Fog Descending (House of Crows) by Lisa Unger (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📕

10.

The sun streamed through the clouds, and the day had a kind of golden glow. There was a crispness in the air and, in spite of the long night, Ian felt light, hopeful, as he sat on the porch of Astrid and Chaz’s house and watched the sun come up over the mountains, a mist lazing through the trees.

It’s a new day, Liz used to say every morning. The possibilities are endless.

Maybe she was right.

Josh had left, unsettled or disbelieving—or a little of both—by the story of the Dark Man.

“So you tell him what you want. But first you have to do something for him?” Josh had asked. They’d left the master bedroom to return to the kitchen.

“Or you might get the thing you want first, and then later he asks for what he wants in return.”

Josh tore into another energy bar.

“And how precisely is this communicated? Does he say it? Does he have a voice?”

It was a good question. An investigator’s question. But Ian didn’t have a good answer, had to think about it.

“You know about the Dark Man because you’re told by someone else,” he said. “So if you go to him, or he comes to you, then on some level you’ve already made the agreement.”

Josh seemed very young and tired, like a little boy who needed to be tucked in.

“Liz thought that all hauntings, even possessions, are internal events,” said Josh. He sounded almost petulant. Mommy said that monsters weren’t real.

“That’s true,” Ian agreed. “She believed that there was nothing truly evil in the universe, just a balanced blend of light and darkness. That true haunting, possession, supernatural phenomena in general, were psycho-spiritual events, possibly an energy imbalance. That each event was very personal, most often not seeable by anyone else but the haunted. For her, cleansing, even exorcism, was about healing dark or disturbed energies. It was about untangling, releasing.”

“And for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you saw him?” Josh pressed. “That night with your friends?”

“No,” he said. “But I felt him. Or something.”

“And what about last night? Did you see him?”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe you were just dreaming.”

“It didn’t feel like a dream. The Dark Man—he seems real. Not part of me. Outside of me.”

“But every disturbed person thinks that,” said Josh.

There was that look, the one he was sure he had worn when he talked to Mason, or sometimes when he talked to some of their clients—deep concern for the unstable person before him, confusion, wondering if the darkness was real or imagined.

“True enough,” said Ian.

He rose, a little embarrassed and ready to finish the job. He never finished the story, and Josh did not press for the ending. Probably he didn’t want to know. Most likely he would quit now. When people could no longer hide behind intellectual reasoning, or lean on standard scientific explanations, they became very afraid. They got angry, turned away, and refused to see.

“Did you tell him what you wanted?” Josh was staring wide eyed at Ian.

“He already knew.”

Josh sat upright, seemed comforted by that. “Because he is you, right?”

“Maybe.” If the brain, the mind, is the seat of the divine, the place where the ethereal and the spiritual, reality and fantasy, mingle, then yes, maybe in a sense Ian was the Dark Man, or he was some nether part of Ian. But he didn’t say that.

“And what did he ask of you?” Josh wanted to know.

Ian smiled. “You can’t ever tell.”

“Or what?”

“Or he becomes a destroyer.”

“A destroyer.”

Josh didn’t say anything else. Harry Houdini had a saying that came back to Ian now and again: For those who believe, no explanation is necessary. For those who don’t, none will suffice. He had Josh pegged as a believer; but maybe he was just someone with a lot of questions.

“Go home and get some rest, okay?” said Ian. “We’ll talk later.”

“You sure?” said Josh.

“I’m going to do a standard ritual with the sage, the singing bowls, and the talismans, and tell them it’s done, that the house is clean.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.”

Josh looked around guiltily, torn maybe between knowing he should stay and wanting to leave. “Grab a beer later and talk more?”

“Definitely,” said Ian.

He hit the bowl with the mallet and the sound rang out, bright and clear. It resonated, echoing, then went quiet.

“Are you going to do it? What he wants? Are you going to do it?”

“Get some rest, kid,” said Ian. “We’ll talk more later.”

They wouldn’t. Ian was never going to see Josh again. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did. Finally, when he realized Ian had said all he was going to say, the kid left.

Ian finished the cleanse, walking through the house with the singing bowl as the sun rose. In the bedroom, he hid a piece of rose quartz behind the long drapes. Rose quartz calms and reassures. In the studio he left a tiny brass statue of Ganesha, the god of overcoming obstacles, in one of the grooves of the big wooden mandala that hung on the wall. In the nursery, he left a piece of moonstone under the cushion of the glider there. Moonstone promoted fertility. In the home office, he left a three-legged toad of good fortune to bring prosperity. He walked through with the sage, one final time. And said a prayer, the same one over and over: Darkness, release this house and this family. Light, bring your cleansing energy, dispelling negativity and welcoming renewal. It was one of Liz’s mantras.

When he was done, he brought a vitamin water out to the porch. Shortly thereafter, Astrid and Chaz glided up in their white Tesla. Chaz wore a slight scowl as he climbed out, dressed in all black, and Astrid had violet circles under her eyes, looking a little fragile. Chaz gave him a curt nod and entered the house without a word.

Astrid came to sit beside him on the porch. She, in contrast to her husband, was dressed all