Read Online The Dark Man by Desmond Doane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Desmond Doane
Ads: Link
second to realize that a few minutes have passed. I’ve been moved, and instead of lying on the searing sidewalk outside, knocked unconscious, I’m stretched out on Craghorn’s couch. It’s freezing in here.
I quickly sit up. A spark of fear shoots throughout my body—I’m inside, alone, where the dark man is—and then my eyesight swims just enough to send me back down, hand on my forehead and groaning. The coppery hint of blood remains on my tongue and I feel the dried, caked aftereffects of Mike’s headbutt on my upper lip. My eyelids and nose are slightly puffy, and the bulge hinders my vision. When I drop my left arm, I feel an ice pack resting against my thigh.
At least they were a little considerate, and I hold the ice up to my face, wincing and hissing with the pain.
I wonder where Mike and Craghorn are, and it occurs to me that Mike might have been pissed enough to drop me off inside, alone, as a tasty, immobile sacrifice to whatever abomination inhabits this house. If that’s the case, I picture myself tied to a railroad track with a locomotive bearing down on me, horn wailing, but there’s no cowboy in sight coming to my rescue. There’s no flying man in a cape, swooping down to sweep me away. No fireman with a ladder or a helicopter pilot with a dangling harness. You know, standard hero shit.
My mind does that sometimes, goes places. If you’ve spent enough time in silence, as I have, waiting on a sign from the afterlife or something to manifest, it’s easy for your imagination to run unchecked. I should write books. I bet I could give Carter Kane a run for his money.
While I’m pondering my demise and picturing the dark man bearing down upon me, I hear voices in the distance, maybe down the hallway and upstairs, and I realize that it’s Mike and Craghorn.
Thank God they haven’t left me in here entirely alone.
It sounds like an informative discussion, but mostly it’s Mike asking questions and Craghorn responding. He’s such a hushed and beaten-down man, I can barely hear his replies.
Mike says, “That happened in here?” And seconds later, he follows up with, “That was only six months ago? When Detective Thomas came back? Interesting.”
I make a concentrated effort to sit up, but slowly and cautiously, to give my throbbing face and woozy head a chance to catch up. One last groan, and I push myself to my feet.
You’d think I’d be used to things like this now, but there’s a large mirror above the fireplace, and a peek at my own reflection spooks me. I chuckle at how ridiculous this is—the great and mighty ghost hunter scared of himself—but I wasn’t expecting it to be there. Mike would probably say it’s an improvement, because I really do look like Wile E. Coyote hit me in the face with a fat hammer from Acme. Blood is caked in tendrils around my mouth and crawls down my neck. Luckily I’m wearing a black T-shirt, my trademark, so you can’t tell how thoroughly it’s soaked, which is enough for it to pull against my skin when I turn away from the mirror. It’s the same sensation you get when you pull a scab off too early.
I find them in the upstairs hallway. Craghorn is in his submissive stance, hands clasped at his belt buckle, hunched over like he’s waiting to be reprimanded, examining his shoelaces.
At first, I think Mike is simply standing with his arms crossed as he surveys the photographs hanging on the walls, but upon closer inspection, I see that he’s trying to warm himself. If the downstairs was cold, this is igloo territory up here. He sees me coming, drops his hands to his waist, and shakes his head. He tries to say something, but it comes out halting, like trying to start a car on a freezing day.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I probably deserved that.”
Mike clears his throat. “Right,” he says, then adds, “I’ll buy you a beer later.”
“Make it a steak and we’re even.”
He lifts a corner of his mouth in a genuine attempt at a
I quickly sit up. A spark of fear shoots throughout my body—I’m inside, alone, where the dark man is—and then my eyesight swims just enough to send me back down, hand on my forehead and groaning. The coppery hint of blood remains on my tongue and I feel the dried, caked aftereffects of Mike’s headbutt on my upper lip. My eyelids and nose are slightly puffy, and the bulge hinders my vision. When I drop my left arm, I feel an ice pack resting against my thigh.
At least they were a little considerate, and I hold the ice up to my face, wincing and hissing with the pain.
I wonder where Mike and Craghorn are, and it occurs to me that Mike might have been pissed enough to drop me off inside, alone, as a tasty, immobile sacrifice to whatever abomination inhabits this house. If that’s the case, I picture myself tied to a railroad track with a locomotive bearing down on me, horn wailing, but there’s no cowboy in sight coming to my rescue. There’s no flying man in a cape, swooping down to sweep me away. No fireman with a ladder or a helicopter pilot with a dangling harness. You know, standard hero shit.
My mind does that sometimes, goes places. If you’ve spent enough time in silence, as I have, waiting on a sign from the afterlife or something to manifest, it’s easy for your imagination to run unchecked. I should write books. I bet I could give Carter Kane a run for his money.
While I’m pondering my demise and picturing the dark man bearing down upon me, I hear voices in the distance, maybe down the hallway and upstairs, and I realize that it’s Mike and Craghorn.
Thank God they haven’t left me in here entirely alone.
It sounds like an informative discussion, but mostly it’s Mike asking questions and Craghorn responding. He’s such a hushed and beaten-down man, I can barely hear his replies.
Mike says, “That happened in here?” And seconds later, he follows up with, “That was only six months ago? When Detective Thomas came back? Interesting.”
I make a concentrated effort to sit up, but slowly and cautiously, to give my throbbing face and woozy head a chance to catch up. One last groan, and I push myself to my feet.
You’d think I’d be used to things like this now, but there’s a large mirror above the fireplace, and a peek at my own reflection spooks me. I chuckle at how ridiculous this is—the great and mighty ghost hunter scared of himself—but I wasn’t expecting it to be there. Mike would probably say it’s an improvement, because I really do look like Wile E. Coyote hit me in the face with a fat hammer from Acme. Blood is caked in tendrils around my mouth and crawls down my neck. Luckily I’m wearing a black T-shirt, my trademark, so you can’t tell how thoroughly it’s soaked, which is enough for it to pull against my skin when I turn away from the mirror. It’s the same sensation you get when you pull a scab off too early.
I find them in the upstairs hallway. Craghorn is in his submissive stance, hands clasped at his belt buckle, hunched over like he’s waiting to be reprimanded, examining his shoelaces.
At first, I think Mike is simply standing with his arms crossed as he surveys the photographs hanging on the walls, but upon closer inspection, I see that he’s trying to warm himself. If the downstairs was cold, this is igloo territory up here. He sees me coming, drops his hands to his waist, and shakes his head. He tries to say something, but it comes out halting, like trying to start a car on a freezing day.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I probably deserved that.”
Mike clears his throat. “Right,” he says, then adds, “I’ll buy you a beer later.”
“Make it a steak and we’re even.”
He lifts a corner of his mouth in a genuine attempt at a
Similar Books
