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

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