Charlaine Harris - Crimes by Moonlight

I stood up. Upstairs a door suddenly slammed shut, like the same errant breeze against my neck had caused it to close. And after that, I went downstairs, through the living room, and outside to the porch.

I smiled at the patient Skip. “Go take a look before the circus starts.”

AND the circus came and stayed for a few more hours, as the medical examiner looked at the body and confirmed that yes, indeed, the poor boy was dead, which allowed the patient volunteer firefighters of Salem Falls to remove the body and take it to the Pearson Funeral Home, next town over in Montcalm, but not before two polite and large state police detectives took their own photos, performed their own measurements, and interviewed the three witnesses. Eventually the Tolands were left in the living room with my officer Harris while Josh sat on the porch.

Then the two detectives and I huddled in the kitchen-as the morning sun started streaming through the windows-and we eventually came to the logical and only conclusion, that one Peter Grolin of Newburyport, Massachusetts, had in fact died accidentally, with no indication of foul play, and that the cassette recording and the camcorder recording showed no evidence that anything untoward had happened to the unfortunate young man.

With that we all wished that someone knew how to work the fancy coffee machine in the corner, because a hot cup of joe would sure taste good right about now, and then the taller of the two detectives said, “So, this is the Logan place. Funny, always heard about it, but never thought I’d be inside of it… especially looking at a dead body. Ironic, huh?”

His partner, who was trying to decipher the controls on the coffee machine, looked up and said, “What about the Logan house?”

The other detective said, “Read more than Sports Illustrated, maybe you’ll learn something. Chief, you’re a townie. Want to let my buddy here know about the Logan house?”

I smiled and said, “Breck Logan built this place back in 1882. Was the wealthiest man in the county. Built mills along the Connecticut River and got even wealthier. Never married, never had any close relatives… and died in 1903.”

The detective by the coffee machine said, “And that’s it?”

The other detective laughed. “Hell, no. The chief isn’t telling you the good stuff, the gory stuff. Right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, right. Story was… though never printed anywhere, that the good Mr. Logan was a devil worshipper. That he led a coven of devil worshippers. That his devil worship and the worship of the others allowed both him and the town to thrive… and that over the years, some French-Canadian girls who came down to work in his mills disappeared. That some of their fathers came down in 1903… to confront Mr. Logan about it… and before they could get any information out of him, he went upstairs to the attic of this house and blew his head off with a shotgun. And that some of the fathers from Quebec started digging on the property… and found bones and skulls. End of story.”

“Right,” the detective at the table said. “End of story, but not of lesson.”

“What lesson?” the other detective asked.

“That these nice little villages and towns, they can have the darkest and bloodiest secrets imaginable. Even a pretty little town like Salem Falls, with a fancy-schmancy downtown, nice little computer firms in the old mill buildings, still doing fine. Right, Chief?”

I smiled. “Right.”

THERE came a moment, then, when the Logan house was empty, and I went back upstairs, past the blood-stained floor, and then upstairs again. I opened up the door and felt a blast of cold air on my face, and then took a set of very narrow and creaking steps up to the attic. There were boxes up there, piles of junk, and even though it was now daylight, it was still dark, with very little light streaming in from slats at either side of the attic. I rubbed my hands and looked into the darkness, and then let my eyes adjust to the lack of light. There was something off to the right. I ignored it. Kept staring into the darkness, thinking about the night, thinking about what had happened, thinking of what I had learned.

Thought about the cassette recorder, and what I had heard, the shaky and frightened voice of Peter Grolin: “Something’s going on up here, I don’t know, I’m freezing Josh, I’m freezing, and oh Christ, something’s coming down the stairs… it’s coming near me… it’s coming after me… it’s coming after me!”

Then the sound of something falling, something gurgling, and then the whisper of static.

And what I had seen on the camcorder viewing screen, filmed in night vision: the same narrow steps leading up to the attic, the door opening, and an illuminated shape, oozing down, coming closer, closer…

An illuminated shape.

Like the one I could see from the corner of my eye, in the attic with me.

I took a breath. “You didn’t have to do that. I know you were provoked. But you didn’t have to do that.”

The shape flickered, moved. I took another breath. “I promise you, things won’t change. They won’t get a permit for the bed-and-breakfast. And there won’t be any more ghost hunters. No more trespassers. I promise. Okay?”

The shape flickered one more time and then disappeared, but not before I saw what was there, the slightly out-of-focus image of a man wearing a turn-of-the-last-century frock coat and pants, with a head that looked like a bloody, shattered pumpkin.

AS I went back out to the porch, I had a warm thought, that maybe the weekend could be salvaged after all. My wife and girls would be pleased. Outside, Josh was slowly loading some gear into his white van, the Toland couple was having a heated discussion at one end of the porch, and the two state police detectives were conferring over their notebooks. I came down the stairs, yawning, and then the younger state detective-the one who had finally got the coffee machine up and running-came over to me and shook my hand.

“Nice to have met you, Chief,” he said. “And I’m sure you hope you don’t see us again, any time soon.”

I gave his hand a firm shake, smiling, since he was right, since you only saw state police detectives in my line of work for serious matters. “If you don’t take offense, yeah, you’re absolutely right.”

He grinned and looked around at the Logan house, at its neighboring homes, and said, “First time I’ve ever been in Salem Falls. Nice little town. Hell, a great little town. I’ve been to a lot of towns in this part of the state that are barely hanging on by their fingernails… but you guys have been lucky.”

“That we have,” I said.

Then the younger detective gave a forced little laugh, like he was trying to make a joke and knew he wasn’t succeeding. “You know, somebody might say that those old devil worshippers, they’re still around, making sure the town still stays prosperous.”

I looked at him, kept my expression slightly amused, and finally said, “You’re right. Some might say.”

The August air was hot and heavy with the scent of jasmine the morning my children toddled downstairs and told me a lady was sleeping in my bed.

It was 9:30 a.m. I remember that prosaic detail because I was telling myself it wasn’t an hour for the heebie-jeebies. Nor the season for cold dread. Even in a remote California canyon with no neighbors within screaming distance, no humans but the twins tugging at my hands and the baby in my belly. And there were chickens outside, left by the previous owner, hardly the trappings of a haunted house. It was a faux-rustic house, 1970s casual chic. Very unscary. Chickens. Don’t be one, I told myself and let the children pull me toward the staircase. Our overfed dog, Tooth, lumbered behind.