I started walking off the path.
“Um . . . no . . . no . . . that was something I had created . . . also.”
I realized that lurking somewhere in Miller’s question there was a theory being built and in an oddly soothing way I also realized that I was finally sitting with someone who was a believer.
Miller kept studying me. I had not taken off my sunglasses.
“I’m not sure . . .” I started haltingly. “I’m . . . how the house and these physical manifestations of these . . . um . . . fictional creations . . . are tied together but . . . I think that maybe they are . . .” I said this with a whispered desperation that physically pained me. Saying this out loud into the empty air of the diner, I grasped at whatever dignity remained. I sat up.
The silence lengthened while Miller took me in. He had removed his mirrored sunglasses—his eyes were a plain and milky blue—in a gesture that implied I ought to do the same, but I couldn’t; my eyes had sunk too deeply into their sockets.
“It’s hard for me . . . to admit all of this and . . . it’s hard for me to believe that any of this is happening, I guess, and it just escalated into this . . . event last night and . . . I’m here—I mean, we’re here—because . . . because I want these events to stop.”
“Otherwise known as the unexplained events.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, staring out at the flat and desolate land beyond the highway. “The unexplained events,” I murmured.
Sensing I was finished with my story, Miller shifted his girth around in the booth and said flatly, “Technically, Mr. Ellis, I’m a demonologist.”
I was nodding even though I didn’t want to. “Which is?”
“Someone who is an expert on the study and handling of demons.”
I stared at Miller for a long time before I asked, “Demons?”
This is not a good sign, the writer warned me.
Miller sighed. He had noted the disbelief in my grimace. “I also communicate with what you would call ghosts—if that works better for you, Mr. Ellis. In laymen’s terms, you could call me a ghost hunter as well as a psychic researcher.”
“So you basically study . . . anything that’s supernatural?” The words came out just as I had expected they would because the writer was telling me, You are in so over your head.
He nodded. I looked at him hard while trying to recall phrases I had drunkenly encountered on the Web sites last night.
“Can you . . . clean an infested house?” I finally removed my sunglasses.
Miller flinched and drew in a wince when he saw the side of my face and the extent of its bruising fully revealed. This jangled something in him. This was another blow that would convince.
“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” I asked quickly.
“I’m making that decision as we speak,” he said, recovering. “That’s what this initial meeting is all about: trying to figure out if I believe you.”
I had closed my eyes and was talking over him. “I mean, I’m not an unstable individual. I mean, maybe I am but I’m not, like, um, trouble or anything.”
“I’m not so sure about that yet.” Miller sighed, sitting back in the booth and crossing his arms. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“I don’t know any more.” I helplessly raised my hands.
“Have you ever had a psychotic episode, Mr. Ellis?” Miller asked. “Have you ever been in any kind of delusional state?”
“I . . . I think I’m in one right now.”
“No. This is just fear,” Miller said. He marked something down on the notepad.
Pretend this is an interview, the writer whispered. You’ve done thousands. Just pretend this is another interview. Smile at the journalist. Tell him how nice his shirt is.
I suddenly guessed at what Miller was getting at.
“I had a drinking problem and . . . a problem with drugs and . . . but I don’t think that’s related . . . and . . .”
In that second everything fell apart.
“You know what? Maybe I’ve made a mistake. Maybe it was just some kids who were pulling a prank and I don’t know anymore and I’m a famous man and I’ve had stalkers and maybe someone is actually impersonating this fictional character of mine and maybe all of this—”
Miller interrupted what was becoming a rant by asking, “Are you the only target of these unexplained events?”
“I . . . guess I am . . . I guess I was . . . until last night happened.”
“Is there anything you’ve done to anger these spirits?” He asked this as if he casually wanted the opinion of a book I had recently read, but it implied something sinister to me.
“What are you saying? Do you think this is my fault or something?”
“Mr. Ellis, there’s no fault here,” Miller said with wary patience. “I’m just asking if you have perhaps antagonized—inadvertently in some way—the house itself.” He paused so this could sink in. “Do you think that your presence in this house—which according to you was not infested when you first arrived—has somehow caused the spirits to become angry—”
“Hey, listen, this thing last night, whatever the fuck it was, went after my kids, okay?”
“Mr. Ellis, I’m just saying you cannot antagonize the spirit world and expect them not to react.”
“I’m not antagonizing anyone—they’re antagonizing us.” This admission prodded a newfound nerve. “And the house wasn’t built on an ancient Indian burial ground either, okay? Jesus Christ.” This flash of anger—a release—calmed me down momentarily.
Miller noticed my hand trembling as I lifted the coffee cup to my mouth and then, remembering my lip, I placed it back on its saucer. I was about to start weeping at the pointlessness of this meeting.
“You seem very defensive. You seem angry.” Miller said this without any emotion. “I feel your fear, but I also sense anger and an antagonizing personality.”
“Jesus, you sound like my fucking shrink.”
“Mr. Ellis”—and now Miller leaned in and shattered everything by saying, “I have seen a person turn to ash because of their antagonism.”
My heart stopped, and then resumed beating faster than it had previously when Miller said this. I started crying softly. I put my sunglasses back on. I kept trying to stay calm, but if I believed what he just said I would get sick. The crying was magnified by the silence in the diner. Shame suddenly caused the crying to stop.
“Ash? You’ve seen this?” I grabbed a napkin from a dispenser and blew my nose. “What are you talking about?”
“One was a farmer. One was a lawyer.” Miller paused. “Did you read the journal on the site where I recounted these two incidents?”
“No.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t.”
I had to get out of the diner. I had to force myself to stand up and steadily make my way toward the Range Rover. I would drive back to the Four Seasons. I would climb under the covers of the bed. I would wait for whatever it was that wanted me and let it take hold. I would become unafraid of madness and death.
I could not understand why the Klonopin was not working this morning.
Every few seconds a semi would rumble past; the only hint that there was a reality outside of where I was sitting.
“These people just burst into flames.” Miller was not lowering his voice, and I glanced worriedly at the lone waitress sharing a conversation with the cook. Sometime during this conversation, the old man had disappeared from the counter and I thought that maybe he was a ghost too.
“How long have you been doing this?” I was asking him. “I mean, I don’t understand what you’re telling me. I mean, you say something like that and I think I’m cracking up and—”