Read Online The Dark Man by Desmond Doane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Desmond Doane
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smile. The steak thing, that’s a running joke going back a few years, before the show was a hit, back when we were starving college students who would trade the promise of a high-dollar steak on bets and dares while we stole handfuls of coffee creamer from a convenience store just to have milk for cereal.
That’s old history between us, and it’s gratifying to see that he can’t headbutt good memories in the face.
“You should call that detective,” Mike says. He lifts a digital voice recorder and waggles it. “We need to do a full investigation. Not just an afternoon asking questions. There’s no way we can properly comb this place and then meet him back at the office this evening with some answers.”
I nod toward the recorder. “You catch something?”
“Class A. It’s a strong one.” Mike stares down at the display, breathing heavily through his nose, as he rewinds the recording to the proper timestamp.
“You think it’s …” My words trail off.
Mike doesn’t need me to finish my sentence. He knows. “Do I think it’s the right-hander from the Hopper place?” He pinches his lips together, tilts his head from side to side, lifting his shoulders. “What’re the odds, you know? I don’t think it is. Tone is off, but then again, I was just explaining to Mr. Craghorn about how demonic entities can mimic other spirits, other animals. You know the drill. Anyway … honestly, I think the fact that he called it ‘the dark man’ was a one-in-a-million coincidence. Bad timing, whatever, and, unluckily for you, it was just the right set of words to light a fuse that I wanted lit for two years.”
I chuckle. “If that’s a disguised apology, I accept. What’d you catch?”
“Two voices, actually, and Mr. Craghorn, if you don’t want to hear this again, it’s fine if you step away.”
Craghorn slowly lifts his head. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Mike waits until Craghorn is gone, head disappearing below the landing, footsteps whispering through the hallway, before he holds the digital voice recorder up and plays the audio file.
There’s silence, followed by Mike’s flip-flops slapping against his heels, and then comes the sound of a doorknob. The creaking hinges groan like they’re right off a Hollywood movie. Mike’s voice says lightly, “Mark time at 5:38, that was Mr. Craghorn opening his bedroom door.”
Paranormal investigators tag our own noises and manmade sounds, marking the location on our recordings, so when we go back to review our tapes for evidence we don’t get our hopes up if we’re the cause of something going bump in the night.
Mike’s voice again, saying, “The energy in here is overwhelming. It’s dark … a dark energy. Jesus, I could cry right now.”
Which is followed by Craghorn mumbling, “Welcome to my life.”
I hear the floorboards screech with the weight of a step, and Mike marks the time on that one as well. Now that I conduct investigations on my own, I’ll typically let some standard sounds go, rather than tagging a sniffle or something like that every few minutes. I’ve done this enough to recognize that my own footsteps on a creaky floor don’t need to be marked. It’s second nature at this point, but I get the feeling that Mike is being overly cautious, or perhaps he’s skittish about hopping back on the bicycle again after a long absence.
Mike, the actual one in the hallway with me, says, “Listen. The first EVP is right here.” There’s more silence, with a hint of moving air in the background, and I recognize that it’s Mike’s anxious breathing. Something has spooked him. “Did you see that?” his voice asks. “That ball of light in the corner?”
Mike points at the recorder. “Right here.”
I lean down, turn my ear closer, and hear, “ I’m sorry, love .”
“Wow,” I whisper.
“Keep listening.”
The same voice, a female’s, says, “ Make it go .”
“Make it go?” I repeat.
“Yeah. That’s it for those. Let
That’s old history between us, and it’s gratifying to see that he can’t headbutt good memories in the face.
“You should call that detective,” Mike says. He lifts a digital voice recorder and waggles it. “We need to do a full investigation. Not just an afternoon asking questions. There’s no way we can properly comb this place and then meet him back at the office this evening with some answers.”
I nod toward the recorder. “You catch something?”
“Class A. It’s a strong one.” Mike stares down at the display, breathing heavily through his nose, as he rewinds the recording to the proper timestamp.
“You think it’s …” My words trail off.
Mike doesn’t need me to finish my sentence. He knows. “Do I think it’s the right-hander from the Hopper place?” He pinches his lips together, tilts his head from side to side, lifting his shoulders. “What’re the odds, you know? I don’t think it is. Tone is off, but then again, I was just explaining to Mr. Craghorn about how demonic entities can mimic other spirits, other animals. You know the drill. Anyway … honestly, I think the fact that he called it ‘the dark man’ was a one-in-a-million coincidence. Bad timing, whatever, and, unluckily for you, it was just the right set of words to light a fuse that I wanted lit for two years.”
I chuckle. “If that’s a disguised apology, I accept. What’d you catch?”
“Two voices, actually, and Mr. Craghorn, if you don’t want to hear this again, it’s fine if you step away.”
Craghorn slowly lifts his head. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Mike waits until Craghorn is gone, head disappearing below the landing, footsteps whispering through the hallway, before he holds the digital voice recorder up and plays the audio file.
There’s silence, followed by Mike’s flip-flops slapping against his heels, and then comes the sound of a doorknob. The creaking hinges groan like they’re right off a Hollywood movie. Mike’s voice says lightly, “Mark time at 5:38, that was Mr. Craghorn opening his bedroom door.”
Paranormal investigators tag our own noises and manmade sounds, marking the location on our recordings, so when we go back to review our tapes for evidence we don’t get our hopes up if we’re the cause of something going bump in the night.
Mike’s voice again, saying, “The energy in here is overwhelming. It’s dark … a dark energy. Jesus, I could cry right now.”
Which is followed by Craghorn mumbling, “Welcome to my life.”
I hear the floorboards screech with the weight of a step, and Mike marks the time on that one as well. Now that I conduct investigations on my own, I’ll typically let some standard sounds go, rather than tagging a sniffle or something like that every few minutes. I’ve done this enough to recognize that my own footsteps on a creaky floor don’t need to be marked. It’s second nature at this point, but I get the feeling that Mike is being overly cautious, or perhaps he’s skittish about hopping back on the bicycle again after a long absence.
Mike, the actual one in the hallway with me, says, “Listen. The first EVP is right here.” There’s more silence, with a hint of moving air in the background, and I recognize that it’s Mike’s anxious breathing. Something has spooked him. “Did you see that?” his voice asks. “That ball of light in the corner?”
Mike points at the recorder. “Right here.”
I lean down, turn my ear closer, and hear, “ I’m sorry, love .”
“Wow,” I whisper.
“Keep listening.”
The same voice, a female’s, says, “ Make it go .”
“Make it go?” I repeat.
“Yeah. That’s it for those. Let
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