The Darkest Places

“Parker?” I call into the darkness. My husband is nowhere to be seen in the pitch-black entryway of the old Victorian. He called me to help setup an investigation—said he would be waiting for me right where I’m standing, drenched from the storm pouring down outside—but all I can see is the dust dancing in the beam of my headlamp and the surrounding darkness.

I carefully place my heavy cases with cameras and tripods on either side of me. If Parker doesn’t answer, I guess there’s no harm in looking around. Besides, I’d like to have a first-hand idea of the house’s layout before I start fumbling in the dark with just my camera.

From the front hall I go left into a sitting room with a wooden China cabinet against one wall, a large bay window, and an antique Rococo table centered between the matching, rotted settee and chairs. The precious China has been toppled from its case and the painted white shards litter the room; the window sports jagged holes in several places made by the rocks that came to rest on the hardwood floor.

Rustling reaches me from the front hall; Parker must have finally made it down to grab the gear.

I step further into the sitting room.

Through the window, I see masses of thorny vines taking over an intricate fountain and stone statues of women draped with robes so impeccably carved they could be wearing real fabric. I can almost imagine it all new and inhabited as lightning illuminates the garden. I presume it was once full of roses, accounting for the vines. The China would be pure white, with gold rims and flowers painted on their pristine surfaces. The furniture would have been—

Creak…

I snap back to the present with a jump, and slowly turn around to face the one doorway into the room. The shadow of a large man fills the frame, and the faint beam from my headlight won’t reach him. My heart begins to quicken; my breathing falls in and out, but I don’t feel like I’m getting any oxygen. The man turns to his right and walks away before the next lightning strike can reveal his face.

“Parker? Wait this isn’t funny; come back,” I shout, but nothing happens. Bubbles of fear boil into anger, and I stomp back to the hallway after him.

“Parker! Get your sorry ass… what?”

There’s no one there.

“Where did you go? Fine, get lost in the dark by yourself while I get paid for all this work; you aren’t scaring me this time!”

But he has. I just can’t let him know it. I’ll get everything in place and turned on, then I can go wait on the porch and try to call him again. The camera bags feel ten times heavier than when I had first brought them in, but I know it’s just my fear evoking that feeling. I trudge carefully back to the sitting room, set down one case, and quickly move on. There are two more rooms that need equipment for tonight if I can find them on my own. I’ll put it up on my way back to the entrance once all the cases are set.

The next room is the master bedroom. From the foyer I go up one set of stairs that lines the right wall and turn left at the top. A long, dark hallway groans beyond a heavy oak door. If Parker’s directions were accurate, my destination should be at its end. I hesitate, listening carefully for the footfalls that had spooked me downstairs, but all I hear is the scuttling of mice in the walls, the creaking floorboards of the settling mansion, and the occasional clap of thunder outside. With a deep breath to steady my nerves, I push forward.

The corridor grows cold the closer I get to the dead end. As my eyes adjust, I can make out small tables and paintings lining the walls, and a portrait at the end.

The painting is large—as tall as me, and twice as wide—and depicts a man in formal dress. It appears to be from the time the home was constructed, around the mid-nineteenth century. I assume the gentleman was the owner of the property. It would be an exquisite painting, but the eyes and lips have been cut out, and a long cut runs across the man’s throat.

I quickly avert my eyes with a shudder and remind myself that the next room is only a few steps away and through a door.

With the second case in place, I return to the hallway. The portrait remains unchanged, its missing eyes seeming to follow my every move. I don’t dare turn my back to it for fear that the man may follow me down the hall and into the main room. A feeling of pure joy resonates through me when my back hits the heavy door back into the foyer, where I cross the landing and enter the west wing. I rush down the hall, where the entrance to my final destination awaits: the nursery.

The door moans in resistance as I nudge it slowly open—it’s the most damaged door I’ve seen in the mansion so far, and the hinges have managed to rust more here than anywhere else in the house. I push with all my might, and the door’s groans grow louder with each shove, rivaling the thunder and the wind howling around the house. It almost feels as if someone is standing on the other side and pushing back. Parker’s silhouette in the sitting room re-enters my imagination just as the door gives way and I stumble through, catching a chair beside me to stop myself from falling.

I creep to the center of the room, set down my case, and kneel in front of it. The latches click loudly in the silent house; now, even the mice have gone still. The air seems thick, and I begin to tremble.My headlamp starts to flicker; the batteries better now die on me now. I have more, but they’re in the bottom of the bag and I don’t want to dig for them in the dark.

It's easy enough to find the camera and tripod; they’re the largest objects and I pull them out with ease. Now is the hard part. I have to find the little pieces, the recorder and motion sensors. I plunge both hands into the large back pocket, where the motion equipment should be, and my hands hit something… soft. Squishy, even.

“That’s odd; what’s this?” Curious, I lean over the bag and manage to lose my headlamp. I told Parker the straps were too big for me. I hear it roll and hit a wall a few feet away, resting under the old cradle, but don’t worry about it for now. I can find it later; it’s lit up, after all. For now, anyway.

I feel along the object for edges or curves of some kind, but all I get is a prickling feeling. What is that?

Is that… hair?

My body feels numb; what on earth is in this bag? I seize it with both hands and tug. I set the thing in my lap and feel along it; but I can’t make anything out. When I go to pull my hand away I feel another portion a little bit lower. My fingers glide easily along the now-hairless surface—

Oh God.

I throw it to the side and dive for my light. I fumble with it in my shaky hands but before I can focus the beam in the general direction of the flung object, lightning flashes and does the work for me. The sight makes me gag, and I double over where I stand.

Laying on the rotten floorboards is a human arm with left hand still attached. A golden wedding band with a ruby embedded in it is on the ring finger.

“Oh god… Parker…” I stifle a sob as I stare at his arm. What else is in the bag? Or any of the others that I swore were heavier than when I brought them in? How much of Parker’s body was with our equipment? The floor creaks in the hall and I stifle a scream, diving behind a toppled bookcase for cover as the door is roughly forced open.

It’s hard to breathe. A tall, dark shadow looms, searching the room behind me, and I close my eyes. There’s nothing I can do now but wait and hope I’m not found before the shadow decides to move on to another room to look for me. As heavy footsteps draw closer, one thought flits through my mind over and over again: Parker was wrong.

This house isn’t haunted. It’s not even abandoned. Someone’s here.