Free The White Night by Desmond Doane Page A

tools hanging from a pegboard in
their garages. Mine holds an SB-11 spirit box, thermal imaging cameras, EMF pumps,
laser-light shadow detectors, and a whole host of experimental equipment that
never worked during testing or simply didn’t have a necessary function that we
thought applied to an investigation.
    Like this thing
right here—this little black box with four red lights that supposedly detects
when a spirit farts.
    My hand to God,
that’s what it was designed to do.
    True story, Ford
and I went by the inventor’s place while we were on location outside of Dallas.
The guy’s name was Teddy Carmichael—wiry white hair that swayed in the breeze
like seaweed underwater—and he owned a couple of rental properties down the
block, one of which was haunted by a spirit with extreme, uh, flatulence .
    You can’t make
this up.
    We took off down
the street with this guy, Ford and I chuckling behind his back, unable to
comprehend what we were actually about to do, right? Fifteen minutes into this
little mini investigation, the lights on Carmichael’s black box start blinking
left to right the way that talking car used to do with Hasselhoff. And wouldn’t
you know it, we listened to the digital voice recording; sure enough, right
when we marked the time where the lights fired up, it had recorded the loudest
fart EVP that none of us heard with our own ears.
    I remember looking
at Ford, trying to contain my laughter, and then I couldn’t. We guffawed like
teenage boys infatuated with lowbrow humor like dicks, butts, boobs, and poop. Carmichael
hadn’t seen the humor in it, obviously, but he insisted we take the device
anyway, telling us that he hoped to see it on the show one day.
    Never happened.
    As I stand here
looking at the thing—what we labeled the CF-1000, with the ‘CF’ short for
‘Carmichael Farts’—I’m struck by a suffocating sense of remorse and regret.
    All I ever wanted
by doing the show was to impress Toni. That’s it. I balked after the first
season—didn’t want to sign again. Felt like one was enough. There are only so
many ways you can walk into a dark house and ask if anybody is there.
    Ford convinced me
to stay on, again and again. Eventually, all the long hours and long nights
away, all the interviews and conventions, all the autographs and selfie poses,
they became a part of me. It was me.
    And then Ford
fucked up.
    And then I lost
the thing that had made me me .
    Rather, it was
ripped from my hands.
    As I stand here
looking at my collection of equipment, some bought with my own money, some
bought using money from the deep coffers of The Paranormal Channel that they
never made us return, maybe it’s not regret and remorse I’m feeling. Maybe it’s
longing.
    A couple of weeks
ago, working the Craghorn case with Ford, man, that was what it’s supposed to
feel like.
    Energy.
Anticipation. Fear. Wonder. Excitement. Just like the memories I was fond of
when Graveyard: Classified was an infant, rather than a lumbering
juggernaut concerned with sweeps week and landing monster sponsorships.
    Ah, the glory
days.
    I finally realize
that I want to do the documentary for the experience, too, not just for the
cash that might keep my disappointed family happy.
    I also understand
how odd it must be for Ford that I’m the one trying to talk him into coming
back for another round. Should I call him?
    My watch says it’s
not much past seven a.m.
    He’s still
snoozing, for sure. I’m tempted to call and get his ass up anyway. I want to
share this moment with him. I want to tell him that I’m about to go on another
legitimate investigation and that it’d be great to have him along if he was
here.
    I’ve been drinking
the venom called blame for two years. It’s time to let go.
    Besides, this is
my chance to prove to the universe that Mikey Sweetheart has the juice to face
demons on his own.
    I figure that’s
probably both literal and figurative, depending on what’s haunting