Free The Dark Man by Desmond Doane Page B

sans shenanigans.
    When the replay stopped and the cameras were on me once again, I’d taken a right turn into another hallway, where I now stood outside of little Chelsea Hopper’s former bedroom. Directly above was a trap door that led to the attic, and Mike was stationed beside me with his hand on the dangling pull string. I could feel him seething, eyes boring into the side of my head. I wanted to tell him that it was too late, that he should just go with it and curse me afterward, and that I definitely regretted what we were about to do, but he should know better because we had a goddamn show to run with millions and millions of people watching.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, lowering my voice and pausing for dramatic effect, tenting my fingertips and holding them up to my lips, “what you’re about to witness may not be suitable for young viewers.”
    It was tough. It really was.
    Carla normally ran things from the production truck, but she was inside with us now, perhaps like a Roman emperor wanting to witness the gladiator carnage. She had this slightly psychotic, leering grin on her face, and for the briefest of moments, I thought about calling it off just to spite her.
    But I didn’t, because, holy shit, this was amazing television.
    And I really, really did want to give Chelsea Hopper some tranquility in her life.
    It was wrong, and I knew it, but both of those statements were true.
    Ratings. Peace.
    If Chelsea could beat that thing, if she could climb into the attic and face down her own personal demon and tell it to go to hell, she would come out a stronger person on the other side. That’s what I was counting on.
    Risky—so risky.
    I paused too long, apparently, because over the cameraman’s shoulder, Carla made a circular motion with her index finger, telling me to speed things up.
    “Okay, here we go. You all know the story. Before our commercial break, we told you more about the Hoppers and the terror that reigned here during their time in this home. All the unimaginable horror, the torture they faced together while they tried to live their lives, but this entity in the attic,” I said, angrily raising my voice, “what they called ‘the dark man,’ this bastard refused to let them live normally. We’re here tonight to send this monster back to where it came from.”
    Carla nodded, touching the tip of her thumb and forefinger together, and if it was possible, her uncomfortable grin grew larger as she winked.
    Behind me, and out of the camera’s view, Mike whispered, “This is such bullshit.”
    I continued, “They say that the world corrupts innocence. We’re all a fresh, clean canvas until life comes along and throws a smattering of paint on it like Jackson Pollock—just a crazy, wild, mishmash of experiences. That may be true, but what I like to believe is that innocence is a powerful weapon against evil. If evil has not yet corrupted a young mind, and if that young mind is given the power to face down malevolence and wickedness, then there is nothing more potent, nothing more capable of sending a demon back to hell.”
    I hardly believed a word of this, by the way, but it sounded pretty righteous.
    However, strength, will, and determination can overcome the evil in our lives. And really, what’s more determined than a child who hasn’t yet learned to compromise?
    “This is why we’re trying an unprecedented tactic this evening. You all know what trigger objects are, especially if you’ve seen the show more than once. Trigger objects—”
    The bedroom door to my right slammed shut with enough force to shake the walls and rumble the floor underneath my feet. I yelped in fear. My skin prickled.
    Mike shouted, “Dude!” and moved closer to me.
    The cameraman, Don, scampered away and our audience got a shaky view for a moment. Don was a professional, however, and it only took him a second to recover. Also, off camera, I’m sure those watching clearly heard Carla exclaiming,