Dark Night

I get letters and emails all the time, it comes with the territory when you do freelance journalism in a field where people desperately want to be believed. It’s why I have a post office box; if I had all this stuff, it would bury the door to my apartment. Most of it is crap from businesses looking for an endorsement saying they are "haunted" to drum up business and I don't do that. I have it on my website that I don't do that. It’s in the disclaimer at the end of every article I write that I don't do that. Yet here I am, loading a box of letters into my bag, and most of them ask me to look into their haunted business. Mind you, if I did I could afford a nicer apartment and car, but that would torpedo any integrity I held as a journalist.

Amongst the swarm sat one envelope that stood out above the rest. It was post marked here in Michigan. I tore it open and read the letter, mostly because I don't get much out of state mail.

"Dear Mr. Ned Spencer,

This house is haunted. Needs your help. Disaster imminent. Come quickly.

Beverly."

Short and straight to the point. The handwriting was not bad, hints of the feminine to its swirls. The paper was old, musty smelling and felt weird to my fingertips. I drove back home and got me a cup of coffee, setting the letter the counter. Scott, my black and white boxer/pit mix came out of the bedroom and took a few mouthfuls of food before sitting on the floor and looking at the letter. He was a product of one of my more recent stories, at the end of which found him needing a home and me needing a friend.

I considered his looking at the letter. "What, do you think it is legit?"

He whined.

"You realize that means a road trip, a long road trip."

He groaned and laid down. "You think they need our help?"

He looked to me and then the letter and back to me.

"Let me call hotels. You know, you complicate things."

He barked his protest. "Well ya do, and if you crap in the car this time you are walking home."

I looked at the envelope. "Lakehaven, Michigan. That sounds peaceful."

Because freelance journalists aren't exactly rolling in dough, I was going to have to drive there, but it allotted me to kill two spooky birds with one stone. Along the way I visited various reportedly haunted historical sites, took some notes and some photographs, chatted with the locals and that gave me enough base material to do stories for each state. When you are your own boss, you are always on the clock.

The drive was pretty easy, we made it as a straight shot, no long breaks except to let Scott run around and poop and the score mentioned info grabbing, which often coincided. That would be a fun article "Historical Hauntings My Dog Pissed At."

Hitting Lakehaven, we made a burger run and went to the local hotel to check in. The room was really why I didn't fly. Well that and if I have to leave town fast I can do so without booking a flight or turning in a rental. I could claim it was because of Scott but it’s a practice I've held for a long time. But driving also freed up cash for hotels that didn't smell like a gas station bathroom.

Both Scott and I crashed for the night watching some late night TV. We woke mid-morning and I mapped out the address in short order, and then put my notes in order. It was a residential neighborhood tucked into the south side of the city, bordered by a strip mall of some of the major stores, which made it a pretty high traffic area. This was unusual to say the least.

The house itself was a two story residence and I could tell it had a basement due to the ground level windows. The house was flanked by similar homes and the whole street felt cramped and I started to wonder about the validity of this haunting. Not to be cryptic, but hauntings usually don't get reported in high traffic areas, most of the goings on of ghosts are attributed to life in the city. Out in the country with miles between neighbors, you notice odd voices where none should be. In the heart of a city, there are easy explanations.

Scott gave a low growl as we approached the front porch, not backing but certainly not keen on going in. Getting closer I could hear arguing, not the knock-down drag out fights where you start calling names, but more the stressed "what are we going to do..." arguing. This behavior was in keeping with a haunting.

I knocked on the door and the voices stopped. After a pause the door opened and an unshaven man appeared. He was dressed in a white t-shirt and sweat pants, his wife behind him in a hoodie and jeans. "Can...Can we help you?" He asked skeptically.

I extended my hand, "Yes, I'm Ned Spencer, Beverly wrote for me."

Shock and confusion spread across their faces as they looked to each other. A girl, maybe in her early teens came down the stairs. "Beverly?" She asked looking at who I hoped were her parents. Hey, don't judge me I've seen some weird shit, and not all of it paranormal.

"Yes..." I pulled the letter from my pocket "I have it here."

The husband took the letter from me, looked it over and handed it to his wife. "When...when did you get it?"

"I received it a few days ago. See the post mark. It took me a while to drive up here. Is something...wrong?"

"Yeah..." He laughed on the verge of hysterics. "The last Beverly to live here died forty years ago."

I felt it; my story just went from run of the mill haunted house to full blown Twilight Zone in thirty seconds, again.

"Peachy."

End Part 1