirteen-year-old girls, don’t let me stop you.” He’s not smiling. I don’t think he’s joking. “Anyway, I came to work. Somebody else can stroke your ego.”

What I thought was a nice start, with cajoling and good-natured ribbing, might actually be Mike sniping at me, which I should’ve expected. I change the subject, hoping that by talking shop, he might lighten up. “You brought your own equipment?” I try to match his pace.

“Why wouldn’t I? You never came prepared before, and I doubt you’ve changed much.”

Mike’s right, sort of, and I humbly admit it. “Preparation, probably not, but mentally, I’m nowhere near where I was two years ago. I can promise you that. Chelsea changed me.”

“She changed your paycheck.” A car honks down at the end of the block, like it’s an exclamation mark at the end of his sentence.

“Come on now, that’s not fair—”

“Ford, save it. I’m not here for you or to have that discussion again. I’m here to keep you from screwing up somebody else’s life with another right-hander, got it?”

“I—fine.” He knows I’m just as qualified as he is, even if I was unprepared with the technical stuff on occasion, but I was as equally adept at investigating—if not better—at least when it came to tapping into the emotional side of spirits and hauntings. This vitriol, it’s about punishing me, and until he gets it out of his system, there’s no use in trying to fight it or convince him otherwise.

When I was a kid, my grandmother used to tell me this old wives’ tale about how if a snapping turtle latched on to you, it wouldn’t let go until the sky thundered. That’s how Mike is when he gets an idea into his head.

I think that maybe if we can get into the groove of an investigation, just like old times, he might soften a bit, and then I can have a real conversation with him.

We reach the detective and Craghorn, making quick work of the introductions. Mike is all business with the detective and soft and reassuring with the diminutive man who’s been beaten down in his own home. Craghorn barely meets Mike’s eyes, then he resumes the unrelenting study of his shoes.

Mike says to Detective Thomas, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“You mean now, or before?”

I start to explain, and Mike flashes me an annoyed look, holding up his palm. “I asked
him
.”

“Okay. Whatever.” I’d like to keep the peace here, so shutting up seems to be the best approach.

Mike listens intently as Detective Thomas goes through his story again, starting at the beginning with the original investigation as he did with me back at his desk. I’ve heard all of this already, and it’s fresh in my mind, so I tune out their discussion. I should be paying attention. I should be listening for any more clues that I may not have picked up on earlier, but I can’t help it. I’m gone, thinking about the glory days when Mike and I, and the rest of the gang, would arrive at a location and do our initial interviews with our clients.

There was always this excited hum in the air as the crew set up their equipment and we listened to the clients’ stories, took notes, and crossed our fingers that, yeah, we could give them some closure, some answers, but at the same time, we were always hoping for another Holy Grail moment. Another full-bodied apparition caught on camera or a levitating dinner plate, something that couldn’t be explained away by the doubters who accused us of trickery and crafty video editing.

It’s hard to explain what an investigation is really like until you’ve done one, or several hundred, or a thousand.

Often, there’s a lot of waiting, a lot of silence, a lot of waking Mike up at three in the morning when he’s snoozing on a forgotten mattress. A lot of crossing your fingers that something will present itself. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. Just because a spirit doesn’t provide some sort of evidence on the random Tuesday and Wednesday you’re there investigating doesn’t mean the place isn’t haunted; it just means that the spirit world wasn’t highly active that day.