The Dark Man by Desmond Doane Read Free Book Online Page A

“Go to hell.”
    If he sees my number on the caller ID, he might not pick up.
    But, Jesus, I hope he does. After what I saw inside the Craghorn place, I don’t just want his help, I need it. There’s no one else in the world that I would trust with this level of evil.
    Outside the house, it’s 104 degrees here on the sidewalk, but I’m shivering. Detective Thomas paces back and forth, snorting like a dragon, mumbling empty, macho threats about going back inside because he never backs down from a fight. I notice he’s not in a hurry to go back up the stairs.
    Dave Craghorn sits on the bottom step, hunched over, cradling himself. There’s a small patch of hair missing on the side of his head. I can see it from here.
    My hand instinctively goes up to the back of my neck when I feel a burning sensation, but then I realize it’s just the sun beating down. There’s no demon out here clawing me. That’s how it usually starts, though, with the scratches. You feel like a patch of your skin is on fire, it’ll take on a subtle pink hue like it’s a superficial burn, then the marks will gradually show up. I’ve had angry spirits claw me more times than I care to recall, but I’ve never seen anything powerful enough to rip the hair right out of someone’s head.
    Well, that’s not necessarily true. I can think of one other that was just as strong.
    Two years ago. A faded pistachio house in Cleveland.
    I stare at my phone, Mike’s number is sitting there on the screen, almost as if it’s pulsing, throbbing, alive and waiting on me to take the chance. I have to; Mike needs to see this. I press “Send” and hold the cell up to my ear, air caught in my lungs.
    A warm breeze whips through the space between the homes to my right, pushes my hair to the side, yet offers no relief. With the temperature and humidity combined, it feels like a steaming column erupting from a kettle.
    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