The White Night (10 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mike Long

“I’m going to
change,” Dakota tells me as we tentatively step across the threshold and into
the breezeway. “Funny how I don’t mind running in this out in public. Now I
just feel…” She shakes her hands like she can’t find the right word.

“Exposed?”

“Exactly,
especially with a ghost around.”

I understand, and
somehow I manage to hide my disappointment.

If I haven’t fully
acknowledged it yet, this is the part where I finally grasp that it has been an
excruciatingly
long time since an attractive woman was nice to me. It’s
emotional as much as it’s physical. Sure, fans of the show will say hi while
I’m in line to buy a soda somewhere, but that’s different. This is up close.
Personal niceness.

Dakota heads for
the stairs and stops three steps up. She looks back at me and asks, “Coming?”

“Right behind
you.”

I won’t lie—in the
porno movie in my head, the head that should be focusing on the impending ghost
hunt instead—this is the way it would go down. The mustachioed,
giant-sideburn-having investigator gets invited in, magic happens, and
hallelujah, Mikey Sweetheart is singing like a choir of angels.

Bow-chicka-bow-bow.

Just as quickly as
the imagery flashes through my mind, I mentally flick myself in the testicles,
which works, somewhat.

Horny old man.
Good grief, dude. She’s scared. She needs you.

I have a job to do
here, for someone I admire, who is terrified of the black, floating, unholy
mass in her home, and here I am letting my imagination turn into an X-rated
funhouse.

Wow. I’m totally
acting like Ford would. Two days with him in Hampton Roads and Captain Penis is
saluting the first woman that smiles at me.

Ghosts. Ghosts.
Ghosts.

Grandma on the
toilet.

Roadkill.

The smell of spoiled
ham.

Yuck.

Okay, that did it.

Back to business.

We breach the
landing, and she stops at the second set of stairs leading to the master
bedroom one floor up. She pauses, looks over her shoulder at me. I can tell
she’s worried about being alone.

“Need me to come
up with you?” I ask. Dakota raises an eyebrow and the opposite corner of her
mouth.
Is she flirting with me?
And in the amount of time it takes me to
realize how stupid that idea is, I get flooded with warm mortification. “Oh,
shit, no—uh, I mean—like wait outside the door. You know, for the ghost and
stuff.” Hand goes to forehead and eyes go to the ground, embarrassed.

“Hah, relax. I’m
messing with you. Just gonna throw on some shorts and a t-shirt. Hopefully I
don’t get possessed in the two minutes that’ll take. Wish me luck.”

I tell Dakota not
to worry and jokingly suggest that her fearless protector will be right down
here, adding that I’ll do some recon work while she gets dressed.

She steps back
over to me. “What kind of recon?”

“Eh, just boring
stuff. Baseline EMF reads, things like that.”

“I’d like to try
that. Will you wait on me?”

“I… sure,” I
reply, sounding unsure.

“I’m serious,” she
says. “After watching you and Ford, I always wanted to see it firsthand.”

“But that’s the
boring part. Just staring at numbers.”

“No, it’s
fascinating to me, at least. It’s like tracing the outline before you color in
the picture, right?”

“I never thought
about it that way. Okay, Picasso, I’ll be here.”

She holds up a
wait-a-sec finger. “Two minutes. Have a look around, but there’s not much to
see.”

And then she’s
gone, climbing the stairs to the master bedroom—that box on top of a box on top
of a box. I hear her footsteps overhead, and it reminds me of the thousand or
so investigations that I did with Ford. I’ve lost count of how many times we
heard footsteps on the floors above us, knowing full well that we were the only
two living human beings present. I still get chills thinking about it.

When Ford talked
me into doing the show, on that ancient night when we investigated that asylum
back in—what, 2003?—all I ever wanted was to impress Toni, the former college
cheerleader that I had a massive crush on, and say to her, “Hey, look, I’m
gonna be on television!”

I figured we might
have a good run at a single season; the producers would soon be on to our
shenanigans and the fact that we had no clue what we were doing. By then, Toni
would be so madly in love with me and so thoroughly impressed that her future
hubby was on television that we’d stroll happily into the sunset.

A second season
came around, and a third. We got married in the middle of filming the fourth
season. The Paranormal Channel put everything they could behind
Graveyard,
and the show scored well right away. Then we hit some magical tipping point
before the start of the fifth season, and after that, all aboard the gravy
train.

Like I’ve told
Ford a hundred thousand times, he was the face, the talent, and the reason we
did so well in the first place.

I started calling
him the ‘Almighty’ Ford Atticus Ford way back when, and it’s always been the
truth. His onscreen presence turned us into worldwide megastars, and I can’t
say I didn’t enjoy parts of it—like the money, mainly—but yeah, all I ever
wanted was to impress a girl.

And that girl is
no longer impressed.

I hear the toilet
flush up in Dakota’s bedroom and decide that I should be down at the far end of
the hall, pretending like I had already given her some privacy. The bulk of the
mansion is downstairs, but the second floor has a lot to offer, especially if
you have plenty of overnight guests or about thirteen children. There are at
least five spare bedrooms on either side of the hall, each as empty as the last,
and plain white walls with a cream colored carpet so plush you could sink into
it and get lost. You’d need a machete to hack your way out.

No pictures or
decorations yet, which doesn’t surprise me. The bedrooms on the eastern side of
the hall would be preferable since they have a sweeping view of the Atlantic.

A few miles out to
sea, hovering over an oil tanker, I see a fat, dark storm cloud.

If I were the
dramatic sort, I’d pretend it’s an omen.

But I’m not, so
it’s a cloud, from which rain falls.

I find her office
and it’s nearly as empty as the rest of the house. There’s a desk pushed up against
the wall. On top of that sits nothing more than a closed laptop and a lamp.

Some paranormal
cases have a clear reason why the house is haunted. Say, for example, a curious
teenager and her friends have a sleepover. Tina Teenager brings along a Ouija
board for fun and a group of giggling teen girls unwittingly and accidentally
unlock a gateway to Hell, thereby opening up all of that youthful energy for
something to cross over to our side. Seen it a couple hundred times. Those are
easy to figure out.

Other times,
someone has passed on, whether specifically in the home or not, and they have
unfinished business. Messages to send, guilty consciences to allay,
reassurances that they’re fine if only the intended recipient could hear them.
Often, if Ford and I were able to communicate with the spirit in an intelligent
haunting like that, they would be satisfied and go into the light. Whether that
light was cast down through the pearly gates or lit by the flames of Hell was
for them to find out.

If it’s intelligent,
you can potentially communicate with it—human or demonic.

If it’s a residual
haunt, it’s nothing but leftover energy imprinted on the film of time, and you
can’t do anything about it. Ford used to describe it as a looping video,
replaying throughout infinity. It’s not going to hurt you, and those footsteps
you hear at three in the morning, every single night, will be there long after
you’re gone.

Based on what
Dakota told me, the entity in her home isn’t residual, so it’ll be my job to
uncover the reason it’s here. Today, during the daylight, we can do some
baseline checks and try to communicate with it via digital voice recorder. Later,
I might run into town and see if I can dig up the history of the home, like whom
the previous owners were, before the billionaire, or if there have been any
violent deaths on the property.

Then, the real
investigation can begin with nightfall.

Unless Dakota
wants to participate, I’ll probably send her to a hotel, but definitely not
back to hang out with Toni. That’s an invitation for trouble, and I’m all out
of RSVP cards.

Bad joke, dad
joke.

Dakota is whisper
quiet as she enters the office, which is why I don’t hear her come in at first.
She says, “Hey,” sharply, and I launch an inch off the ground, clutching the DVR
in my hand like a sword.

“
Gah
.
Jesus, you scared me.” My free hand goes up to my chest, pretending to check
for a heartbeat. I grin at her around a raspy laugh.

She pats me on the
shoulder. “Nerves of steel on the famous ghost hunter, huh? Couldn’t resist.
You find anything yet?”

“Nah. I was just
processing. Getting a feel for the place.”

I’m definitely
disappointed to see that she’s dressed like a normal human being now, rather
than an elite athlete, and yet, she looks amazing in a simple white tank top
and a pair of tan shorts that show off her quads. Looks like Dakota hasn’t skipped
leg day in a long time. Her hair is now pulled back in a ponytail, which is
awesome, because it shows off her fabulously long neck and sleek jaw line.

I process all of
this in about a third of a second to keep from staring at her, and then proceed
to ask her some more of our—I mean Ford’s—standard questions, like does she
know of any deaths in the home, was the former owner into Satanism, is
she
into Satanism, or has she conducted any séances lately that might’ve
involuntarily invited something into the home.

The answer to all
of these is no, of course, and I knew it would be. It’s always a good idea to
ask, just in case, because sometimes you can catch an untruthful person through
their body language. Ford was better at this part than I ever was. Still, I
learned enough by watching him to know that Dakota isn’t lying.

The only thing she
says is, “The guy who owned it before me, maybe he sold his soul to the Devil
to get that kind of money, right?”

I say, “I wouldn’t
be the slightest bit surprised,” though I stop short of telling her that I
would’ve sold
mine
to hang on to what I used to have. I don’t, because
that’s not the impression I want to give Dakota. The money was good, but not
everything. Then again, you get used to a certain lifestyle. Woulda coulda
shoulda. I add, “We talked about this a little earlier. Did your real estate agent
mention
anything at all
about him or the history of the home?”

“Nope. Nothing
other than the fact that he was selling this place and moving to his private
island. Makes you wonder if he left
because
it’s haunted.”

“We could always
ask. Best to cover our bases.”

“True. I’ll call
my agent later. She might know something or know how to get in touch with him.
I think he’s somewhere in the South Pacific, so he may not even have access to
a phone.”

“I doubt he went
dark. Billionaires like that, they can’t stay unconnected.”

Dakota steps over
to the window and swipes a bit of dust off the windowsill, rolling it between
her fingertips. “This place… All I wanted was an escape. I left one prison for
another.”

I move over beside
her. “Don’t get discouraged. We haven’t even started yet. I’ll get it cleaned
up. Promise.”

“You know what’s
funny? I already feel safer. With you here, I mean.”

I can feel the instinctual
longing down there in my subconscious, wishing there was a deeper meaning to
that statement. I know she’s talking about the fact that she has an experienced
paranormal investigator around.

Dakota adds, “It
feels lighter in here now, like that thing isn’t around.”

I lean up against
the window with my shoulder, turning to face her. Man, she looks amazing in the
early morning light. “Don’t tempt fate. It’s probably just taking time to
recharge. Matter of fact, I should probably check these batteries.”

As if I had
flashed a signal in the sky to call it to us, from down the hallway, the loud
crash of a shattered mirror sends Dakota into my arms.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ford Atticus Ford

Lauren and I
decide to do some recon work around Ellen’s property before we go inside, and when
we cruise past the front, it occurs to me that I’m somewhat familiar with this
old house.

I’ve seen it a
bunch of times on my way to and from the condo during my vacation trips of the
past. I even remember Melanie pointing it out one time, years ago, when we were
here on a mini-vacation before we starting filming whatever season that was.

Like the ass I can
be, I was already in the midst of numerous affairs by that point, and I
specifically recall feeling like a huge douche-pickle when she pointed out that
Ellen’s house would be a perfect little retirement home for us once the show
had finished its run.

I keep that bit of
information from Lauren. Anything I say has the potential to be used against
me. I do, however, tell her that I’ve seen her grandmother’s house before, and
have always been envious of the view.

“Incredible, isn’t
it?” Lauren says, wistfully.

“I’d
live
on that front porch, if she’d let me. Just give me a sleeping bag and a
cardboard box.”

Ellen’s house sits
up on a hill, and I examine it closely as we circle the block three times
looking for anything suspicious. Unless they’re hanging out in the backyard,
there’s no sign of the beastly creatures waiting on us, giving me time to
observe what’s soon to be our fort for the night.

It’s dark and
pouring. Most of what I’m able to piece together comes from the wet view I have
now, coupled with daylight memories. The exterior, when the sun is shining on
it, is painted the color of a bluebird sky that you get on a cloudless summer
day here on the coast. The shutters are white, and the awnings are white.

In fact, it
reminds me of a dress shirt I once owned—blue, with a white collar and white
cuffs. I left it in Hawaii about seven years ago. Funny that should pop into my
head now because that was the first time I’d heard about the black-eyed
children. It was a hotel maid who mentioned it. Sadly, we never had time to go
investigate her home, and given the circumstances, I’m wishing we had, just so
I could come into this with some experience.

Ellen’s home is
craftsman-style with a wraparound porch that skirts the south, west, and
northern sides. In back, facing east, the yard is fenced in by tall, wide slats
pressed so firmly together that you couldn’t slip a sheet of paper between
them.

The home itself is
fairly plain, and Lauren tells me that it’s because Grandpa has moved on to the
great beyond, and with Ellen’s eyesight nearly gone, it’s less trouble. I can
specifically remember when there were gorgeous, lush flowerbeds along the
foundation, and huge, round pots standing along either side of the front steps,
guarding the stairway like terra cotta sentinels.

“Shame it’s sorta
going to waste,” I say. “It’s a great place.”

Lauren tells me
that her parents are living down in San Diego where it’s warmer and they can be
closer to their daughter. I ask forgiveness for prying, but I’m curious as to
why they’re not here where their ancient, blind matriarch lives, who would
appear to need more care than their wealthy television host of a daughter.

She answers, “Mom
and Grandma never got along, never ever. And with me living so far away, it was
the perfect excuse for her to escape. My dad dug his heels in for about seven
or eight seconds, but you see where that got him. Happy wife, happy life. They
pay for a nurse to come by few times a week, and don’t tell my mother, but I
spring for extra care when the nurse they hired isn’t around.”

“You’re such a
heathen.”

“Hell in a
handbasket.” We drive back around to the ocean-facing side of the house again,
and Lauren tells me to slow down. “Park here,” she says, pointing to a spot in
front of a compact sedan. I can tell by the corporate bumper sticker that it’s
her rental.

“Have any of the
nurses ever seen these things here before?”

Lauren rolls down
her window. Thankfully, the rain is shooting in from the west, so the drops fly
right over the top of the Jeep, and the only thing that enters is the salty
scent of the ocean. She tells me not that she knows of, and none of them have
said anything to her parents either during their weekly reports. She leans out
the window, and I can’t tell what she’s looking at.

“What’re you
doing, Coeburn?”

“Trying to see
between the slats.”

It’s pointless, I
know, but I can’t fault her for trying. “You think they’re still in back?” My
tone comes off a bit too incredulous, because she flicks her head around and
narrows her eyes.

“How should I
know, Ford? Where do black-eyed children hang out? The YMCA?”

“Point taken,
though I doubt even supernatural monsters would be out in this.”

“You’re kidding,
right? Something tells me they’re not very discriminating when it comes to the
weather.”

“Hey, who’s the
world famous paranormal investigator here with all the first-hand knowledge?”

“If you say so.”

A nearby
streetlight flickers and goes dark, adding an extra layer of depth to the
shadows. Was that chance or a deliberate act? I’ve been doing shit like this
long enough to know that
actual
coincidences are rare.

I ask Lauren if
she’s ready to go in, and she gnaws on the loose skin of a knuckle. A deep
breath later, she finally says, “I can’t. At least not until you check it out.”
She hands me a single key with a rabbit’s foot dangling from the ring. “Here.
Please?”

“You’re gonna stay
here? By yourself?”

Her voice quivers
when she says, “Leave the keys in the ignition.” It’s more of a question than
an order.

I relent. If she’s
not legitimately scared to death, somebody should give her an honorary award.

And the Oscar
for plucking Ford’s heartstrings with the pouty-lip sadface goes to… Lauren
Coeburn! I’d like to thank my agent, God, and Ford, for being a sucker.

I zip up my jacket
and flip up the collar. “Last chance for the truth. If you’re fucking with me
about this…”

“I’m not. I
swear.”

“Then I guess I’ll
turn on the porch light for the all clear, okay?”

She snatches my
hand, squeezes it, and tells me to be careful.

Funny. I think she
actually means it, and it peels away a single layer of steel from around my
heart.

***

At first, I hustle
up the walkway because of the weather then change my tactical approach.

I remember why I’m
here and slow down, succumbing to the urge to crouch. I’ve been around enough
detectives and patrolmen to pick up some habits, so I slip up to the front of
the house, climb the stairs, and then back up against the wall. The front
picture window, which will have an incredible view of the ocean from inside the
living room, is unblocked by curtains or shades. I dip to my left to take a
quick peek. It’s dark in there, but I spot no movement.

It’s full of what
you would expect for a house: a couch, a recliner, a fireplace, and a coffee
table, with a variety of knick-knacks sitting around on shelves, and end
tables. I spot a television that might have been brand new when Gerald Ford was
in office. Other than the TV that should probably be haunting anyone here, the
room is free of anything paranormal.

To my right, the
porch disappears around the northern side of the house. I sidestep over and for
the briefest of moments, while my back passes by the closed door, I feel my
stomach clench, waiting on our demented friends to yank it open and grab me.

It’s not possible,
obviously, because Lauren didn’t invite them inside, and supposedly these
things can’t enter unless you tell them it’s okay. Kinda like how a vampire
needs to be given permission to enter, but the black-eyed children aren’t quite
so obvious about their paranormal ambitions.

Still
. You
never know.

Nothing shatters
the picture window and grabs me as my exposed back crosses in front of it. I
exhale, my gale-like relief getting lost in the wind. I pause at the corner,
count to five, then spin around to my stomach and flatten myself against the
wall. I can feel the wind whipping raindrops underneath the porch roof and onto
my jeans.

Slowly… Slowly… And
goddamn, I didn’t know it was possible to move so slowly… I’m slow like
molasses fresh out of the freezer as I lean and ease one eye around the corner.

Shit!

I’ve never been
afraid of spiders but when the rain-drenched wind pushes that little bastard
forward, slinging him at my face, almost landing on my eyeball, I yip like
someone stepped on a Pomeranian, and then have to catch my balance before I
tumble back into the railing.

I mutter, “You
little jerk,” around a chuckle.

Back in the
Wrangler, Lauren calls out to me, asks if I’m okay and if I see our guests. I
wave her off and tell her I’m fine, hiding the fact that I’m on edge, man.

For real.

Little white lies
are preferable to big black ones.

I just told Lauren
a little white lie.

Melanie got a lot
of big black ones. There’s no question about why she left me.

Given Lauren’s
Hollywood cutthroat nature, I wonder how many lies she’s told during her life
and career. Living under the roof of subterfuge is probably so natural to her,
she expects it.

She yells up to
me, “Think it’s safe for me to come up?” Her words are scattered through the
cacophony of Mother Nature’s wrath, yet I can make it out enough to suggest
that she stay put. I tell her I’d like to check out the back first and then
I’ll come get her. “Wait for the porch light. I mean it!” I yell, and she waves
as she cranks the window back up.

The backyard fence
adjoins the blue siding about halfway back. The tops of each slat are pointed,
reminding me of a long, jagged saw blade. In the low ambient light, even with
the streetlamp still out, I can make out their rough-cut edges. They’re high
enough that I’d have to jump, grab the top, and pull myself up. So, being the
soft-skinned pansy that I am—and not too fond of splinters—I find a flimsy deck
chair, one of those rickety plastic ones that cost about four cents to manufacture,
and park it as close as I can get to the fence.

It wiggles when I
climb onto it, and, my heartbeat flitters like the wings of a butterfly in a
wind tunnel. First, I’m worried this plastic piece of crap will collapse and
I’ll break an ankle. Second, what if I put my hands over the top and one of
those damn things is over there waiting and tries to bite me? I don’t fancy my
fingers disappearing the way a drunken college kid plows through a whole bucket
of buffalo chicken on ten-cent wing night.

You’ve waited
years to see these guys, Ford. Put up or shut up. They’re only fingers.

A blend of fear
and morbid curiosity sends my tentative hands up, and then they retreat.

Reach, retreat.
Reach, retreat.

Do it, Ford!

I grab the peaks
of the fence—lightly of course, to avoid the splinters—and pull my weight up on
my tip-toes, poking my head over the top.

It’s empty, thank
God, and I feel both silly and relieved at my hesitation.

It’s nothing more
than an empty yard—a deep, lush green from the Oregon coast rainfall—and on the
far side, I spy the wide open gate.

Easy enough. No
baddies.

I dart around,
emerge through the gate, and up to Ellen’s back door. Using the key that Lauren
gave me, one that has been rubbed smooth by time and spare change in someone’s
pocket for decades, the tumblers eventually relent with some wiggling and shimmying.

The interior of
the house smells and looks just how you’d expect a prehistoric cottontop’s
house would. Kitchen grease, liniment oil, and probably mothballs, if I’m correctly
remembering the scent from Grandma Ford’s home. The paint has faded on the
walls and some of the historic furniture would fetch quite a high appraisal
value on
Antiques Galore
every Sunday morning. Paneled walls, sagging
cushions, rabbit ears on top of the television—I feel like I’ve traveled back
in time.

Aside from a
miniature grandfather clock that stands resolute on the mantle, ticking like a
hammer against steel, it’s silent in here. I give my eyes a few seconds to get
adjusted to the even blacker shadows inside, and even though it’s theoretically
impossible for the demonic shitheads to be in here, I decide to clear the
upstairs first, because if anything is down here, I want the advantage of
higher ground.

It makes sense in
my head.

I tiptoe up the
creaking steps to the second floor, then sneak from room to room. The master
bedroom, spare bedroom, and reading room are all clear of paranormal thingies
that go boo in the night.

Good, I think.
Looks safe up here. Supposing the downstairs is okay, we can fortify the place
a bit and wait on the punks to come back.

Fortification
would be incomplete without weapons, and I try to think about what I could use,
barring the materialization of a beginner-savvy firearm. I’m not a fan of guns,
so I need something long, something that I can swing from a distance. I wonder
if Grandpa Coeburn might’ve been a golfer.

The hallway closet
is void of devices that would create bruises or fleshy holes, unless I beat the
shit out of somebody with a rolled up hand towel, and I’m about to give up
looking when I find an item that’s totally unrelated to causing pain.

An old video
recorder, VCR-style, with those brick-sized tapes. Nice. I haven’t seen one of
these things in years. I can set this up and try to catch evidence.

The batteries are
dead, no surprise there, but eureka and hallelujah, I find the plug-in cord on
the shelf, along with a box of unopened blank tapes sitting next to another one
with hand-labeled videos. I twist them around into the available light and read
the fat, blocky handwriting.