The Belly of the Beast, page 1
part #3 of The Graveyard Series
The Belly of the Beast
Graveyard: Classified - Book 3
Desmond Doane
©2016
May all your nightmares come true…
—THE DARK MAN
Contents
Prologue
THE FIRST ACT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
THE SECOND ACT
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
THE THIRD ACT
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Prologue
The Man, The Myth, The Almighty
A conversation with the enigmatic Ford Atticus Ford
by Jessie Lynn Wade
September Issue
Portland Paranormal Quarterly
It’s dusk, in that hazy time when the horizon is minutes away from swallowing the last morsels of daylight. The brilliant pinks, purples, and oranges lining the wispy clouds are gorgeous. The sky is, and has always been, a canvas for nature’s paintbrush. Once the color drains away, darkness wraps its black cloak around the hum of life while mothers tuck children in beneath cozy sheets. Fathers say goodnight and kiss soft foreheads. Streetlights fight for command of their territory, barely winning the battle for a small patch of space along empty sidewalks.
Hours later, after we mere humans have slipped into blissful slumber, one man—along with his partner and a team of technicians—steps forward to protect us against scary things that go bump in the night.
At least that used to be the case, and that man, my friends, is the almighty Ford Atticus Ford. A hero to many before committing an egregious mistake that had his hit television series ripped from the coveted Thursday night lineup.
Almighty. It’s a term he once accepted with pride, but it would seem he hasn’t felt so omnipotent over the past couple of years. Not since The Incident with the Little Blonde One.
You know what I’m talking about, as does nearly every person who is aware of Ford’s existence. There’s no need to belabor the mistakes made during that live episode on Halloween night two years ago. One could say entire forests have been destroyed with articles written about the occurrence and its consequences—this magazine included—and with this being Portland, Oregon, we’re trying to hug as many trees as possible.
Portlanders unite! Save the trees! Save the ink!
Try as we might, eventually the topic of Ford and Chelsea Hopper comes ‘round again, inevitably made partners, a graveyard and a tombstone. Attempting to talk about one without the other is an exercise in futility.
As Ford sits across from me in this tiny café in the Pearl District where the scent of roasting coffee beans is subdued only by shouting baristas. It’s obvious that the man dressed in his signature black outfit is emotionally burdened by past failures, but will forever have a love of the game.
For now, he remains passionate about the paranormal, visibly thrilled when I share my own personal ghost story, and yet, whenever the conversation drifts near Chelsea Hopper, a melancholy weight settles over him, pushing his shoulders down, eyes averting, examining the minuscule wording on a sugar packet as if he’s truly interested in the fine print.
It’s impossible not to discuss her, given the motivations behind his current project with his partner, co-host, and bosom buddy Mike Long, but going into the interview, I didn’t want to push him away, so my intentions were to focus on what was always his favorite topic in the past.
Himself.
Ford Atticus Ford was a womanizing glory hound during the impressive primetime reign of Graveyard: Classified; he’ll readily admit to that fact because he seems determined to right his wrongs. Yet when I suggest that maybe you can’t change a zebra’s stripes, he scoffs and tells me the colors of a zebra have nothing to do with motivation and the desire to be a better person.
Noted, Ford, but how does one respond to those who say forgiven, but not forgotten? Those impressive shoulders—he’s been working out, you know—lift and drop. A resigned shrug is his only answer.
Has Ford atoned for his sins already? Perhaps and perhaps not, depending on whom you ask.
These days, he offers his spooky services to police departments, functioning as a paranormal private investigator, getting paid in peanuts and smiles. He’s fighting the good fight. He still gets recognized in public and poses for photos. He still has female fans sending him racy pictures. He still gets calls from celebrity acquaintances asking if he’ll lead paranormal investigations for curious groups of A-listers. It’s easy to say no to those, he says, because it feels like it would be disrespectful to the citizens of the spirit world.
And ten seasons of exploiting them on television wasn’t?
Once you become a social pariah, Ford tells me, you have a lot of time to think about the past, and what you might have done wrong, or what the catalyst was that might have changed things. If you can identify the switch, you can see another problem coming.
Rather than condensing our conversation into meager paraphrasing, I thought it best to let the discussion with Ford Atticus Ford play out as it happened. What I noticed during our interview is that the Almighty has some inherent characteristics that will always remain the same—there’s the whole zebra and his stripes thing—but the man sitting across from me was just that: a man.
Finally.
Gone was the enfant terrible of reality television, the womanizing adolescent in an adult’s body. In its place sat a mature adult willing to own up to his mistakes and claw for redemption.
That is as long as it doesn’t completely smother the occasional ego trip.
Or prevent him from winking at the cute barista behind the counter.
The following is a partial transcript from our brief interview—he’s on a tight schedule, of course, with the upcoming documentary—and it’s the first in-depth look at the man, the myth, the almighty, in well over two years.
Enjoy, and I’ll see you on the other side.
Jessie Lynn Wade: Hi! Thanks so much for coming, Mr. Ford.
Ford Atticus Ford: What’s with the ‘mister,’ Jessie? You’ve known me for, like, eight years.
JLW: Just responsible, professional journalism.
FAF: As if you’ve been accused of that in the past.
JLW: Hey!
FAF: Kidding. Kidding. Good to see you again. And before I forget, happy birthday. (Editor’s Note: Mrs. Wade reached the forty-year milestone on the date of the interview.)
JLW: Aww, thanks. I managed to survive another year.
FAF: Sometimes that’s more of an achievement than it sounds.
JLW: True. So, let me start here, because I’ve always been curious… Do you ever wonder if people are calling you by your first name or your last name when they simply address you as ‘Ford’? For me, I think that would lead to some sort of identity crisis.
FAF: (chuckles) It’s all part of the mystery isn’t it? At least it’s better than, “Hey, dickhead!”
JLW: Seriously, though, I’m not criticizing your parents here, but I think everybody has wondered what in the world their thought process was like when they decided to name their kid ‘Ford Ford.’
FAF: They’re interesting people, certainly. Both hyper-intelligent. Caring to a fault. Wicked senses of humor. My dad finally retired after thirty years in the military, and my mom is getting ready to pull the plug on her tenured career as an astrophysics professor. How they ended up with a TV personality who chases ghosts is anybody’s guess. If the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree, I should be barking orders at baby-faced recruits or creating diagrams of planetary alignments. Anyway, there’s no real mystery behind my name. Dad had this gorgeous ‘67 Ford Mustang, candy apple red with white racing stripes, and Mom always joked that he loved it more than her, which he obviously denied. So when I came along, here I am, a gurgling bundle of joy, and he told her that if there was anything he’d ever love more than her, it was me. Took her about two seconds to start referring to me as ‘the other Ford’ and it stuck. The ‘Atticus’ part is easy. She was reading To Kill a Mockingbird in the hospital and liked the sound of it.
JLW: Mystery solved.
FAF: Zoinks!
JLW: (laughs) Funny, Shaggy. Which, I might add, is fairly appropriate considering I’ve heard the scuttlebutt about your new canine companion.
FAF: You mean Dog Atticus Dog?
JLW: You’re kidding… Right? Tell me you’re joking.
FAF: Yes. His name is Ulysses. Ulie for short. My own little bundle of joy.
JLW: Should we move on to some serious topics? Anything out of bounds?
FAF: I’ve got a strict non-disclosure agreement with Spirit World Productions, so any specific details about the documentary are off limits. Broad generalizations are fine.
JLW: Anything else?
FAF: I’m sure you have a pretty good idea. Some questions are more painful than others.
JLW: Responsible, professional, easy-going journalism, that has to be my modus operandi here?
FAF: I didn
JLW: Fair is fair. Oh, but you know what? I’ve been dying to tell you this for ages. Can I share my own ghost story?
FAF: Of course!
JLW: My husband and I just moved into this new house across the river. Small fixer-upper, needs lots of work, but I adore it. It’s what we always wanted. Two stories, creaky hardwood floors that remind me of my grandmother’s house. Beautiful place, but we’re positive that the man who lived there before us never left.
FAF: Intelligent or residual?
JLW: Residual would be my guess. No response to any EVP or spirit box sessions or anything like that, unless he’s shy. Mostly what we hear is a clear set of footsteps going up to the second floor about every six hours.
FAF: Nice! (Ford spends five excitable minutes offering detailed advice about possible approaches to capturing evidence.) That is, if you want to go that route.
JLW: We thought about it, but really, we’re kinda content with letting him be. From what we’ve learned, his wife was sick for a few years and he was diligent about keeping to a schedule with her medication. When she finally passed, he wasn’t too far behind her.
FAF: Yeah. Lost his reason for staying on. So sad, huh?
JLW: Sad? It’s heartbreaking. Ugh. I get choked up just thinking about it.
FAF: (silence)
JLW: Does it ever get to you like that?
FAF: Like what?
JLW: Thinking about all the investigations you’ve been on. All the death you’ve been around. Some of it violent. No reason for others. Any regrets that you didn’t do enough for someone on either side of life? All those hauntings. I mean, they were people.
FAF: Not all of them.
JLW: Oh, you mean… The one at the Hop… Um, that one.
FAF: Yeah. And others. (silence)
JLW: I’m sorry. ‘Regrets’ isn’t exactly what I meant. Not in that sense. Everybody already knows you have regrets about… her.
FAF: Can we, um… Let’s not.
JLW: Absolutely. Yeah, moving on, then. Here’s something I’ve been dying to know. Everyone is familiar with the story about how you and Mike Long captured that full-bodied apparition on film, and that was the genesis of your rise to paranormal fame. Yet you’ve hinted about an experience when you were younger that piqued your interest in the supernatural. I spent days reading every print and televised interview of yours that I could find, and not once have you discussed it. Any reason why that is? And would you care to share it now?
FAF: (remains uncomfortably quiet for twenty seconds) Fine. (smiles) Why not, right? I did have an experience, and I’ve never shared the details for a couple of reasons. One, it was part of the intrigue, like what could’ve possibly happened to this guy to scare him into chasing ghosts for a living, that sort of thing. Two, you get to the point in the business of celebrity where nothing is sacred. Your home, your meals, your vacations, your relationships. Cameras, fans, autographs. Even inside the supposed privacy of your house, you never really feel like you have anything of your own because there could be some paparazzi photographer out there with a telephoto lens, trying to grab a shot of you walking around in your underwear. So, I never shared my story because it was the one thing that was mine, something that I could hold onto.
JLW: I can understand that. If you’d like to keep it private, that’s okay by me. I don’t want you to feel like I’m dragging it out of you.
FAF: No, I’ll share. I’m a different sort of ‘me’ these days. I have a lot of things that are mine now that I didn’t have before. Anyway. I can see it in my head, clear as day. I was seven years old, and I was in bed. My nightlight was on and I called my dad into my room to ask him to get the moths off the ceiling. Every night, without fail, every flying insect in the house would flock to my room. Freaked me out thinking I’d wake up with a moth trying to climb into my nose. Okay, so Dad left, and I was lying there in bed, just about to drift off, and the closet door opened by itself. I sat up to see what was going on, and the damn door swung shut like I’d caught something trying to sneak out. It scared me so much I couldn’t speak. Totally froze. And even if I could’ve moved, I would’ve had to pass by the closet door to leave the room. Wasn’t happening. A minute or two later, it creaked open again, and a young girl about Chelsea’s age poked her head out. Kind of transparent, kind of not. She smiled and waved at me, then ducked back into the closet and closed the door. Thirty-odd years later, here I am.
JLW: Wow.
FAF: It’s not the most incredible origin story.
JLW: I think it’s fantastic!
FAF: Regardless, I never saw her again. Never slept in that room again either. Being the military and sciencey types, my folks didn’t believe me, but they let me sleep on the living room couch for the next three years until we moved.
JLW: Do you think, subconsciously, that the child spirit is maybe why you have such a connection with Chelsea Hopper?
FAF: Nah. I was seven. I had a visitor. (shrugs) Chelsea getting attacked was my fault, and I’ve been through some experiences lately that suggest her demon tormentor isn’t finished with her. Or me.
JLW: Care to explain?
FAF: I can’t. Let’s just say that revenge is not confined to humans alone, and we’re hoping the documentary will convince the believers and doubters to be careful, no matter what.
JLW: So what can you tell me about the documentary?
FAF: Not a whole lot, I’m afraid.
JLW: Rumors have been swirling that you and Mike Long are headed back to the Hopper—
FAF: I can’t, Jessie. Sorry. Next question.
JLW: You’re not going to like this one very much either.
FAF: Go for it.
JLW: You had a highly visible public breakup with your ex-wife, Melanie, due to your infidelity during your time on the show. I mean, you were shameless back then, if the rumors are true.
FAF: Is there a question in there or…
JLW: You’ve always said you felt like you were sort of crucified in the public eye after the, um, the incident. Do you think that the media helped that explode because of the cheating playboy image you had? Maybe some reasonable retribution?
FAF: So the question is, were they justified in tearing me down because I was such an asshole to Melanie?
JLW: Close enough.
FAF: (long moment of consideration, punctuated by heavy sighs) Yeah. I think they were.
JLW: So you agree with what happened to your public image? You deserved it?
FAF: Look, I screwed up. I know I did. I had fame and fortune shoved into my lap and into my bank account. I’d always been the dorky guy next door and suddenly women were throwing themselves at me. I began to accept that I was owed this all along for taking so much shit growing up. That’s not an excuse. I had control of my decisions, but I abused my positioning in the universe. I’ve apologized to Melanie, profusely, I might add, and we’re back on speaking terms. Maybe even more than speaking terms. Don’t print that. Or, screw it. Print it. She’s amazing, we’re talking again, and I won’t screw it up this time.
JLW: Are you sure? I mean, I don’t doubt you, really, because you seem headstrong when you’re motivated about something, but what if a zebra can’t change his stripes?
FAF: (scoffing) C’mon. I know what you’re getting at. Once a cheater, always a cheater? Is it inherent? Genetics, like the color of a zebra? That has nothing to do with free will, motivation, and the desire to be a better person.
JLW: Duly noted.
FAF: Sorry for the tone. I just—I’m trying. Melanie has forgiven me in most respects. I doubt we’ll be walking down the aisle again any time soon, but it’s all about redemption. Trying to atone. For Melanie. For Chelsea. Will I ever be truly forgiven? Only God can answer that.
