John lies on his bed, eyes wide open as he replays every memory of his long-lost daughter. Her name was Lilly, and she was the definition of love to him. He lost his purpose in life when he lost her, and he hasn’t been able to find himself ever since. The day she went missing was the day he became determined to understand the afterlife. He longs to see her again. To hold her in his arms, to feel her breath, her flowery scent, her life. Every day is his own purgatory, as Lilly’s memories roam around freely in his mind.
Nonstop.
He closes his eyes as if getting ready to sleep. Even though he can’t seem to remember the last time he had more than 4 hours of sleep, as the nightmares keep him awake. Into Morpheus’ arms, he always says before going to bed. Maybe this God will be able to help me.
Lilly’s memories consume John while he’s awake, but even more when he’s asleep. The innocence of her laughter as he used to chase her in their backyard. “Hey daddy! Look at me!” Lilly yells at him, desperate for his attention, as she twirls like a ballerina on her opening night. When she turned 5, a few weeks before she disappeared, Lilly woke up and exclaimed, “I’m going to be a ballerina, and there’s nothing you can do about it!” There was no debating her, so John and Sarah chuckled and obliged. John runs toward Sarah and kisses her with an overwhelming tenderness as they look at Lilly with great vainglory. She falls and gets up right away, unfazed.
John was so entranced by her, he forgot to look around. All sense of precaution had left his body, and his nerve-wrenching paranoia, non-existent. His feelings infused havoc in John. I think I might be in heaven, as he experienced his daughter’s growth and personality change. Perhaps he could have done something about the shape lurking in the shadows. The shadow looking at them from afar.
How did he not notice the shadow stalking them? The looming darkness surrounding and embracing the light of his life: Lilly. A shadow that was always there, in pictures, gatherings, in minds and hearts.
Now, this may seem out of the blue, but I want to discuss a little philosophy from one of my favorite philosophers, Immanuel Kant. According to him, humans are unique
because they have free will which means that they can choose to act morally, regardless of external pressures. But these moral decisions must be done out of duty itself, not because of fear, reward, or personal benefit.
I state this only because humans are above my understanding, the reason I delve into their knowledge is to try to make sense of them all. Their actions, inaction, ingenuity and stupidity.
I ask you, reader, grab this definition of humanity and place yourself in John’s shoes, but be brutally honest (if you’re not, I will know…):
What would you do if your daughter went missing and you never found her? Would you be able to retain your humanity and continue to act morally?
Think it through… Wouldn’t the means justify the end in this scenario? Would you kill to find out what happened to her? Would you give your life for hers? Your soul? Some of John’s actions won’t make sense to you going forward. And that’s okay, that’s humans being humans. The truth is… that his array of decisions led him where he is, it’s his own fault. Free will and such.
Alright, let’s get back to our protagonist. John’s in his house, lying in bed looking at the ceiling as he squints his eyes. He’s deep inside his head, but a thought startles him. He jumps out of bed and runs over to his chair, typing away with vigor on the keyboard. The room surrounding him is half empty. He gets up and runs to his bookshelf, brushing his fingers on each book as he looks like he’s trying to find an answer to something important. Most of these books look ancient.
His fingers brush through titles like “Holy Bible / King James Version,” “The Exorcist,” “Lovecraft Country,” “The Edge of Evil,” “Demonology, by King James 1,” among what seem to be thousands of books on religion, the paranormal, and the occult.
Every wall’s covered in black, and there’s only one light dimming the room: a laptop with two monitors attached to it. John, an elongated, awkward looking ‘Blatino’ man (how he calls himself when asked where he’s from), runs back to his keyboard. He wears red, torn-down boxer shorts. The room is a mess, but he doesn’t seem to care. The way he devours some leftover pizza and stares at the screen tells on him. He appears to have a wandering right eye as well, as it drifts off to the right quite often.
“Daddy, do your frog face!” Lilly would ask of him, implying he looked like a frog when his tired eye wandered off. He turns to his watch, eyes bloodshot. The dial marks 2 AM and the room feels like a ship sailing toward the end of the world. You gotta go to bed, man, stop this nonsense, but he keeps on typing away. He types with a subtle glamour. In the top right corner of the monitor: 269,000 subscribers. John glances at it with pride as he writes the finishing sentence of the blog:
‘This will forever be a mystery. Can two individuals, unaware of each other’s existence and separated by 10,000 miles, share the same life experiences? Both chemical engineers who married women who, coincidentally have the same name. Then having kids the same age, who also share the same names. Now these kids want to become doctors, both of them. Is this merely chance? Is it a glitch? Are we all part of some greater plan and we are all united
by a kind of societal-pattern? Where we must all live the same lives over and over again, die, reincarnate and do the same things, but in different contexts? I’ll read your thoughts on the comment section. Have a lovely night, one day closer to the unknown.’
ENTER. The laptop fan rises like breath. As soon as he presses the key, all three of his monitors turn to static and glitch. Midst the static, a screeching sound blasts through the speakers, and a shape resembling a document file appears on the middle screen. The blurry text on the file seems to say, “LILLY_411.MP3.” He rubs his eyes, making everything more blurry. But when his eyesight comes back, his monitors look normal, as if nothing had happened. So he powers his computer off and jumps into bed. With tired eyes, he looks at his nightstand. In the middle of it stands a picture of him and a little girl. Her head’s filled with a prominent set of black hair, hair so big it seems that a shadow looms over her at all times, but John has never noticed this. They are both looking at each other, smiling. He gazes at the ceiling and lays his head on the pillow. Night baby girl, he thinks as he closes his eyes.
Tic Toc Tic TOC. A muffled clock sounds far away. And then drums. Low-pitched bass drums: patient thumps, like someone knocking from under the floorboards. These followed by higher pitched lead drums, faster in rhythm, improvised and moving over the lower pitched ones. These start slow and then turn into violent bursts of rhythm; rhythm designated to tease the ancestors awake.
Silence. John wakes up on an open field and looks at the horizon. Infinite fields in front of him, fields that stare back at him with intent. The fields and sky turn gray in an instant, and time seems to stop. All the hairs on his body stand up in unison. He can sense his stomach regurgitating, and feels the need to run, but he’s not able to. Dread fills his body, as if freezing rain covered him with the strength of a hurricane. He closes his eyes, and he’s not in a field anymore. He is somewhere else, a dark place where disembodied voices scream and wail all around him. These voices move fast and are impossible to see. This is purgatory, is all he’s able to think.
A little girl cries and sobs. John kneels down on the floor crying, broken. He recognizes this voice as Lilly’s. And he knows there’s nothing he can do to help or stop her from crying.
“You are not real, please baby, go to rest. Please leave me alone.” John screams as he holds his face in his hands. The little girl’s crying voice intensifies as it gets louder and louder until there’s no more sounds anymore and it all turns muted. Silence. The wailing voices have stopped.
He can hear small steps in the distance, splashing in the rain. Little footsteps approaching him. Slow footsteps hitting the cold wet floor.
“Splash, splash,” the small feet chant through water that isn’t there.
Lilly whispers in John’s ear, “I’ll never leave you, Daddy. I already died once. I can’t die again, silly!” The voice drops an octave with each repetition of the same sentence. Laughter swells, the wrong kind, canned and cruel. “I can’t die again!” With a lower pitch.
“I can’t die again!” With a growl and a darker pitch. Laughter surrounds him, sounding like thousands of people mocking John.
“It was all your fault, Daddy!” Now she sounds like a cacophony of growling voices, sounding like millions of animals screaming.
Then a whisper presses to his ear, “Stop digging, John. Or she’s mine. Forever. Trust me, I know how to make her cry.” John wakes up choking, crying and sobbing. He can’t stop the tears. The duvet is damp at the hem. This is odd. He now notices on the hardwood, two wet small footprints. He stares at them, dumbfounded. Breathe, John, breathe. This is all in your head… He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, the footprints are still there. So he stands up, wipes his eyes with his hands, disconnects his phone from the charger and takes a picture of the footprints. These are her size…
He slips into his gym clothes, places his earphones and heads out of the house. With a blank stare, he looks at Lilly’s picture and states, “One day I’ll find you, my light. I promise.” He’s about to head out of the house when he hears his laptop breathing and fanning in a way he’d never heard it before. He turns back, and the monitors are on. But… I turned them off last night. So he opens his laptop, and the Media Player app is open already. What the…? The name of the file loaded is the same file he saw midst the static last night: “LILLY_411.MP3.” He hesitates to play the file, but his mind, his always inquisitive mind cannot control itself. He presses play.
A low static plays on his speakers, with nothing but static noise plays in John’s room. But then a murmur, a low hum, a child’s… Lilly’s.
“Ddd —… ddadddd —khh… Dad dddd y?” John’s eyes water, he’s unable to move. “Dddd add ddy? Cacaca— khh —nnnnnn ccccann you you you y o u …— hearrr me?” The audio clips hard, then a concussive pop. There’s a loud bang coming from the speakers now and the file stops. Tears come out of John’s defeated eyes. He tries to play the file once more, and a message appears ‘Corrupted File. The File was not able to load.’ So John tries again, same message. Once more, same message.
Click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click on the keyboard… nothing. His breath intensifies in strength and frequency. Breathe, John, breathe.
He holds his head with his left hand, takes a deep breath, opens his desk drawer, takes out a USB, connects it to the laptop and copies the file onto it. He gets up and leaves the apartment, not a word said, but thoughts. Deep, dark thoughts that begin creeping in his mind, thoughts he’s never shared before to the world, but only to the spirit realm. Thoughts of anger, of rage, of vengeance, of fear, and of death. Thoughts of determination, but mostly of despair. Determination of what he’s about to do next, but despair on what the outcome might be.
John works as a real estate agent and although he loves his job, he dreams of becoming a full-time ‘paranormal investigator’ (although I hate that title, it’s so cliché). He’s investigated hundreds of cases so far, ranging from unexplained deaths, disappearances and full-on paranormal cases. He loves to travel to all places for a deep dive into his research. He’s traveled all around the globe by now, and if you’ve heard of the case, he’s probably already dug into it by now. His
curiosity about the paranormal began when he was 12 and, according to him, “A demon tried to possess him, but for some reason couldn’t.” But he found his true purpose the moment his daughter went missing.
“The most interesting thing about being a real estate agent is the people and stories they tell you about their lives and houses,” he tells anyone who meets him, it’s exhausting hearing him repeat the same line over and over again. “There’s always a story there.” John has made it his job to investigate every story that’s told to him and create a discussion with his followers. This is what his blog’s about: investigating paranormal stories and reaching a conclusion after his due-diligence and research. Sometimes he travels outside of the US to perform an on site investigation.
Back at his apartment, John stuffs down his mouth with a massive burger, even bigger than his hand. Mid bite, his phone rings, causing him to drop some lettuce and tomato sauce onto his shirt. “Shit!” And he picks up the phone. “Hello, John the Realtor on the phone,” nothing but silence on the other end. “Hello? How can I help you?”
A woman with a muffled voice speaks. “Hello… Is this John?”
“Yes, how can I help you? And your name is?” “Oh yes, Carol…” and an uncomfortable pause follows her statement.
“Ok, Carol. How can I help you?” “I need to sell my house ASAP. Please help me.” Her voice trembles and John notices.
“Yes, of course. You’ve come to the right person. Give me your address and I’ll be there whenever you tell me to.”
“All right, please come by today. Like I said, I need to sell it
today if possible. It’s 876 Boulevard Avenue, Los Angeles.”
“Okay, no problemo, I’ll be there at 3:00 p.m. It’s near my office!” No problemo? What the hell, man. His office being, in reality, his small apartment. But he must “sound professional” at all times.
“Okay, thank you,” and hangs up, making John squint his eyes and furrow his brows in confusion.
As John’s about to head out of the house, a notification comes up on his phone from an app called X. It reads “Truck Driver dies of heart attack in Uber from unknown circumstances.” Prompting John’s sixth sense to scream at him to open the news article. He calls this ‘The Illuminati.’ An inside joke that makes him chuckle every single time. His weird sense of humor makes him speak and laugh with himself quite often, like a madman does. He even has entire conversations with himself in the shower. You see the Lakers drafted Simons? Haha yeah, he’s not gonna make it in the NBA. You see what I mean? Full on psycho.
‘The Illuminati’ means that this voice in his head illuminates and paves the way, giving him special investigatory powers. But he doesn’t understand the true scope of this ‘Illuminati’ thing, though. He opens the article, and it states:
“Wife, 48, claims that he didn’t have heart issues, and he was in top health; but, what the strangest part about that day was that he was supposed to be working with his colleague and his colleague ditched him in the middle of nowhere. We are still looking for more sources in this story.”
His eyes widen, and eyebrows stand up. At a simple glance, it doesn’t show signs of any supernatural components to it. But John knows, at the bottom of his heart, that this isn’t normal news.
He snatches his briefcase with such force that a couple of pens fall out of it. A black, leather, but rather empty briefcase he uses to appear more professional. John then walks over to his black Toyota Yaris, muttering indistinguishable words to himself, not acknowledging his neighbor waving at him in the process.
He reaches the address and the first thing he notices is the police tape across the entrance of the house. He hops slowly out of the car and walks toward the door. As he’s about to ring the doorbell, a feeling arises that bubbles up and reaches his throat; this fermentation process makes John sick to his body, not only his stomach. He rings the doorbell, hesitant. The woman opens, as if she expected the doorbell to ring in that very same instant. When she opens the door, a faint smell of decomposing meat reaches John’s nostrils, swaying its way inside of him. This must be a death house…
“Sorry for the tape and the mess. We are still trying to figure things out,” she says with her voice shaking, fragile. John smiles at her, but his body shakes as soon as he looks at her. She looks normal enough to him, but there’s something off about her at the same time. Ordinary, yet unsettling… In front of him stands a tall woman with a larger-than-usual head. John always tries not to focus on the physical, but she looks odd. Her eye sockets look sunken and gray. It could be from all the crying… John’s always trying to rationalize everything.
“Don’t worry, nice to meet you. I’m John,” He extends his hand, and she grabs it and nods at him. Her grip is strong. As he grabs her hand, he can’t help to sense her grief as it transfers from her hand to his. It’s a feeling that presses hard on his chest and never lets go. “Did something happen
here? I don’t mean to be intrusive, but I need to know for transparency toward the clients. Mrs…”
“My name is Carol, and…” Carol breaks into wails with her shoulders hunched as she holds her face with her hands. She looks broken and distraught. John stays silent and freezes into place, waiting for her to finish crying. He tries not to stare at her, so he moves his head, thinking of ways to fence off the awkwardness. After a couple of agonizing minutes for John, Carol stops her wailing. She tells him, “My sister and nephew died in this house. I know you need to disclose this legally to potential buyers, but please find a way to not do that. We want this nightmare to end, please…” She grabs John’s hands, pleading.
John hesitates to answer. The legal answer was no. The human answer, looking at her face, refused to come out. “Su-sure thing, will try to be as discreet as possible,” he claims as he stutters. His eyes and mouth widen though, almost the same size as his giant burger earlier that day. It takes a while, but he notices this, so he consciously decides to close his mouth. What’s the matter with you, John… restrain yourself. He steps inside the house, one foot at a time. “Excuse me…” “The house has three bedrooms, three bathrooms, kitchen, living room and two garage spots. All the info is in this brochure. Feel free to browse the house and take pictures…” She extends her hand, gives the brochure to John and crosses her arms while tapping her feet.
She must be annoyed with this whole situation. What if I asked her what happened to her sister and nephew? John thinks to himself and then shakes the question from his head. Stupid intrusive thoughts.
“Okay, I will take a look around if you don’t mind,” so Carol
nods.
The furniture all over the house looks old, 70, 80s vintage style. And, although it isn’t meaningful for the context, it still leaves a print on him. Makes him think about the life of the previous owners. How they lived their day-to-day, how the little kid must have jumped on the couches and his mother tried to refrain him from doing so, scolding him a couple of times. How she called out for him to eat breakfast in the dining room, and he must have yelled back sometimes. Because, well, that’s what little kids do when they reach puberty. How could I know if he reached puberty or not? How they watched TV in front of the couch on the weekends.
This brought back memories from Lilly. Suddenly, Lilly was the one jumping on the couches, laughing, running through the house, watching TV as she fits a handful of popcorn in her mouth. John turns to the kitchen and Lilly stares at him, with a grin. He turns to the hallway and there’s Lilly again, smirking. He then turns to where Carol stands and Carol isn’t there anymore, she’s been replaced with Lilly. She speaks, but it’s the same voice as in his dreams, “Hey daddy, will you play with me?” He screams, and Carol grabs his arm.
“Are you okay?” Her big, sunken eyes stare into him full of empathy.
“Yes, yes, sorry for that.” “I get it. It happens to me sometimes as well. Especially in this house… So many memories.”
He nods. “I’ll keep going. I’m sorry.” He walks through the house, taking pictures and videos of every space in the house. Anything that will help him make a good sales pitch. He walks through the first floor corridors,
notices there’s a basement to his left, but decides to not take pictures of it. He turns around and walks up the staircase, not without first noticing a black smudge right at the beginning of the stairs. This smudge really awakens his curiosity, as it seems like mold, or dirt, but it’s just an irregular circle in the middle of the room. It doesn’t make sense. He places his hand on top of the smudge and his body twitches with his mind seemingly turning off, static filling his mind and body. Like a thunderbolt has hit him without mercy. What the fuck? He gains full mobility, but now knows this place is special, and that smudge is not from this dimension. He decides to not tell Carol anything about this episode, so he proceeds to take photos of the entirety of the house.
As John’s finishing his tour and about to leave the house, he notices a clock in the living room with the corner of his eye. That’s not a normal clock… For starters, the clock hands aren’t moving, but John can hear the ticking sound of their incessant movement. He shakes Carol’s hand, but his eyes wander over to the clock. He wants to ask more questions, but at the same time, doesn’t. He’s trapped between two contradicting choices, something that happens to him quite often. John wants to leave the awkwardness behind, but also longs for the uncomfortable answers.
He tells her he’s going to call her later in the day if he were to have any more questions and heads over to his car with a big smile. The kind of smile kids have when they get a new toy. The kind of smile Lilly gave him when, after months of pleading on her side, he got her that doll she always wanted. The cabbage doll. Oh, how she loved that frickin’ doll.
When he’s exiting the front door, a voice known to him whispers in his ear: “Do it. You know you need to. You won’t
sleep over it. Just. DO.IT.” The low, dark voice demands of him. So he notes it down in a small notebook he keeps in his jacket as a reminder to do it later. He walks outside the house, shaking Carol’s hand before leaving and believes he saw her eyes sinking into her skull, turning into a black void as they sink, deeper and deeper. That can’t be, right? He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, her eyes look normal and she’s frowning at his demeanor. “Have a good day, Carol. I’ll give you a call.”
As he drives back to his house, lingering doubts set camp in his mind. What’s up with that clock? Why am I getting fixated over it? This new house and possible investigation hops in his mind like a kid with an ice cream, spilling droplets of creamy liquid everywhere. He takes out a phone from his jacket’s front pocket. It’s a Nokia 2110, 1995 edition. He puts it back in the pocket and reaches inside another pocket and takes out the latest Samsung edition.
He opens Google Chrome and types in Carol’s address. He scrolls for a couple of minutes but finds nothing, so he looks up the name “Grace” in his contacts and presses the Call button. The tone rings two times and Grace, John’s assistant / project manager / co-investigator, answers. Why does John have two phones, though? An ancient phone and a new one. I think he’s one of those people that thinks that quirks like these make them seem more interesting and mysterious.
“Hey John! How are you?” She states with a sweet and innocent voice. John loves her voice, but he knows Grace might be in love with him, or so he thinks. So he can’t lead her on, even though he thinks about her for at least one third of his day. She’s the best assistant he’s ever had, and he’s had
13 so far. Replacing her would be an excruciating task. I can’t go through that again…
If you want to, you can track this story’s numbers; each one matters. There’s crumbs everywhere, and I hope you notice even the smallest of details.
“Hey Grace, I’m actually not that okay. How ‘bout you?” He hates small talk, but he likes to small talk with her.
“What, why? How come?” “My nightmares are back. And it gets worse. This morning I found an audio from Lilly on my laptop.”
“Was it an old audio of her?” “No, I’ve never heard it before. It seemed like she was trying to communicate with me, but there was lots of static…”
“Do you have that file with you?” “Yeah, but it’s corrupted. Won’t let me open it now.” “Send it to me, I’ll see what I can do.” “You’re the best. I’ll give you the USB when I see you.” “Alright.” Grace answers, calming John instantly. “I called you because I just got a house that we need to promote ASAP. Will send all the deetz and pictures your way in a few hours. But there’s something I need you to do first. Can you research a case where a kid and his mother died in a house at 876 Boulevard Avenue? I looked the address up on Google but got nowhere…”
“Sure thing, John, I’m on it. What am I looking for? Do you have more information?”
“I don’t know, but my intuition is telling me that this has a paranormal undertone to it,” he says with a low voice, half eager and half sad.
Grace nods with her voice. “Alright. Talk to you later. Have a nice day, John!”
“Bye, Grace. You too, girl.” And then the voice in his head tells him, “You should totally do her.” John squints his eyes at this intrusive thought. He doesn’t see her that way. Or so he thinks…
Nighttime comes and John sits in front of his laptop, writing an article about the afterlife. The title goes, “Does life after death exist? Where do we go?” In this article, John describes and exposes all the evidence he’s found throughout the years about the existence of the afterlife. His evidence is bleak, though. He hasn’t been able to gather important pieces of physical or clear evidence. His gut tells him he’s not far away from finding it, though. All he has gathered are blurry pictures, or videos that look as if they were taken with his 1995 Nokia phone. He’s also researched and collected cases of possession, demonic infestation, and exorcisms, including his own ‘almost possession’. But then again, he hasn’t found irrefutable evidence. Every case he’s worked on could be debunked by non-believers or rationalists. Psychologists, scientists, atheists or the famous “Internet Sleuths.” John stares at his ceiling, his eyes lost in the darkness. His only companions are the tree shadows that gather around his apartment, slithering through every corner. Dancing and waltzing inside the darkness.
I need to find a way to see her again, to know she is alright wherever she is…How did that file appear on my laptop? And why was it corrupted right away? As he’s thinking all of this, his phone rings, startling him. It’s Grace, so he answers. “Hey, you got something good for me?”
“It’s been difficult. This case is not publicly available, so I had to ask all of my sources in newspapers, and nobody has ANY information regarding a little kid and his mom dying
the same day in the street you told me. So I called Marvin…” “Ahhhhhh, your cop ex…” He places his hands behind his neck.
“Haha yes, my ex, you sound jealous!” Grace hints in a flirty way as she caresses her hair.
“What did the EX say?” He says in a mocking manner, but now notices he does sound jealous.
“He told me that there was a rumor in the station regarding a case that drove a detective crazy. He resigned the very next day, and it involved a kid and his mom. I believe this could be our case, so I asked for his phone number, and he gave it to me. Tried calling, but he didn’t pick up the phone. So… I found his home address, in case you wanted to go tomorrow yourself.”
John can imagine her giant grin in this moment, her playful smile that showed that she got a fire in her; a smile the size of John’s forehead. But, he also knows to avoid that word, “home”… Grace once told him that “it sounded too much like a promise people broke.” And that sounded very real to him. “You rascal! Sure thing! Nice work. Wanna come with me?”
“Wow, this must be a special case. You haven’t asked me to come over for a long time now…”
“I mean, your ex gave you this intel. I kinda need you to be there, hehe.”
“Oh, you are right!” “Pick you up at 8 AM.” “Okay, see you then. Good night Boss!” “Good night, Mini Boss.” An inside joke they have. The night goes by like a breeze. John doesn’t experience his recurring nightmare this time. This feels different, is the first
thought that comes to his mind as he wakes up. Could I finally be moving on from Lilly’s disappearance? Is this acceptance? Even though John believes in the supernatural, he’s also a rationalist who needs to rule out science or other factors before thinking of the paranormal. He’s a pragmatist, like me. His morning routine goes as follows: gym, breakfast, shower and getting dressed. He’s very disciplined about his daily routine. John shows a different type of smile today, and he feels like he’s on the right track, and that everything’s going to be okay. This is a new day, for sure. He gets in his car and arrives at Grace’s apartment complex. John texts her that he’s there, and she responds, “OMW.”
Grace is a Caucasian, freckled, brunette girl that’s 4 foot 11 inches. She sits in the bathroom staring at her phone as she’s used to people waiting for her. It’s because of my size… And I deserve it, she says to herself, playfully. Her clothes are neatly pressed, and she looks like she’s got a unique fashion style. She wears regular jeans, a perfect white shirt with an interesting print of two eyes that seem to stare at your every movement, and her favorite leather boots. Fifteen minutes go by and she gets up, grabs her coat from the coat hanger by her entrance and walks over to John’s car.
Grace has had a rough life, a life that molded her into the person she is nowadays. At one point, she had to live on the streets. So, she’s street smart and resilient as hell, no pun intended. A path that has led her to intersect with John’s journey. But…I sometimes wish they’d never met, though. I think she would be better without John, if I’m being honest. And now knowing what I know…
“Hey John! Sorry for the delay,” she exclaims as she gives
John a small kiss on his cheek. Making him blush and she notices. Making her remember how she blushed when they first met and he greeted her this way. She knows he’s Hispanic and that this is a normal custom there. Guatemalans are so polite and nice. But they do sure love their hugs and kisses! She’s grown accustomed to this, and even likes it better now. Prior experience with similar greetings and cultures eased this initial awkwardness.
“Hey Grace, you ready to do this?” He says as his voice squeaks. Grace laughs at this.
“Yes, Mr. Puberty! I’m ready to stalk an old guy. Yes, sir,” as she does a military salutation. John smiles. Grace makes him laugh and smile a lot. I think I don’t smile as much as I should… And his expression changes as he turns serious. Grace notices, but she’s used to this by now. John then takes out the USB out of his coat and hands it to her. “Okay, thanks. I’ll look into this…” He starts the car’s engine and grabs the gearshift. “Wait, wait! Before we leave, I need to show you something… odd about some of the pictures you sent me.” John turns to Grace, who’s taking her phone out. Grace zooms in one of the pictures John sent her the night before. Pictures of the different rooms in the house on Boulevard Avenue. “What do you see here? On this wall?” John squints as he tries to focus.
“A black smudge?” “Exactly. Now look at this other picture.” John raises his brows.
“Another smudge on another wall… What?” “There’s a black smudge on every single picture you took. And it can’t be the camera’s fault because it appears in different spots and different walls. Always on the walls. It’s
as if something was moving through the house… tainting the house black.”
“Never heard that term before, you gave me goosebumps… good one! I knew there was something off about that house! We got proof now. We just need to figure out what happened there. What do you think happened with the kid and his mom that made this detective resign a few days later? Seems a bit extreme, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I definitely cannot fathom what this detective had to have gone through. I don’t know, maybe he saw something too grotesque or bone-chilling that made him lose faith in humanity?” Her mind rushes over to the time she witnessed a homeless man being stabbed in what seemed to be 50 times to her. He lived a few blocks from her spot and it was on the news, ‘The Homeless Killer’ the media called this serial killer. They never caught him, or just didn’t care.
“I understand what that might be like…” John stares at her but never knows how to ask her about her upbringing. He knows she had a tough life, so he prefers not to ask. “Maybe the mother killed her child and did something horrible thereafter.”
“Or maybe the kid killed his mother and did something horrible thereafter?” she responds.
“We’ll find out soon enough. This story has me intrigued. I hope he talks to us.”
“I’ll persuade him…” she states with confidence. “Of course you will,” John tells her as he smirks. After driving for an hour, they reach the detective’s house. The house looks as if it needs a new paint job, like it’s been unmaintained for a long time. It doesn’t look old, though; it looks beautiful, not baroque beautiful but suburban lifestyle
beautiful. There are details that give the impression that no one has paid attention to the house, though. That it yearns for some attention and caring. Overgrown lawn, rundown facade, and newspapers on the porch — at least 10 newspapers. There’s a smell of wet grass. It’s a pleasant smell, John thinks to himself.
John turns to Grace. “This is it, right?” “Yes, Detective Robert Scazza.” “Okay, let’s go then…” They exit the car and head toward the driveway. They stare at each other with furrowed brows, confusion in their eyes. “Notice something?” John asks as the front lawn’s filled with symbols of pentagrams and crosses. They look puzzled. “Pentagrams are thought to be symbols to protect against danger, and crosses, well, God…” They did notice this oddity, but forgot to look around them, as there was a person looking at them from across the street. This person sits in his car, eyes fixated on them.
“He must feel troubled then…” Grace continues the conversation, her look showing worrisome.
“Or he’s gone mad.” John answers. As they are about to reach the porch, Grace notices one of the symbols in Robert’s garden. She grabs John’s arm. “Hey, notice that symbol?”
John squints and opens his eyes wide. “That looks like the shape of the smudges! The ‘Taintings’.”
“Exactly, we in the right place…” her confidence seems to have increased now.
John knocks on the door one time, followed by three more knocks… No answer. They knock again, and more silence fills the space. John almost knocks one more time, when a
frustrated voice answers.
“YES? WHAT DO YOU WANT?” The voice comes from inside the house.
“Hello sir, my name is John Rueson, and this is Grace Lavigne. I’m an investigator and Real Estate Agent…” Rob cuts down John’s sentence.
“What do you investigate? I don’t have mites or anything. Leave me alone, please.” This voice sounds tired, as he’s stretching his words.
“Hello sir! Officer Marvin gave me your address.” She knows it’s a lie as she caresses her hair, but she keeps going. “We are investigating a case on 876 Boulevard Avenue and… ” Rob opens the door, making Grace take a step back. A 70 something-year-old man that almost reaches the door frame stands in front of them. He doesn’t look 70, though; at most, 60. He has a rugged jawline and manly “macho” features, very stereotypical of a detective. With saggy eyelids and a tired look, Rob observes them. He has a stare of wise contemplation, like he knows many unknown and forbidden truths about life. Damn, life has landed some punches on him… John thinks.
“How did you know about that case? Not even Officer Marvin knows about it.” Rob’s bushy frown shows glimpses of interest. Grace takes a step forward.
“We really know little of the case, sir. We figured out that this must be the reason you quit. Could you please explain what happened? We are paranormal investigators. I know it sounds kind of ‘hocus-pocus’ and bogus, but we are trying to find irrefutable proof that the afterlife exists…” Rob stares at them, dubious of their intentions.
“Why would I tell you my story?” Rob makes a movement
like he’s about to close the door on them and she hurries in her answer.
“We saw the symbol on your lawn… it’s the same symbol that’s replicated inside that house. Isn’t it?” This seems to have surprised Rob.
John intercedes. “You don’t have to tell us your story, but I can tell you that I’ve been researching the paranormal for over five years now, ever since my daughter Lilly disappeared… I need to understand what happens in the afterlife, please. I’ve traveled around the globe looking for a universal truth, and have gone nowhere…” Rob freezes as John grabs and holds his hands as an imploring sign. “Could you tell us a little more about this case?”
Rob takes his time but opens the door, signaling them to enter. They both do, first Grace, then John.
“Thank you, Detective. I know it mustn’t be easy.” Rob cuts down John’s words like a katana slicing someone’s hand.
“I’m not a detective anymore, just call me Rob.” Silence follows the statement, broken only by a kitchen microwave. John turns his gaze toward this sound.
Beep, Beep, Beep. “What do you want to know? Have a sit.” John’s startled by Rob’s words.
“Everything, if you don’t mind.” Grace answers. “Are you sure?” They both nod. Rob contemplates in silence for what seems to be 5 minutes. He tries to speak, but the voice won’t come out. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and begins his story. “Alright, it was March 28th, 6 months ago.” He looks at them, half-squinting his eyes. “6
months precisely to this day, now that I remember… well, that’s a coincidence.”
Rob only said three words before the liquid, black-carbon blood, started climbing the walls, surrounding them in utter darkness.
…25