The Darkness

NOTE: You will notice that the dates on these blog posts start with April 30,2009 and descend in time as the story progresses. This is intentional and was done to maintain the flow of the story since Blogger doesn't allow you to order blog post oldest to newest (top to bottom). Starting at the top of this blog (this post) and reading down will present the story in its correct form.

Welcome to The Darkness. My name is Anthony Papillion and I'm an entrepreneur, blogger, freelance writer, and social network addict in NE Oklahoma. While I maintain a regular blog over at www.cajuntechie.com, I've often longed for a place I felt comfortable being creative, daring; a place I could explore the stories that go through my mind but are hardly ever given a voice. This blog will give me that opportunity.

The entire contents of this blog will be fiction. No political commentary, no tech, no expounding on things I'm interested in. No, just fiction. The first story I'm going to publish will the "The Darkness" and is a developing story that I'm going to post in parts as I write it. While I'd love to tell you more about the story, I can't. I've always been the type of writer that never lays out a neat storyline for my work. Instead, I simply document the visual play that rolls through my head and then edit that into some sort of cohesive form. In short, I can't tell you what the story is about because, well, I don't really know yet. Indeed, this is going to be an adventure for both you and I and I am as excited to find out what happens as I hope you will be.

Thank you for visiting this blog. Please feel free to comment or send me personal messages. I appreciate and value all input.

I’m told it’s impossible, yet I remember it as vividly as if it had happened yesterday: how his cold, sweet, breath filled my nostrils, seeming to permeate every cell of my trembling body. Though I knew I should have been afraid – afraid for my very life – I stood transfixed by his sheer presence and forgot to breathe as he kissed my lips, earlobes, and finally, tortuously, ended on the hollow of my neck. I was unable to move, as much a reaction to his stunningly powerful eyes which always came back up to lock with mine as it was motivated by the fear I couldn’t quite totally feel.

“You shouldn’t be here, Elizabeth”, the creature said in a low, almost guttural voice that I could barely understand, “this could be very dangerous for you”. I knew he was right; I knew I should run screaming from the room in a vain attempt to save myself from certain and painful demise. My mind knew all that but my body couldn’t respond.

As I listened to the deep growl that rose from his chest and throat, I knew the time had come. Everything had been leading up to this very moment and I braced myself for the impending pain and closed my eyes.

But the pain didn’t come. I felt my dark master slowly and gently pull away and I could no longer smell his intoxicating scent. Suddenly, I knew it was over; it ended just like every other night for the last two weeks. I opened my eyes to face the darkness of my bedroom, wishing he would there but knowing that he wouldn’t. I felt a chill run through my body as I stared at the small, bright, clock at my bedside, already knowing what it would say:

4:40am

Dominique Freedman was a horrible man and he knew it. While he stood at only 5’9”, he projected an air of someone twice his stature and commanded attention wherever he went. Those unlucky enough to fall on his bad side knew well how his small size hid the venom of a cobra. The man would, and had, destroyed almost every one of the large competitors he faced in the local retail market. His stores dotted Oklahoma City like sand and it was hard to find anywhere where there wasn’t an Osborn’s or something associated with them.

How I’d gotten chosen to interview him for The Oklahoman, I’ll never know. Fresh out of college, I was still trying to get my feet wet until I could get the experience I needed for the big time. But maybe being chosen to interview Freedman was the big time. Maybe it was an indication that The Oklahoman had more faith in me than I had in myself. Either way, I decided, I was not going to let this opportunity slip through my hands and I began to read everything I could find about Freedman, his family, and his many business ventures throughout Oklahoma.

Dominique prided himself on being a self-made man. The only child of a poor, Native American couple, Freedman had grown up hard. Life on the reservation was nothing like it was in even the poorest and most rural parts of the state. It was harsh, unforgiving, and brutal; one ruled as much by superstition dark specters as it was by the men who stood as the leaders of the tribe.

Freedman’s father was one of those leaders. A strong, dark skinned man with a tornado like temper, everyone on the reservation knew you didn’t cross the elder Freedman. At least, you didn’t cross him without paying dearly for it. Rumor had it that Jessie Keller had once opposed Freedman for some tribal office and his severed leg and crushed hand were the result of that challenge.

Just as in public, Donald Freedman was no angel at home either. His young wife and son lived in constant fear and navigated the waters of family life as careful as if they were wading through a river filled with crocodiles. Even then, they were not spared the brutality of his wrath. Once, when Dominique had forgotten to feed his nine week old puppy, Donald beat the dog to death right in front of his terrified son as a reminder to never let it happen with another animal again. Dominique often thought of this moment as one of the pivotal moments that solidified his obedience to his father for the years to come. The sight of the bloody, mangled, puppy served as a powerful visual reminder of how easily his father could crush him if he’d wanted to and Dominique knew that he was often only moments away from the puppies fate himself.

Reaching a boiling point one day, Dominique and his father came to blows in an old garage that served as his fathers ‘office’. Dominique had forgotten to bring milk home from the store as his mother had asked and Donald’s punishment was fast and brutal.

Though Dominique couldn’t remember the particulars of the confrontation, the memory of waking up on the cold garage floor naked and in a pool of his own blood was something he wouldn’t soon forget. Neither would he forget the small cuts and puncture wounds that covered his young body. The pain was excruciating and he felt like he might pass out every time he moved from the pain sent screaming back into the forefront of his mind. When he left home only a few weeks later, he snuck out in the middle of the night without even leaving a note to explain why he’d disappeared. Neither of his parents needed it; they already knew why he left. Soon after escaping the tortuous hell created by his father that he’d heard the news of his mother’s death. He never returned home, even for her funeral, and it had now been close to 25 years since he’d last laid eyes on the demon that had called itself his father.

In 1984, Dominique enrolled in the University of Oklahoma’s business management program and showed exceptional potential and a strong desire to succeed. He excelled in business school, completing both his B.A. and MBA in record time. But Dominique never considered himself an academic, preferring to act rather than plan. That impulsive nature drove him to incredible heights in the business world, founding and selling 4 businesses each in the range of $75 million dollars over the next 10 years. Now, he stood as head of one of the largest oil and gas companies in the country and had power beyond any dream he’d held as a child. Anything he wanted was his and he regularly had lunch with Senators, Sheiks, and even, once, the President of the United States.

Still, his hard driving nature came at a high cost. He had married the love of his life shortly after leaving home but that marriage, like the three subsequent ones thereafter, ended in miserable failures. Dominique chalked it up to their weak nature and their inability to be able to live with a powerful man. But inside, he knew the real reason they’d left: he had become too much like his father. They hadn’t left him, they’d ran from him. He was slowly, or quickly by some assessments, become the person he hated the most in the world and he hated every single second of it.

At 43, Dominique was indeed a powerful man. But he was also haunted by the ghosts of his and his father’s past. They were ghosts that woke him up in cold sweats in the middle of night and constantly whispered the most vile and evil things to him even though he tried to push them away. In an odd sort of way, Dominique Freedman had become his father and that, with all its connotations, scared the hell out of him.

As I walked into the office of The Oklahoman, I was greeted by the friendly faces of my coworkers and my mind was immediately at ease. These were people who had faith in me and my ability to write a good story about even the most elusive and toughest people out there. Dominique Freedman wouldn’t be any different than last year’s Henry Zellman, the pedophile who’d kidnapped and murdered a 12 year old girl last year in Enid. I sat face to face with that animal for four straight days, trying to extract what little information he was willing to share about why he did it and why he wasn’t remorseful. In the end, my reward was a nice 500 word story and a nomination for “Most Promising Young Journalist in Oklahoma”, one of the most important awards an up and coming writer in Oklahoma could receive.

No, Dominique Freedman wouldn’t be hard. Frightening, maybe, but hard no. I’d just have to put all of the rumors I’d heard about him out of my mind and walk in with a completely blank slate. No presuppositions; no lingering doubts; no judgments. When I sat with Freedman, I would be a journalist working a character piece. Still, that didn’t quite get me off the hook; I’d still need to coax a good story out of him, and the man was notorious for being a tough interview. In my own honest self-assessment, I just wasn’t sure if I had what it took to go toe to toe with one of the most powerful people in Oklahoma.

My thoughts were interrupted by the overly loud voice of my editor Phil Chrisman, yelling at me to “get my shit together” and get into his office. This was going to be a long day; Phil was never this gruff this early in the morning without there being hell to pay on the other side of his glass windowed wall.

"Where the hell have you been for the last two days”, Phil demanded as soon as I walked into his office. I’d barely had time to close the door and sit my briefcase down before his rough interrogation continued: “We needed you here to liaise with one of the Tulsa TV stations and nobody knew where you were!”

“I was working on the Dominique Freedman story you assigned me, Phil”, I quickly shot back. This time, at least, I’d gotten Phil’s clearance before disappearing on my own for a few days. “Remember, the story you want done by the end of the week?”

“Yeah, I remember. Sorry. This office has been a freaking zoo for the last three weeks and it’s getting hard to keep up who goes where anymore”, he said a little more meekly than was needed, “How’s the story coming along anyway?

I lied and said it was going pretty good. The truth is that everything I’ve done between Monday and today was research. I didn’t even actually have an appointment with Freedman until tomorrow and that gave me less than a day to organize my notes and write the story if I were to meet the publication deadline. Of course, I’d never tell Phil that, especially since I’d just dodged the bullet on the whole two day disappearance thing. No, the story was coming pretty good as far as he was concerned.

“Freedman is an interesting character”, I concluded. “There’s a lot of rumor surrounding him and there’s even some allegations that he might have been involved in some of the weird disappearances in Quapaw last year. Nothing nailed down in stone, of course, but worth asking about when he and I sit down”.

I could tell that this last part, the “when he and I sit down” part, didn’t sit well with Phil.

“You haven’t even talked to him yet?” he boomed. “What the hell is wrong with you Morrison? You do realize that today is Wednesday, right?”

“Yes, I realize that”, I said sarcastically. I hated being talked to like I was a child and Phil had a way of making you feel about five years old anytime he raised his voice. “But I’ve got everything I need for the interview tomorrow and it’ll be fine. You know I’m always on time with my stories, Phil. Cut me some slack.”

Phil glared at me, knowing that I was right; I was always on time with my stories, even if it meant staying up all night writing them. Still, he’d never liked my last minute way of doing things. Hard core newspaper men like options. Last minute doesn’t give those.

“Go get to work Liz. Bring me a winner”

When I got back to my office there was a note stuck to my phone: “Call Dominique Freedman”.

This had just become my lucky day.

"Liz, are you even listening to me?", Jessica asked as I snapped back to the conversation we'd been having for nearly 45 minutes. I had to admit that I wasn't really listening to Jess; she had a way of over talking any subject to death. Still, we'd been best friends for almost 20 years and I felt a little guilty for not giving her my full attention.

"I'm sorry, I guess I'm just too focused on work right now", I lied. Of course, she wanted all the details of my latest assignment and she was all ears when I mentioned Dominique Freedman. She and Dominique had a history that went back 12 years to when she was still a young investigative reporter for KTUL TV in Tulsa.

She'd investigated Freedman Enterprises, a company largely believed to be a front for a large human smuggling ring that operated throughout the Midwest. Jessica bravely broke the story and went head to head with both Dominique and his business partner Josh Davenport even when several larger news organizations refused to touch it. Even the Tulsa World had backed off the story after one of their writers received death threats against his family if he didn't drop the story.

Freedman had a particularly brutal way they dealt with negative press. Instead of trying to defend himself against what could be seen as an overly zealous reporter, he went after Jessica personally. Rumors of extramarital affairs, malfeasance, and even child abuse, began circulating around Tulsa and it took a heavy toll on her family. Jack, her husband of 5 years, left and Child Protective Services stepped in to investigate the child abuse allegations. KTUL warned her to back off of the story, but she refused. In her mind, that would be letting Freedman win and she wasn't about to do that, especially if her strong suspicions about him were true.

Everything came to a head late one night as she was leaving the studio to return home. As she walked to her car, three men approached her and warned her to leave Freedman alone or face the consequences. When she refused, one man shoved her against the car and told her to 'prepare for the worst'. As the men walked away, one of them tossed a small book at her that sent chills through her body. It was her personal journal, usually kept locked in her desk at home.

That night, Jessica Sybel decided to go to war.

In the subsequent seven months, she became obsessed with finding the truth. She'd interviewed hundreds of people who knew Dominique Freedman, spoke to officials in several countries, and even tried to recruit Freedman's personal assistant to help her in her quest to nail the bastard. In the end, KTUL killed the story and never let it run. Without their backing, Jessica had no choice but to let it go herself and Dominique Freedman once again had dodged a bullet. But she never forgot how close she'd come and she often relished the idea of finishing what she started, with or without the stations backing.

As I told Jess about the story I was doing on Freedman, she reached into her purse and pulled out her address book. "These are some sources you can speak with who know Freedman very well. They'll be skittish, but they'll probably talk to you", she said as she handed me a paper with several names and phone numbers written on it. These were probably the very same people she'd spoken with during her investigation. Why she still had their names, I couldn't understand, but hopefully, they were still reachable and willing to talk.

The rest of our lunch was filled with casual banter and trading horror stories about our respective employers. Jess confessed that she'd been shopping her resume around and had even considered becoming a journalist with The Oklahoman. Seventeen years of investigating some of the most controversial and harrowing topics in Oklahoma had taken its toll on her and she was ready to move to greener pastures. I wasn't entirely convinced that newspaper reporting was any better than what she was doing now but I encouraged her to send her resume to us. It wouldn't be bad having another kick butt reporter on our staff. God knows, there's certainly enough news.

We were hugging our goodbyes when my phone started to ring from my purse. I quickly pulled it out and froze when I saw the caller ID: Dominique Freedman. Clicking the answer button, I brought the phone shakily to my ear and answered

"Hello?"

(to be continued)