The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

police beat, near one of the speakeasies by the lakefront. The dead man wore spats and a snazzy hat that blew toward Decker in the wind. He caught the hat, knew enough to carry it back to the detective, and as he did, his foot brushed the corpse, his ankle actually hitting the dead man’s elbow.

A little bit of nothing-a bit of a shiver, a bit of a chill-but not much more until he returned to the Journal’s city room. He found a typewriter and banged out his recollections, handing the paper to the copy desk for expansion. He went back to the desk to type a few impressions, like he used to do, for the novels he would someday write. But first, he rested his cheek on his fist and closed his eyes.

Spats rose from the sand, backwards, like a Charlie Chaplin film being rewound, shaking his fist at someone near on the docks. A flash of a knife, a dropped bottle of gin, some money clanging against the wood, and Decker opened his eyes, terrified of his waking dream.

The next morning, he went to the lakefront as follow-up, at least that was what he told himself, and instead, he saw the sailors, washed up on the rocks, the air cold off Lake Michigan, and two little boys, standing in the middle of the corpses, fishing.

That was when Decker screamed. The last time he screamed when he saw a corpse.

But not the first time.

The first time-Lord, he’d been ten. On his grandfather’s farm. His father had come back from the stream, looking grim, the female barn cat following him, crying plaintively. Decker should have followed his father, but he was already afraid of the man. So he went to the stream, saw the tiny kitten corpse on one of the rocks, touched it-the cold damp fur-and turned.

The man behind him had no eyes. He was tied to a tree, his skin filled with holes, birds sitting on his shoulders and pecking at his face.

Decker had screamed and screamed. His father had come first, pulled him away, told him he was a baby-he knew it was spring and every spring, his grandfather took the pick of the litter for barn cats and drowned the rest so the farm didn’t get overrun with cats.

Someday, his dad had said grimly, this’ll be your job.

But Decker only dimly heard the words. Instead, he stared at the dead man tied to the tree, the birds taking chunks out of his face as if he were a particularly delectable roast. Decker wanted to bury his own face in his dad’s chest, but he knew better.

He also knew he needed to gather himself, to stop being so upset, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He sobbed and sobbed and finally his dad picked him up like a sack of potatoes and slung him over his shoulder, carrying him back, Decker hiccoughing, his father whacking his butt with every single hitched breath.

His mother came into his room that night when he screamed again, the dead man alive in his room as a vision, running from men Decker dimly recognized. They would catch the dead man, carve him up, tie him to the tree, and laugh when they told him the birds would get him. They laughed. And Decker recognized the laughs.

But that wasn’t why he screamed. He screamed at the sunlight afternoon invading his dark room, the trees no longer there leading down to the stream, the bank where he’d happily played just a few years before.

His mother had come and shushed him. She had cradled him as if he were still a baby, and rocked him, but she said nothing.

Except when she thought he was asleep, she went back to the room she shared with his father- You promised, she said.

I did not send him down there, his father said. He went on his own.

You should have watched him.

You coddle him.

He doesn’t need to see.

At his age, I was drowning kittens. I had killed chickens and butchered pigs. I fished. You deny him childhood.

That isn’t childhood, she said. See what it has done to you.

You used to love me, his father said.

Before the darkness ate you, she said. Before it ate you alive.

“You could spend your whole life in escape,” the old man said, again misusing idioms. It was the odd choice of words that brought Decker back to the Dome, not the fact that he wanted to be back.

The men from the Transatlantic Review had left. In their place, a group from the Herald. One of the reporters tipped his hat to Decker, who nodded. He couldn’t for the life of him think of the man’s name.

“Each place will be new and fresh until death,” the old man said. “Then you will see-and in Europe, there is much death to see.”

“I’m not seeing corpses,” Decker said before he could stop himself. Not that he admitted anyway. He drank too much to remember what he saw. And what he did remember the old man called backwards nightmares.

“You are not looking,” the old man said. “You have deliberately blinded your most important eye.”

Decker was getting a headache, and he was starting to wish for a drink. This had been a mistake. He didn’t like being sober, not any more.

“You lied,” Decker said. “You said you had a story for me. This whole meeting has been nothing but gibberish.”

He stood, conscious of how odd he felt. He didn’t want to be near these men. He didn’t want to be at the Dome. He wanted to talk to his mother, and she was thousands of miles away, probably worrying about him, like she did. She worried.

She thought he could outrun the family curse. The old man just said he couldn’t.

Decker didn’t want to think about any of it.

“We will be here tomorrow night,” the old man said.

“I won’t,” Decker said.

“Unless you finish the story,” said the younger man.

“We would love to read it,” the old man said.

“Sure,” Decker said. And he would love to start over, that fresh bright attitude he had brought to Paris so far gone that he couldn’t even remember how it felt.

Maybe he could recapture it somewhere else. He had heard nice things about Vienna. There was another sister paper in Geneva-or maybe that was a sister to the Herald. United Press operated out of most countries.

He could leave in the morning. He didn’t need the language skills. He hadn’t had all that many in France. Besides, French was the language of diplomacy. He spoke it just badly enough for people to take pity on him.

He was going to go speak it badly now at the nearest bar he could find. He would speak it until he couldn’t talk any more, until he didn’t think about all the things the old man had brought back into his mind. He would be so bleary-eyed drunk that maybe he wouldn’t even dream.

But he made the mistake of stopping in his room first. He wanted more cash, which he found rolled up in his socks in the bottom drawer of the shabby bureau. Anyone would know to look in the sock drawer for money. It was a testament to how honest the staff was at the Hotel de Lisbonne that no one had stolen his stash.

How honest or how lax. He couldn’t remember the last time they cleaned his room.

He wiped a finger over the typewriter, removing dust. His eye caught the edge of that paper.

… the…

He sat down, xxed out the “the,” and typed:

Sophie Nance Brown, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt Brown lately of Newport, Rhode Island, in what the police initially reported as a bungled suicide attempt.

(Although, he thought, how could it have been bungled if she did indeed die?)

The body, discovered by an American tourist, fell on the walkway beneath the Pont Neuf. A