Authors: Desmond Doane
The White Night (24 page)
Nope.
Without warning,
and totally unlike Mike ‘The Exterminator’ Long, he sets his beer on the
counter, hangs his head, and opens the floodgates. Shoulders bobbing, tears
streaking down his cheeks, mouth twisted sideways in abject anguish.
Holy shit, that’s
an ugly cry if I’ve ever seen one.
It makes my heart
ache. “Aw, buddy,” I say, moving over to him.
Nobody ever said
that bromances couldn’t involve hugs. I put my arms around Mike’s shoulders and
pull him in, letting him rest his forehead on my collarbone. “It’s gonna be
fine, dude. If anybody can sympathize over what this feels like, then you’re
snotting all over his shirt. It sucks balls, big hairy ones, and it feels like
someone is squeezing your lungs every time you take a breath, but it’ll pass.
It really will.”
We hold that pose
until his sobbing subsides, and then he pulls away, gently headbutting my
clavicle a couple of times in bro-like acknowledgement. He gives me an
embarrassed grin and wipes his cheeks. “I don’t know how you handled it for so
long. I’m sorry, man. I…”
“You don’t have
anything to apologize for.”
“It felt good to
let that go.”
“Always does.”
“Do I smell
burgers?”
“Yeah. But you’ll
have to fight Ulie for the second one.”
And that’s the end
of the Time That Mike Long Cried.
We eat. We chat.
We get slightly buzzed on what few beers I have. He declines when I suggest
that I could call a delivery service. “Too tired,” he says. “I’ll be out by
sundown. You know how long the fucking drive is out here?”
I learn that Toni
has been cheating on him—I’m not surprised—and yet, she’ll get anything he has left
because of the video. He’s positive of that. He compliments Dakota and her
resolve; he says that they had a little talk before he left.
“She’s amazing,
and it’ll be good,” he says, “one of these days. But now it’s weird, you know?
For me, I mean. Seeing myself in that video, remembering the things I saw while
that fucker was inside of me. I need to cleanse myself first. I feel dirty.”
“What’d you see?”
I ask.
“Hell. I
literally
saw what hell looks like. Black fire. Screaming souls. What everybody imagines,
you know? I don’t know if maybe I was recreating an image I’d seen before in my
mind, but goddamn, did it ever
feel
real.”
I’ve been holding
onto this for a couple of hours now, figuring I should wait for the right time.
I tell him about Lauren Coeburn and the black-eyed children. I tell him what
the Lauren Thing said to me right before I jammed a fireplace poker through its
neck.
“Son of a bitch,”
Mike says. We’re leaning over the balcony, looking down at Portland proper
below us. He reaches over and slaps me on the back. “Sounds like Boogerface wants
you to meet him down at the OK Corral. Showdown at high noon, right?”
Here it is. Here’s
the true reveal. What’s behind the secret door?
“Let’s do it,
Mike.”
“Do what?”
“The documentary.
I’m in.”
I thought he
would’ve been more excited. Instead, he continues to peel the label off his
beer bottle. “A week ago, I would’ve kissed you on the lips. But now? Sure, if
that’s what you want. Let’s fight the bastard and be done with this shit.”
“That’s the plan.
It’s all about Chelsea now. I can’t believe I’m actually going to give Carla Hancock
what she wants, but we have to protect Chelsea. That’s priority number one, no
matter what. Priority number two—now that we both could use a little redemption
in the eyes of God and everybody underneath him, let’s kick some demon ass and
ride off into the sunset like heroes.”
“Win and walk
away?”
I nod. “Win and
walk away.”
We shake on it,
and I take the opportunity to rub the scruff on his head. “What in the hell is
up with your hair? Looks like somebody got after a pair of bull’s balls with a
set of dull clippers.”
“Hey, don’t knock
it. I’m trying something new.”
Later, we move
into the living room and flop down on the couch on opposite ends. The TV goes
on, and I hurriedly flip through the channels, careful to avoid anything that
might be talking about Mike and that damn video.
I settle on yet
another rerun of
Yes, Chef!
, this one also featuring Dakota—it seems
like they all do—and it’s one I haven’t seen before.
Mike says, “Watch
what she does with this porterhouse, Ford. She could make a grown man weep for
joy.” I look over at him and watch the corners of his mouth pull up into a soft
smile, flush with pride and admiration. “She’s a magician. It’s like she’s
David Copperfield with a filet knife.”
Nice.
It’s good to see
him on the other side.
And by that I mean
the right side of happiness.
At least for the
time being, because God only knows if either one of us is truly prepared to
take on Boogerface.
Chelsea Hopper
Chelsea wakes up,
having dreamed of fangs and smoke in her lungs, black fire and claws, people
burning alive in a pool of yellow, foul-smelling water. The dreams are getting
worse. Horrible, ghastly dreams that leave her legs shaky as she pushes herself
up from her bed. It’s still dark out, but her nightlight illuminates the room and
she’s relieved to see that she doesn’t have cloven hooves like in the
nightmare.
She
wants
to be strong,
is
strong for her age. People tell her all the time.
She’s so tired,
though.
And angry. The
dreams fill her belly with hatred.
For her school,
her teacher, and her principal.
Tania has been
gone for a week now. She won’t be back for a long while.
Dylan’s mouth is
wired shut. He looks so sad, so pathetic.
People feel sorry
for him.
The entire school
has turned against her.
Chelsea leaves her
bedroom and drags her fingers along the wood paneling through the dark of night
until she feels the opening of the bathroom, hoping she doesn’t wake her
parents. She enters, shuts the door behind her, and turns on the lights above
the sink.
In the mirror,
it’s her.
Of course it is.
It’s always her.
Her hair is
blonde, hasn’t been burnt away. Her ears don’t rise into sharp points. Her
fingers aren’t long, bony, and tipped with razor-sharp claws. Her skin is fine.
It’s white, like it’s supposed to be, rather than gray and pockmarked with
craters and blisters, oozing with pus.
She pulls open the
front of her pajamas.
No gross parts
have sprouted like those of a filthy, disgusting boy demon.
In a way, she’s
disappointed.
Chelsea lifts her
gaze and stares at the young girl looking back at her.
She opens her
mouth, baring her teeth, spit glistening on her gums.
Chelsea hisses, tasting
ashes in the back of her throat as the mirror splinters, shattering her
reflection into a thousand jagged points.
She giggles.
Soon
.
***
Dear Reader,
Thanks for reading
The White Night
! There were times during the writing process when I
freaked myself out so much that I would have to get up and walk away from the
keyboard. I know the story was intense, but I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope that
you had many sweet, lovely, candy-filled dreams while reading this novel because
I certainly didn’t during the creative process.
If you would like
to be notified as soon as new Desmond Doane fiction becomes available,
click here to sign up for the free, no
obligations mailing list
. There are plenty of benefits other than new release
notifications, like free books and awesome giveaways, so be sure to join us!
Ford and Mike will
be back soon in the third installment of this series. I won’t say it’ll be the
final novel in the
Graveyard: Classified
collection, but you’ll
definitely get some resolution to the storyline between these two paranormal
warriors and (*
ahem
*) Boogerface.
If you’ve made it
this far and have yet to notice, Desmond Doane is a pen name for my paranormal
suspense novels. The bulk of my fiction has been written and published under my
own name, Ernie Lindsey, and if you enjoy fast-paced mystery, thriller, and
suspense books, I’d like to invite you to check out the rest of my work. Sara’s
Game would be a great place to start if you’re looking for something else to read
while you wait on Ford and Mike to return!
Independent
authors such as myself rely on a host of people to make this work: editors,
proofreaders, cover designers, and early readers. You all know who you are.
Thank you. That said, this is a career that would not be possible without the
encouragement of my patient and amazing wife. I wouldn’t be able to make up
stories to tell you without her support.
It also wouldn’t
be possible without you, friends, fans, and booklovers, who take the time to
read what we authors create. If you’ve enjoyed this novel, and the series so
far, please consider leaving an honest review on Amazon. The little guys like
me, who do so much work on our own, in addition to the writing, depend on
reviews from readers to help spread the word. Keep in mind that it doesn’t have
to be much—a couple of sentences can help sway a new reader’s opinion!
Thanks again for
making it this far, and I’ll see you on the other side.
Ernie/Desmond
August 2015