The White Night (7 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ford Atticus Ford

Dear Ol’
Gran—sorry,
Ellen
—sits in the recliner. The sliding door is open and she
seems to be fine listening to the roar of the wind, the hammer of rain, and the
wailing ocean. She rocks peacefully while my overly affectionate pooch slurps
her like he’s trying to get to the gooey center. How many licks will it take,
Ulie?

Meanwhile, Lauren
Coeburn, former arch nemesis turned quivering mess, tells me to stop once I’ve
poured her about four fingers’ worth of expensive scotch. In the tiniest way, I
feel like I’m wasting it on her. However, it may be worth it because I’ve heard
stories about the black-eyed children from all over the world; this is the
first time I’ve actually had a chance to speak with someone who has seen them
in the flesh.

Lauren lifts the
tumbler of scotch—no rocks—and drains it, which she then follows with two
beckoning fingers. I’d like to tell her that she just guzzled about fifteen
dollars. Instead, I pour her another, and she downs that one like she’s
drinking a fraternity kid under the table. She wipes her mouth with a sleeve.
“That should do it.”

“You sure?”

“Explain what in
the hell I saw, and I’ll let you know.”

I’m not in the
mood for scotch, so I pop open a beer for myself and stare at her, still wondering
if she’s coming at me from another subversive angle, trying to get the scoop on
this documentary. Ah, what the hell, black-eyed children are interesting enough
that I’ll bite.

I ask, “You want
the long version, or the short one?”

“Long, because
unless you kick us out, I’m not going back there for a while. Maybe never. And
what am I gonna do about her?”

I look back at
Ellen. Ulie has his head in her lap. “Hard to say.”

Lauren leans
across the counter, takes the scotch, and pours herself another round. “Story
time, Ford.”

I gulp down about
half of my IPA, and this is what I tell her:

Nobody really
knows what the black-eyed children are, other than what details you get from
urban myths. However, like Sasquatch, the Loch Ness Monster, the Mothman, or
the Chupacabra—name your weird entity of choice—there have been too many
sightings for them to be a fluke or simply nothing but a legend made up by your
neighbor with a good imagination. From the UK, to China, to Ethiopia, to some
town populated by three hundred citizens in middle-of-nowhere New Mexico, these
things have come up in reports all over the world.

Are they aliens?
Are they supernatural beings?

It’s anybody’s
guess.

The way the
stories go, you’ll get a knock on your front door, or see these kids outside of
a window, or maybe run into them in a deserted parking lot in the middle of the
night. You’ve heard that old adage about how eyes are the windows to the soul?

Well, then, if
that’s the case, these things are absolutely soulless, because they have the
deepest, darkest black eyes, hollow and void of anything good.

Witnesses have
reported that the black-eyed children range in age from eight to sixteen years
old. They’re dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie. Or, on
rarer occasions, hoodies and jeans. It varies. I’ve seen reports of both.

“Actually,” I tell
Lauren, “you’re pretty much wearing what they wear. Jeans and a hoodie.”

“Are you trying to
freak me out even more?”

I wink at her,
slightly enjoying an obnoxious bit of payback from her stunt earlier.

I take a swig of
beer, and continue where I left off.

Black-eyed
children speak in pointed, quick sentences with a flat, monotone voice, usually
asking if you have any food or if they can come inside.

No matter what, do
not
let them inside.

That’s the first
and only rule that will keep you alive.

Lauren interrupts
me to say, “That’s exactly what he said!”

“Tell me you
didn’t let it in.”

“No. God, no.”

I continue: no
paranormal researcher has ever been close enough to study them, nor has anyone
ever caught evidence of these kids on camera. They exist, but I’ve yet to see
proof, which is so baffling to me. It’s almost like they know how to avoid
security cameras, things like that.

Not a single
person has ever gone on record about what happens if you let them inside, and
it’s my educated guess that they didn’t live to tell the tale.

The best
hypothesis I’ve heard, and the one that makes the most sense to me in all my
years covering the paranormal, is that they’re definitely something alien
that’s chosen a host. Maybe they want information or maybe they want to do some
anal probing—no idea.

See, the alien-host
possibility seems to be the most plausible, at least to me, because how many
children vanish each year, never to be seen again? And if anyone actually has
recognized one from the back of a milk carton, they haven’t come forward to
announce it.

On the other hand,
they
could
be powerful demonic entities, like the right-hander we fought
in Norfolk, who have discovered a way to walk the earth, looking for more souls
to devour.

Disguised as children.

Creepy. Makes my
skin crawl thinking about it.

Regardless of what
they are, if it’s some form of possession, whether it be alien or demonic, the
thing doing the possessing has yet to realize that people are generally freaked
the hell out by black, soulless eyeballs.

Am I right, or am
I right?

That’s about as
smart as a serial killer showing up on your front porch wearing a t-shirt that
has
I’M HERE TO EAT YOUR LIVER
in big, bold letters emblazoned across
his chest.

So, that could be
why there are no reports of someone letting them inside. Nobody is that dumb.

But I doubt it. I
don’t have that much faith in humanity.
Oh, hi, honey. Are you really
hungry? Have some lemonade. Maybe it’ll put some color in your eyes again, you
poor thing
.

Would not surprise
me in the slightest.

Out of all the
paranormal entities I’ve encountered over the years, the black-eyed children
probably scare me the most.

It’s the fear of
the unknown, because there’s simply so little information about them.

Loch Ness Monster?
Easy. Giant lizard-like dinosaur.

Sasquatch? Missing
link. Huge, hairy ape dude.

Aliens? Little
green men in spaceships.

The Mothman? An
extremely convenient, monstrous bird. Well… close enough.

But black-eyed
children?

I’m clueless, and
there’s just something about evil-looking children that makes me want to hide
in the corner and suck my thumb.

I think it’s the
idea of corrupted innocence, black blood pumping behind an angelic smile.

And those soulless
eyes.

Jesus help me.

My hand goes up to
my crucifix necklace, and I close my fingers around it.

“That’s insane,” Lauren
says. “God, I need another drink for this conversation.”

“Have at it.” I
watch her pour more scotch. Her hands have finally stopped shaking. “Easy,
though. I don’t do well with puke.”

“Don’t worry. This
is like a normal breakfast.”

I leave that one
alone. I remember the mornings before we would film. No matter how many
locations or episodes, I would get the shakes. It was natural, and besides, I
always figured that if I ever
didn’t
get nervous, there was something
wrong. Being ‘on’ in front of the camera takes a lot of work and mental
acuity—nerves of steel, especially when you have an audience as large as the
one for
Graveyard
. Lauren too. I know millions of people watch
Weekend
Report
.

“Your turn,” I
tell her. “What happened?”

“Everything you
said. Just like that.”

“Details,
Coeburn.”

“Do I have to?”

I cross my arms
and nod.

Lauren’s eyes go
blank as she looks past me, absently shaking her head. She’s staring at a
memory in her mind. “I went back to Grandma’s house—”

“What’s that,
honey?” Grandma Ellen is leaning up in her chair, sunglass-covered eyes turned
in our direction.

“Nothing, Grandma.
Just talking to Ford.”

“Okay. Let me know
if you’re hungry. I have cereal.”

Lauren grins at me
and mouths, “Sorry about that,” and with another glance into the living room,
she adds in a whisper, “Blind and almost deaf. Poor thing. I don’t know how she
manages.”

“The kids,
Coeburn.”

“Right. Um, okay.
After you so gallantly left me there with a broken ankle,” she says around a
smile, “I went by the bookstore and then back to Grandma’s to ice it.” She
points north. “She lives up the hill, that way, about half a mile. Great little
house right along the street. Still got a view, even with all these condos and
hotels going up. She raised my dad there. So, yeah, I’m in the kitchen,
putting ice in a big plastic bag, and something catches my eye out the window.
The kitchen is around back, and from over the sink, you can see into the yard.
It’s pretty small but it’s fenced in, so it kinda spooked me because I’m
freaked out that something got inside the gate. It was big, and I’m standing
there thinking that maybe a dog got into the yard somehow, then wondering how
in the hell that could happen because there’s no—I’m rambling, sorry.”

“You’re fine. Keep
going.”

She clears her
throat and leans in. “I went over to the sink and looked, right? Gone. Nothing.
Empty yard, which spooked me even worse because I
know
I saw something.
Here I am with a sprained ankle, a ninety-year-old blind grandmother, and we’re
about to get robbed. That’s what I’m thinking. Then I thought maybe somebody
had seen the local show this morning, and he’s out there stalking me. I’m
panicking, trying to find anything I can use as a weapon, just in case, and the
first thing I can think of is the broom. I look around and it’s propped up
right beside the back door. I scrambled over to grab it, and, oh my God, Ford,
I
literally
pissed myself. Literally. Pee came out. It really did
because when I reached for the broom, he popped up right in the window, right
there in the middle of the door.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, like he was
waiting on me. I screamed like a goddamn maniac. There was pee running down my
leg. I tripped over the broom. If it hadn’t been so freaking scary, it would’ve
been comical. Then I realized it was a kid, just like you said, but those eyes.
Those horrible, black little eyes.”

“Wow. You
actually
saw one.”

“From what you
described, yeah.”

“Look at the chill
bumps on my arm.” I’ve seen some crazy ass shit in my time, I’m one of the most
well-known paranormal investigators in the world, and yet, my goosebumps have
goosebumps. I might need another beer for this.

“It didn’t
register at first that it was something
paranormal
. Grandma’s blind, so
that’s the first place my mind went, and I thought he might be some
neighborhood kid. Like a little blind buddy.”

“Makes sense.”

“Then again, I’d
never seen or heard about anybody being blind quite like that. I’m standing
there with pee on the side of my leg, pee on the floor, and there’s this kid
staring at me. I opened the door and asked him what his name was. He goes, ‘You
need to let me inside.’ We go back and forth a couple of times like this;
what’s your name, let me in; no, not until you tell me who you are and stuff
like that. I ask if he’s here to see Grandma Ellen—‘cause that’s what all the neighborhood
kids call her—and he stares at me and I swear, it felt like he was freezing my
soul. He finally smiles and says, ‘I’m hungry. I need to come in so you can
feed me.’”

“Matches
everything I’ve heard. What’d you do?”

“I’d had enough of
the little fucker’s shit, so I slammed the door in his face.”

“Good for you.”

“Even then, I
hadn’t registered that it was paranormal or that I should be afraid. I mean,
yeah, he was kinda scary looking and maybe he’s autistic too, doesn’t have
social skills. Something like that. It’s not until another one—shit, man, I can
still feel how many back flips my stomach did when I saw the second one come
around the corner.”

“Same thing? Like
twins?”

“No, totally
different. This one was older. Around fifteen, sixteen, maybe? Definitely
bigger. Dressed the way you described.”

“What’d you do
when the second one showed up?”

“Locked the door
and told them to go away. What else could I do?”

“Did the bigger
one say anything?”

“Same flat tone as
the other one, right off the bat. He looked at me—no, more like
through
me—and he said, ‘Let us in. We’re hungry. You need to let us in. We have to
come inside. Let us in.’ The longer I stood there, the more insistent he got,
but he never got louder or angrier. Just like, ‘Let us in. We’re hungry. Let us
in, let us in, let us in.’ I screamed for them to leave or I’d call the cops,
then Grandma starts yelling from the other room, asking what was going on, was
I okay.”

“Then what?”

Lauren stares into
her scotch glass, swirls the liquid around, watches it spin in circles.

“Lauren?”

She wipes a tear
from her cheek and looks up at me.

“Promise you won’t
make us leave?”

“I… guess, yeah.”

“Promise.”

“Fine. I promise.
You can stay.”

“No matter what I
tell you?”

“Yes. Really. If
you’re worried about earlier… I was already in a shitty mood and I overreacted.
My fault. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” I place my hand on the
counter, palm down, and swipe it in a wide arc. “Slate clean. You’re still an
asshole for gutting me two years ago, but we’ll forget that for now.”

“I’ll make that up
to you. That’s
my
promise. But about the kids… I kinda lied a little.”
She tentatively nibbles her bottom lip and waits on my reaction.