The White Night (11 page)

LAUREN
CHEERLEADING MAY 1988.

MOM DAD FISHING
TRIP JUNE.

HANDS OFF –
PRIVATE.

The last one gives
me a chuckle and I’m fairly certain what’s on it.

Sometimes
skeletons in the closet are made up of adventurous couples.

Oy.

Thing is, if the
recorder actually works, it occurs to me that if I tell Lauren about it, she’ll
try her damned best to use it on
me
.

The almighty Ford
Atticus Ford, on a private home tape, on an actual paranormal investigation,
with a princess of Hollywood.

Imagine her
ratings for
Weekend Report
.

The desire to
catch the black-eyed children on camera is overwhelming, so I’ll have to keep
it hidden from her as best as I can. I find an outlet in the hall, plug in the
recorder, slip a tape into the side carriage, and check out its operability.

Damn if it ain’t
perfect.

Sometimes you
catch a break and the universe tips its hat at you.

Go get’em,
cowboy
, it says.

I remember the large
bookcase I saw in the living room and scamper downstairs where I do my best to
use some hardback novels to conceal it on an upper shelf. I can barely see the
lens, and an angled copy of
Moby Dick
hides the blinking red light. If
we keep the lights low, it’ll be perfect. I don’t have a plan for getting the
tape out of here in case we do manage to get them into the shot, but I’ll deal with
that when the time comes.

I’m giddy with the
possibilities, images of my former glory catapulting through my mind, when
there’s a knock on the front door. It spooks me, ruining the daydreams, and I murmur
a handful of curse words when I see Lauren standing outside on the porch.

Yanking the door
open, I say, “You were supposed to wait for the light. That’s the all clear,
remember?”

She’s soaked and
looking miserable. “You need to let me in.”

“Fine, whatever, get
in here,” I say, frustrated as I step to the side. “It’s your place, do
whatever you want.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Chelsea Hopper

Chelsea Hopper is
seven years old now and will be eight in two more months.

She often wakes
from horrible nightmares where she is back in the old house, the one that other
people call the ‘Hopper House.’

The Most Haunted
Place in America.

She dreams of
claws and fangs and darkness and the scent of rotten eggs. She feels fear that
loosens her bladder in her dreams, but not in her bed, thankfully. At least not
yet. She’s proud that she’s never wet herself, unlike that boy Gordon in her
class, the one who always smells like moldy dirt and cat litter.

Often, when she
wakes from these dreams, she rises from bed, as she does now, and patters down
the hallway into the bathroom. The nightlight plugged into the wall helps
assuage her fright, but it’s never enough. She flips on the overhead lights, a
gloriously bright row of seven bulbs over the mirror.

And in this
mirror, she stares at her reflection, first checking her eyes, then touching
her cheeks, pushing the puffy skin around to make sure it’s still soft and bendy.
She pulls her lower lip down first and then pushes the upper one toward the
ceiling, checking her teeth. Next come her ears, then her fingers and toes, her
nails.

Finally, she pulls
open the front of her pajamas and holds her breath as she looks down, breathing
a sigh of relief that she hasn’t grown a scaly, shriveled penis.

Chelsea is
relieved to see that she is not the boy demon she becomes in her dreams—that
evil, vicious creature with grotesque, pebbly, raised skin made of scales. Eyes
yellow and slit like the stray tomcat that sleeps underneath their back porch.
Fangs, long and sharp, which dig deeply into the flesh of Mr. Ford and Mr.
Mike. Pointed ears that lay back against her head, listening to their screams.

This happens to
her practically every night. It’s terrifying, yet it has happened enough that
it’s almost normal. The dreams were never this bad before, not even when she
lived in the Hopper House. These violent nightmares have been happening for
months, even before her parents mentioned the movie that Mr. Ford and Mr. Mike
might be making about her life. They had asked her if it was okay, if she
minded. She had said she was scared and wasn’t sure.

They needed the
money, they told her. They needed it, and it would be good for the family. They
could pay for her school when she got older, and maybe now, too, if she wanted
to go to a different place, maybe a less crowded one where not as many people
knew her, where she could concentrate and not answer questions about ghosts and
demons.

I have friends
here she had told them. It’s okay, Mama, and don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll try to do
better in school. I promise.

I’ll do better in
school, and I won’t tell you about the dreams yet, because maybe they had
forgotten how horrible it was in that house when she was so little.

Would they make
her go back in the house with Mr. Ford and Mr. Mike?

Carla, that super
nice lady from Hollywood, the one who had given her candy corn and chocolate on
Halloween night the last time, had said that Chelsea wouldn’t have to go back
in the house. Never ever never again. Never ever.

Mama and Daddy had
said okay, Carla and her people could make the movie, but only for lots of
money and as long as Chelsea wasn’t in danger.

Chelsea almost
told them about the dreams then.

But if she did, if
she told them how scary it was to become that demon and use her horrible fangs
to bite the hearts of Mr. Mike and Mr. Ford every night, they would send her
back to that awful man, Dr. Slade, who had breath like rotten fish and hands
that were rough like sandpaper when he touched her skin.

She kept her
secrets to herself, and now she revisits the same place each night—that pitch
black hallway in her old home. She climbs from a deep, dark place, claw over
claw, for what feels like a hundred years until she breaks through the floor, smashing
the wood and smelling the soot and ashes, feeling the flames licking at her
heels. She gets to her knees and spreads her leathery black wings, then stands
to her full height, towering over the two men she thought were her friends. Big,
strong guys who were supposed to
protect
her from this thing that she
has become.

Satisfied that
she’s not a demon—a horrifying, disgusting
boy
demon—Chelsea drinks a
glass of water from her cup decorated with pink cartoon puppies and steps back
from the bathroom mirror. It’s pure habit as she reaches for the light switch,
then draws her hand away, just as she does every night. It’s better to leave
them on.

Chelsea sneaks a
furtive peek out the door, looking left and right. Spying nothing in the short
hallway now illuminated by the bathroom, she turns left and darts toward her
bedroom. She flies through the door, imagining she’s like the older girls at
her gymnastics class as she plants her feet and jumps, twisting, spinning in
the air, landing on her soft, comforting mattress. The sheet and pink puppy
comforter go up over her head for protection.

She knows it won’t
do much good if the demon ever comes for her again.

That’s what the
spell is for.

Chelsea whispers:

The white night
is bright with light and love.

Put the pedal
to the metal and

Swing your
sword with grace at his face.

Keep me safe in
this place.

The Demon
Killer is my savior,

May he protect
me forever and ever.

Thanks, Jesus.

Her teachers, her
parents, her parents’ friends, aunts and uncles, older cousins, all tell
Chelsea how smart she is. Knowing this, she understands that her little
incantation is silly, but so far, it has worked, and she has not been attacked
by a demon in real life—not like at the Hopper House—and only her dreams have
been damaged.

Those are
bearable, for now. As long as she can keep them to herself, she’ll be okay, and
she only has to do it until Mr. Ford and Mr. Mike kill the thing in her dreams.
She just hopes she’s not inside of it when it happens. She’s not ready to die,
but the thing in her dreams is strong and will hurt a lot of people if they
don’t do something. The movie with the demon killers and that nice lady, Carla,
will make it all go away.

September will be
here soon. She can make it until then.

Chelsea slides her
hand underneath her pillow and tightens her grip around the handle of a knife.
Her mother thinks it was lost in the trash.

Chelsea tries to
take it with her into her nightmares.

One day, it might
work.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mike Long

We both listen to
the plinking, scattering sound of shattered glass bouncing off a countertop and
the bathroom tile.

I gotta say,
Dakota feels good in my arms, soft but solid. Strong.

She says, “Fuck!
What was that?” before pulling away.

Wait, come
back!
“Mirror. Down the hall.”

She starts for the
office door, and I grab her wrist, telling her to wait, to let me go check
first.

“You think it’s
the—the
ghost
?”

“Probably,” I say,
the word sounding more like a question than I intend. After all, I’m supposed
to be the one who knows what I’m doing.

I insert my ear
buds and press ‘Record’ on the GS-5000, my bitchin’ digital voice recorder that
allows me to listen to what’s being recording in real time, while also being
able to rewind and review captured evidence as it continues to record. I love
this thing. Out of every piece of equipment I’ve ever used, even that damn
spiritual fart detector, this is my favorite.

Capturing video
evidence and watching a spirit walk across an empty warehouse, asylum, or a
football field—that’s cool, that’s chill-inducing—but to me, uncovering the
real humanity comes from being able to hear what a spirit has to say. Their
words make them authentic and give them an identity. Seeing a hazy shape on a
screen… I don’t see it as being much different than watching a television show
with some sophisticated CGI. Hearing the emotion in their words, that’s what
does it for me.

It’s a different
story hearing something demonic or listening to the vitriol of a malicious dead
guy who’s yet to let go of his murderous rage, and yet, it makes them genuine,
almost corporeal. The bad ones can be terrifying—case in point, that
right-hander that attacked Chelsea and Dave Craghorn—but it gives them a
measure of tangibility.

So yeah, this
particular device is like my ghost-hunting security blanket.

Toni once said,
“If you love that thing so much, why don’t you leave me and marry it?” I don’t
doubt there was some truth behind her joke, and believe me, the idea wasn’t,
and isn’t, entirely out of the question. I’m not sure how the law regards
marrying electronics—procuring joint insurance would be a problem, I’m sure.

I hold my finger
up to my lips. Dakota nods through anxious breathing, blowing through pursed
lips, fanning her cheeks, trying to calm herself.

At first, I hear
nothing but the gentle hiss of silence through the miniature speakers in my
ears.

The white earbud
strings tickle my neck as I creep into the hall, straining to pick out any
obvious noises that don’t belong, that aren’t innate to the home. I wish I’d
had extra time in here to get more familiar with the place—and as much as I
hate to admit it, Ford’s annoying habit of spending a couple of days surveying
a location before he would even consider investigating it would be helpful here.
I’m not accustomed to the particulars of Dakota’s home, like what sounds it
makes when the lumber is settling, the creak of loose floorboards, or whether
the grill over the air vent vibrates when the air conditioner kicks on.

Knowing that stuff
would be immensely valuable.

Instead, I’m
storming the castle with no plan and no idea where the archers are hiding along
the soldier’s walk.

I glance behind me
and hold up my palm, then point at my eyes and finally toward the hallway
bathroom, silently signaling that Dakota needs to wait while I check it out.

Thumbs up from
her.

The GS-5000 is so
sophisticated that it picks up on the squish of plush carpet under my bare feet
as I slink down the hall.

I hear nothing.

I see nothing.

I smell nothing.

I don’t
feel
anything unusual, either, like a static charge in the air or random cold spot. Given
that, I am scrotum-shrinkingly unprepared when the black, swirling mass
explodes out of the bathroom.

I scream, “Shit!”
and duck from pure shock. I’ve faced worse—much, much worse—but it caught me by
surprise. Behind me, back in the bedroom, Dakota shouts, “Mike?”

My eyes stay
locked on our intruder. It hovers there, ten feet away from me. Floating, swirling,
the tendrils of blackness climbing on top of each other like snakes in a pit. I
feel my neck muscles tightening. I sense that it’s hostile, and yet, curious,
like it’s sizing up the new opponent.

It nudges closer,
ever so slightly, undulating, rippling, slowly moving from a malleable mass of
blackness, smoke-like, into the shape of a man. Broad-shouldered, no arms or
legs, but large and bulky; it’s the size of an NFL linebacker and just as
intimidating.

I ask, “Who are
you?” as I hold the GS-5000 closer to it, adding, “I’m not afraid of you,” like
this thing would actually give a shit.

That’s when I hear
it—an EVP in my ears, not a disembodied voice that emits from nowhere within
the room, and thank God, because I wouldn’t want Dakota to hear this thing
laugh. It’s booming, throaty, and vile, sending shivers down my arms. There’s
something wicked behind it, as if this bastard knows that I am nothing in its
presence. Maybe it’s stronger than I thought.

“What’s your
name?” I ask.

Dakota, still in
the bedroom, says, “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Stay there.
Don’t look,” I tell her, which is the absolute worst thing to say to stubborn
curiosity. A beat later, she gasps, curses, and then it sounds as if her voice is
rising up from the floor, like she dropped into a carpeted foxhole.

She calls out to
me, “That’s what I saw before, Mike! Get back here. Hurry.”

“I’m good. We’re
good. Right, Mr. Ghost?”

Mr. Ghost? The
fuck?

It growls at
me—literally growls like I’ve put my hand too close to its food dish—and I step
back. My bladder feels bulging and warm. Growling, especially something so dark,
as if it’s seared by hate and ashes, could easily be classified as demonic.

I’m not buying it.
Dakota hasn’t mentioned any of the typical signs like claw marks showing up on
her skin in threes—a mockery of the Holy Trinity—or any of the other indicators
like childish voices and shredded Bibles.

It doesn’t
feel
demonic. My guess is that it’s masquerading as something bigger and stronger,
much the same as a human lifting its arms and shouting to appear more
intimidating over a dangerous animal.

Assuming it’s
posturing, and weaker than it actually is, well, that’s my first mistake.

***

My second mistake
is feeling like I need to be Billy Badass in front of Dakota and impress her
with my ghost-demolishing skills. Peacocking, so to speak.

I don’t have a
crucifix with me, so what I do is, I raise my forearms and lay one over the
other, in the shape of a cross. I shout, “Back, ye heathen devil!” and
immediately feel like a gargantuan dork in a late night B-movie. Ford was
better at this part than I am. Viewers told us our banter made the show what it
was, but he knew how to put on a performance, man.

The thing is, it’s
taken me over two years to forgive him for ruining
Graveyard
and
screwing up Chelsea Hopper. What never wavered, though, was my belief that his
presence made us what we were. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest when I
approached all those producers without him along. They acted more interested in
the dog crap on the soles of their expensive loafers, especially if they knew
I’d be prone to shouting stupid stuff like,
Back, ye heathen devil!

It laughs at me
again. Roars, really, at my childish attempt.

I try a different
tactic, attempting to channel the almighty Ford Atticus Ford at his best. I can
remember his speech from an Irish rectory in season six, word for word, and
begin to recite it: “Whether you are a child of God, or a child of Satan, this
home is not yours. Listen to me, and understand me. You do not belong here. You
will leave this place on my command and you will never bother this woman again,
do you hear me? What is your name? Do you know that there is power in a name,
you pitiful, pathetic weakling?” I raise my voice, one click of the dial below
shouting, and continue, “What is your
name
, you bastard? My named is
Ford At—shit, I mean, my name is Mike Long, and I command you to leave now in
the name of God. Leave now and never return!”

The mist
diminishes in size, losing its shape of a man, churning in a slow circle like
black muck down a bathtub drain.

Victory
is
on my lips, forming the word, when I hear it speak one of the most chilling
EVPs I’ve ever heard.

“
I know you want
her. She’s… mine.
”

The black cloud
swishes around like Batman making a dramatic exit with his cape and then poof,
it evaporates. Gone as fast as it arrived.

Son of a bitch!

It takes me around
two-point-seven seconds to decide I don’t need, nor want, Dakota to hear that
EVP. This scenario is already too messed up for her, and I can’t have my
schoolboy-slash-lonely-middle-aged-dude crush complicating the situation any
further. I rewind roughly twenty seconds back on the GS-5000 and then record
the silence over top of the EVP. This pains me to do so, because in over twelve-plus
years of being involved with the paranormal world, that was one of the cleanest
EVPs with proof of an intelligent haunt that I’ve ever come across.

During
Graveyard
’s
amazing run, Ford was often accused of reading too far into the language of
EVPs, trying to fit meaning relatable to the situation into nonsensical ghost
blathering. I never came right out and told him this: I agreed. That was his
deal, more or less, and I never argued with him over creative control. It was
what it was. Ford developed the “story” behind the investigations. I was there
to be the tech guy and provide straight man humor to his over-the-topness.

Frankly, I wish he
were here now. My vibrating hands and shaky knees are proof that I’m out of
practice when it comes to doing this alone.

Chin up, chest
out, Mikey Sweetheart. You got this.

“Is it gone?”
Dakota’s voice is fifteen feet behind me and timid.

I look back to see
her peeking out of the office. “For now. I think.”

She eases through
the doorway, head, shoulders, and arms first, in slow motion. She’s so tall and
lean and muscular that it reminds me of a video my daughter watched online where
someone had filmed the birth of a baby foal.

Yup, that’ll do
it.

Nothing will put a
damper on a horny crush faster than a loathsome spirit and the thought of horse
vaginas.

I tell her again
that it’s gone—for a while—and we should take this opportunity to get out of
the house and let it recharge, adding, “There’s no need in doing any baseline
checks. I got a visual. You’re not imagining things.”

“You thought I
was
?”

Whoa,
backtrack.
“No, no, not at all. I meant I’m positive you don’t have
anything else going on in here, like a fear cage where the EMF stuff is so
strong, it can give you hallucinations.”

“EMF stuff? Is
that the technical term?”

“Official. Got it
out of the guidebook.”

Dakota giggles and
it’s a melody. I want to make her laugh for the rest of her life.

And mine.

She hugs herself
and tentatively studies the hall and the nearby rooms.

I reassure her, “I
don’t think it’ll bother us. At least not for now.”

“For now?
Ugh
.
And did I hear you say you wanted that thing to recharge? What in God’s name
for?”

I explain the
whole principle of spiritual beings needing and expending energy to manifest or
communicate with the living world. “And by taking the time to recharge, he’s
drawing on any available sources, like the spare batteries in my pockets, your
fear. I mean, seriously, right now you’re probably a walking Tesla coil just
shooting off lightning bolts of ghost juice.”

“And this is
supposed to make me feel better?”

“Just the facts,
ma’am.”

“Right.”

“We should go. Get
you out of here and let it fill up on something else.”

“Tell me why—this
recharge thing you’re talking about.”

“Because it’s easier
to communicate once he builds up enough power to step over to this side again.
When he does, he’s at his most potent, but also his most vulnerable.”

“And that’s what
we want? Strong but vulnerable?”

“When you put it
that way, it makes him sound like Ryan Gosling, but yeah, essentially.”

She nods,
resigned, and looks away. “Now what?”

“Research. We need
to find out who it is.”

“
Was
,” she
reminds me.