A Name in the Dark Page 6

  I screamed. The woman and her child froze and whipped their faces in my direction. Then she pushed the child over. I quickly looked to see what would happen to the body, but it disappeared in midair, and the woman was gone. Or so I thought. When I turned around, she was on my balcony, right in front of me.

  Then she tried to push me off the balcony. I thought I felt her cold spirit hands press through me. What I actually felt was her energy, though. It wasn’t tactile. There was no physical impact, just the sensation of a frigid wind passing through me.

  After that, I ran down to the lobby and learned that years earlier, a woman had killed her three children by pushing them off the balcony. One of her kids even went willingly. Then the woman killed herself.

  That was my first ghost. Now I see them often enough that it unnerves me—like when I find a spider in the bathroom—but doesn’t send me running in a panic… like when I find a spider in the bathroom.

  Over the years, I’ve discovered there are two kinds of hauntings. The first is a residual haunting. These ghosts are less like spirits and more like the energy of victims playing like a looping video. A ghost will appear and disappear, replaying moments from its former life. Residual hauntings usually occur in a place where a traumatic event, like a death or horrible accident, occurred. Other hauntings of this nature can occur in places of some spiritual significance, such as the location of a secret.

  The other kind of haunting—the kind I’m looking at right now—is an intelligent haunting. The spirit knows that it is dead, and it’s on a mission. Some spirits are trying to right a wrong. Others are trying to reach out to someone they love. A few have unfinished business. There are many reasons why someone’s soul might not move on to the next plane.

  The three ghosts stare at me, walking from side to side but never toward me. Their feet meet the boundary of the cemetery grounds but never cross it. They can’t. Their mouths move in an attempt to speak, but ghosts make no sound. I’m sure they’re asking for help, but I can’t go near them. Cemeteries are hallowed grounds. There is nothing I can do for them tonight.

  “Do I want to know what you’re looking at?” Paige asks.

  She doesn’t, because—unfortunately for Paige—I need her to go through there.

  “It’s nothing,” I lie.

  A pair of headlights approaches from the direction we came from. I turn off my headlights, and we’re shrouded in darkness.

  Music blares from a Volkswagen Beetle as it turns into the cemetery. Its lights illuminate the three ghosts, and it drives right into them without hesitation. For a moment, the spirits disappear. Once the car passes through, its rear lights bathe them in a red glow. As it continues onward, the light diminishes until the specters disappear into the shadows.

  Paige’s phone vibrates, and she checks the screen. “He says he’s inside already.”

  As she talks, I stare at the cemetery gates. “Is there another way, around the cemetery?” I ask. Paige unbuckles her seat belt. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s only a mile from here.”

  “You can’t go alone.”

  She opens the car door. “I’ll be fine,” she says with absolutely no confidence. She slowly steps out.

  “Paige, get back in here! It’s too dangerous!” It was never my intention to let Paige go in there alone. I was supposed to be by her side the whole time.

  She ignores me and walks toward the cemetery. I get out on my side and only take a few steps before stopping. I sense a force field around the cemetery, repelling me. The ghosts watch me, waiting.

  “Be careful,” I call. She stops, suddenly looking afraid.

  “At the rave,” I clarify. “Be careful at the rave.”

  She nods. “I’ve got my Taser. I’ll be fine.” Paige stands at the gate, not crossing the threshold. She turns back to me and takes a deep breath. Like a sprinter at the starting gun, she bolts into the cemetery and past the ghosts. I can still hear the echo of her heels long after she disappears into the darkness.

  The dull bass of electronic music thumps in the distance. Above the trees, a soft glow warms from the event the sky just over the horizon. The rave must be closer than I thought.

  After an hour, I start to get hungry. Luckily, I always keep snacks in my car. It’s an important life lesson I learned from several all-night stakeouts and the time I got stuck in a SigAlert on I-5 that shut down traffic for two hours.

  I open the rear hatch and find some crackers. As I’m sitting on the hood of my car, enjoying my saltine snack and a bottle of water, I notice more headlights coming up the road. I’m curious about who the latecomers are, so I pay close attention. Then I notice red and blue sweeping lights. Police cars. A lot of them.

  This can’t be good. I reach into my pocket, pull out my wallet—no reason to wait until the last minute—and use a hands-free earbud to start calling Paige.

  One by one, police cruisers and SUVs stream past me and into the cemetery. Near the end of the line, a cruiser pulls up to me and shines its directional light in my face. I hold up my private investigator license before I’m even asked.

  “Private investigator! I’m the one that called it in!” I shout, trusting that my confident lie will buy me a free pass. Without a word, the cruiser turns away and follows the convoy into the cemetery.

  Paige’s phone goes to voicemail—not surprising, since she’s at a rave. I try texting her: Cops on the way! Run!

  Sirens blare from inside, and I can see the glow of police lights swirling from past the cemetery. I try to ignore the ghosts who follow me as I walk down the road to find a better angle to look. The dull bass from the music stops. Too many moments pass, and I consider running inside.

  Now, I know I said I cannot enter hallowed grounds… but that’s not entirely true. I can, but the experience is excruciating. I once made the mistake of riding in a car that drove onto a cemetery a few years ago. I felt like I’d entered an activated microwave oven. My skin started to burn, and it was like I was being cooked from the inside out.

  That was the last time. My concern for Paige is overwhelming, and I think about making the attempt again. Or I could drive through. That might be faster. Hopefully, I wouldn’t lose control of my car and crash into a tree.

  Headlights appear from deep within the cemetery. Moments later, dozens of cars race through the cemetery, not just on roads but across the grass and over the flush markers on the ground as well. Car engines rev, and then footsteps thunder as hundreds of silhouettes stampede out of the cemetery and onto the country road.

  Reaching through my driver’s-side window, I turn the lights on. The three ghosts are still there. Trying to ignore them, I look past among the fleeing partygoers. There’s no sign of Paige among the masses.

  “Paige!” I call into the cemetery. “Paige!”

  “Darcy!”

  Turning, I see Paige emerging from the shadows deep inside the cemetery. She runs, pointing farther in, where I spot a figure in a black hoodie dashing down another knoll. He narrowly misses getting hit by a car that skids on the grass.

  I waffle. Run or drive? Run or drive? With every second I debate, he’s getting farther away. I decide to run.

  My feet pound on the asphalt, and I sprint down the street. Cars speed past me now, trying to get away. I round the corner and head around the bottom edge of the cemetery. The hooded figure emerges from the grounds. He races across the street and into a field on the other side. I close the gap fast.

  Then I biff it on a ditch and slide face-first into the ground. I hear footsteps behind me, and Paige zooms past me. Her strides are long and quick, and I mutter an insult because she’s running effortlessly in heels.

  I push myself up and follow her onto the nearby field. The dirt is uneven, so I keep stumbling. My effort is unnecessary, though. With Paige’s speed and stamina, the subject is no match her, and she delivers a flying leap and tackles him to the ground.

  When I reach t
hem, Paige has our suspect in a full nelson. Arms up, he sits cradled in her lap. Both of them are covered in dirt.

  “Get off of me!” he shouts from under his hoodie. I jog over slowly then take a moment to catch my breath. I pace back and forth, hands on my hips, straining for air.

  “Seriously?” Paige asks incredulously as I pant.

  I hold up my finger, asking for a minute. My sides cramp with stiches, and I grimace in pain.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the hooded figure shouts again. When my wheezing stops, I reach over and pull away the hood to reveal…

  “Sebastian Gallo.”

  He stops struggling. “So what?”

  Red flashing lights alert us of an oncoming vehicle. We duck down low, and Sebastian momentarily stops struggling until the police cruiser passes.

  “You’re not cops?” he asks.

  I get nice and close so he can see my eyes. Even in the dark, their bright color is clear. He pulls away.

  “I want to talk about Elizabeth Viramontes.”

  He strains within Paige’s CrossFit hold, but she keeps him still. “Who are you with?” he spits out, still struggling.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out my private investigator license. I shove it in his face. “Elizabeth’s mother hired me to find her.”

  He stops struggling, a quizzical look on his face.

  “Are you going to cooperate?”

  He nods.

  Paige loosens her grip. Sebastian immediately shoves her off and makes a run for it. I quickly reach out, grab him by the hood, and yank him to the ground. With a crunch he lands flat on his back. He gasps, the air knocked out of him.

  “Damn it, Sebastian,” I say.

  He struggles to breathe while Paige wraps him up again. I take this moment to make some things clear. “Listen, this place is crawling with cops right now. I have no problem calling some attention our way to let them know I’ve caught one of the dealers they were looking for tonight. I’m going to assume you’ve got shit on you right now—enough for a felony?”

  It takes a moment for Sebastian to catch his breath. I hope he is beginning to realize he’s in a no-win situation. “What do you mean, ‘find her’?” he asks.

  If he’s pretending not to know about the fact that she’s missing, then I have to play along to get him to talk. “She disappeared about a week ago. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “Two weeks? A month?”

  “Try eight days ago,” I retort. “Right before she disappeared.”

  Paige chimes in. “La Lucha. Sound familiar?”

  Sebastian gulps. “Elizabeth and I had gone out for drinks.”

  “You were broken up. Why get together? Did she need something you were selling?”

  He snickers. “She was scared, all right?”

  “Of what?” I ask.

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he says dismissively.

  “What was she scared of?”

  Sebastian leans toward me. “Santa Muerte.” He spits on the ground.

  I don’t know much about Santa Muerte, but I know this is cause for concern. It’s an offshoot of Catholicism, a cult that worships a female deity known as the Saint of Death—a deity that looks like a skeletal Virgin Mary. The cult is infamous for their sacrifices, both animal and human, throughout all of Mexico.

  I continue questioning. “Elizabeth was involved in Santa Muerte?”

  He nods. “When we started dating, she introduced me to it. She bought into the whole thing. I thought it was a joke… at first. But they’re into some crazy shit. No chick is worth that, so I broke it off with her.”

  “If she was into it, then why was she scared? Why reach out to you?”

  “It was getting too much even for her.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Sebastian looks away, shaking his head. I cross my arms. I’ve got all night.

  He sighs. “It all started when this crazy old woman showed up to the temple—the one down in East LA. They used to sacrifice chickens when I was there. When the old woman showed up, it got worse. They were killing cats. Dogs. Elizabeth said she was a witch. A lechur… or something, I don’t know. Elizabeth wanted to get out because…”

  Paige and I exchange a look. I wonder if he’s really trying to sell me on the story of some witch.

  “Because…?” I say, prodding him to continue.

  “Because she was afraid they were going to kill her. You want to find out who took her, go down to the temple on Whittier.”

  Sebastian is not to be trusted, but no one would be stupid enough to offer this as a reasonable story behind Elizabeth’s disappearance. When people lie, they try to come up with a story that’s believable. When people tell you an absurd story, there’s usually some truth behind it.

  Red lights flash again, and we all duck down. Another police car passes, shining its spotlight around the field and over our heads. As it passes, I reach into Sebastian’s pockets and start pulling out vials and bags and tossing them to the ground.

  He protests. “Hey!”

  “Shhh…”

  Paige keeps him cinched up. I reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet. Once the cruiser passes, I take a picture of his ID with my cell phone. “Just in case I need to find you again.”

  With no other reason to keep him, I give Paige the go-ahead to let him go. Again, he pushes her away. He rips his wallet out of my hands, collects his drugs from the dirt, then scrambles into the shadows of some nearby trees and disappears.

  We wait, careful to avoid any remaining police cars. Then we trudge back to the car. As I huff and puff, Paige chastises me. “You need to start jogging.”

  “I know.”

  * * *

  Santa Muerte means “Saint of Death.” I know that already, but when I start my online research the minute I get home, everything I read underscores that notion. By whatever power this entity—spirit, deity, or demon—is granted, its sole mission is to bring death.

  Most stories of death center on a being whose purpose is to lead souls from this world to the next. The grim reaper, with his giant scythe, is reaping the dead to bring them to afterlife. Charon ferries a boat across the River Styx to the underworld. There’s actually a word for a being with this mission—psychopomp. A psychopomp guides the deceased to their final destinations.

  That term does not apply to Santa Muerte. For her, death itself is the objective. The term Santa Muerte refers both to the cult and to the being the cultists worship. She goes by many names, including the more formal Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte. The Saint of Death resembles a cross between the grim reaper and the Virgin Mary. She has a bare skull for a head and is draped in the blue-and-red robes of the Holy Mother.

  I grab my phone and scroll through the photos I took in Elizabeth’s room. There it is before me, a red-and-blue color scheme that suggests some tenuous connection. Could Sebastian be telling the truth? I keep reading.

  The cult itself is an offshoot of Catholicism. Its true origins are unknown, but its popularity throughout Mexico has exploded in recent years, so much so that the Catholic Church had to officially condemn its practice. That did nothing to quell its supporters.

  I read my discoveries aloud to Paige throughout the night. By two in the morning, she’s had enough and decides to go to bed. She mumbles something on her way out.

  I mumble back, “Okay.”

  “Did you hear me?” she asks.

  “Yes?”

  “I said, ‘Promise me you’re not going to stay up all night reading.’”

  “Just five more minutes.”

  As she disappears through her doorway, I can tell by her expression that she doesn’t believe me. Honestly, I don’t believe me, either, because once I get started, I can’t stop, the same way Paige can’t stop exercising once she gets going, I can’t stop r
eading. Time slows down. The pages go by in a blur. I can’t remember how many times I’ve stumbled on a curious book at the library, and once my shift ended, I spent the rest of the evening in some nook, unable to leave until I got to the last page. The same is true of research. Once I get invested in a topic, I’m like Alice stumbling down the click hole—I keep going.

  I find information on Santa Muerte’s prevalence in Mexico and its migration into the United States. In recent years, the popularity of Santa Muerte has been attributed to the growing power of Mexican drug cartels. The practice of worshiping the Saint of Death is connected to both those who work for the cartels—who summon her power to destroy their enemies— and those seeking protection from them. A common practice for followers is the ritualistic sacrifice of animals to appeal to her. Then there are the news articles. Every week, there’s another ritualistic decapitation of men, women, and children in her honor. There’s plenty of conflicting information from various websites, and I can’t tell which is legit and which consists of the ramblings of some mommy blogger looking for hits.

  I try to find information on this temple Sebastian mentioned in East Los Angeles, but apparently, no one bothered to create an entry for Dangerous Death Cult on Yelp. This might take some good old-fashioned detective work.

  “What are you doing?”

  I look up to find Paige standing at her door with a disapproving scowl on her face. She’s not wearing the same outfit she wore moments ago. Now she’s dressed in her morning-workout gear.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You stayed up all night!”

  That can’t be right—it’s still dark. I look out the picture window. Through the buildings and skyscrapers looking east, I get a glimpse of a warm glow rising in the horizon. The time on my laptop reads 5:02 a.m.

  My eyes rise to meet hers. “Oops.”

  She shakes her head and walks across the room to take a seat across from me at the table. “What did you find out?”

  I close my laptop and stretch. “Well, if Elizabeth was involved with Santa Muerte… she’s in real trouble.”