Free The White Night by Desmond Doane Page B

Dakota’s
house.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ford Atticus Ford
    Dear Ol’
Gran—sorry, Ellen —sits in the recliner. The sliding door is open and she
seems to be fine listening to the roar of the wind, the hammer of rain, and the
wailing ocean. She rocks peacefully while my overly affectionate pooch slurps
her like he’s trying to get to the gooey center. How many licks will it take,
Ulie?
    Meanwhile, Lauren
Coeburn, former arch nemesis turned quivering mess, tells me to stop once I’ve
poured her about four fingers’ worth of expensive scotch. In the tiniest way, I
feel like I’m wasting it on her. However, it may be worth it because I’ve heard
stories about the black-eyed children from all over the world; this is the
first time I’ve actually had a chance to speak with someone who has seen them
in the flesh.
    Lauren lifts the
tumbler of scotch—no rocks—and drains it, which she then follows with two
beckoning fingers. I’d like to tell her that she just guzzled about fifteen
dollars. Instead, I pour her another, and she downs that one like she’s
drinking a fraternity kid under the table. She wipes her mouth with a sleeve.
“That should do it.”
    “You sure?”
    “Explain what in
the hell I saw, and I’ll let you know.”
    I’m not in the
mood for scotch, so I pop open a beer for myself and stare at her, still wondering
if she’s coming at me from another subversive angle, trying to get the scoop on
this documentary. Ah, what the hell, black-eyed children are interesting enough
that I’ll bite.
    I ask, “You want
the long version, or the short one?”
    “Long, because
unless you kick us out, I’m not going back there for a while. Maybe never. And
what am I gonna do about her?”
    I look back at
Ellen. Ulie has his head in her lap. “Hard to say.”
    Lauren leans
across the counter, takes the scotch, and pours herself another round. “Story
time, Ford.”
    I gulp down about
half of my IPA, and this is what I tell her:
    Nobody really
knows what the black-eyed children are, other than what details you get from
urban myths. However, like Sasquatch, the Loch Ness Monster, the Mothman, or
the Chupacabra—name your weird entity of choice—there have been too many
sightings for them to be a fluke or simply nothing but a legend made up by your
neighbor with a good imagination. From the UK, to China, to Ethiopia, to some
town populated by three hundred citizens in middle-of-nowhere New Mexico, these
things have come up in reports all over the world.
    Are they aliens?
Are they supernatural beings?
    It’s anybody’s
guess.
    The way the
stories go, you’ll get a knock on your front door, or see these kids outside of
a window, or maybe run into them in a deserted parking lot in the middle of the
night. You’ve heard that old adage about how eyes are the windows to the soul?
    Well, then, if
that’s the case, these things are absolutely soulless, because they have the
deepest, darkest black eyes, hollow and void of anything good.
    Witnesses have
reported that the black-eyed children range in age from eight to sixteen years
old. They’re dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie. Or, on
rarer occasions, hoodies and jeans. It varies. I’ve seen reports of both.
    “Actually,” I tell
Lauren, “you’re pretty much wearing what they wear. Jeans and a hoodie.”
    “Are you trying to
freak me out even more?”
    I wink at her,
slightly enjoying an obnoxious bit of payback from her stunt earlier.
    I take a swig of
beer, and continue where I left off.
    Black-eyed
children speak in pointed, quick sentences with a flat, monotone voice, usually
asking if you have any food or if they can come inside.
    No matter what, do not let them inside.
    That’s the first
and only rule that will keep you alive.
    Lauren interrupts
me to say, “That’s exactly what he said!”
    “Tell me you
didn’t let it in.”
    “No. God, no.”
    I continue: no
paranormal researcher has ever been close enough to study them, nor has