At The Stroke of Midnight

Chapter One

Tricia Lancaster parked her car across the street. She leaned on her steering wheel as she gazed at the two- bedroom house that was once Dean McCloud’s home. To the right like a backdrop, she could see the Hollywood sign in the distance.
McCloud had been an American icon in the 70’s, when angel flight pants and afghan coats were in style. He starred in the western series, The Long Trail where every week he kept the west safe from outlaws. He was on his way to being on the big screen, landing a part that would have been perfect for his bigger than life persona. He could have had it all, but he threw it all away by blowing his brains out.
Some believed it was an accident while conspiracy theorists believed he’d been murdered. The coroner called it a suicide, leaving his fans disillusioned.
His home was turned into a shrine. It was a museum of sorts for the long dead actor as if all of America should give homage. Tricia was here to cover a story for the local newspaper.
In three days, it would mark the anniversary of the death of Dean McCloud. There would be thousands of flowers and presents covering the lawn and a vigil would begin a minute before midnight, the documented time of his death. She was here to do the story and take some pictures. She'd film the rest later. She begged for the piece even though it wasn’t a high priority for the small town paper. She couldn’t tell anyone the true reason she wanted the story. She felt connected to Dean McCloud as if she should know him.
It started with the dreams. Vivid true-to-life dreams before she knew he was even an actor. For God’s sake, she wasn’t even born when Dean McCloud died. She hadn't even seen one of his TV shows until they aired on Nickelodeon. Now she owned the entire three-year series on DVD. She bought his biographies and purchased magazines on eBay that had pictures and articles about the actor, but none of them touched what she knew from her dreams.
She opened her car door and stepped out. Without a backwards look, she locked it as she made her way to the front steps.
She took a deep breath before she entered. She was here to take the tour. She should have done it a long time ago, faced the ghost so to speak. She hoped seeing his home and doing the story would finally put her obsession of him to rest.
She needed to have a normal relationship, not this morbid affair with a man who died over thirty years ago.
She paid the elaborate fee and took the pamphlet that gave a brief description of Dean McCloud. She walked into the living room where the twenty-something docent was talking about Dean as if he were a close and personal friend.
At first glance, Tricia knew most of the furniture wasn’t original. The recliner was brown; his had been blue. The lamp should have been made out of glass marbles instead of the gold tinted glass. The carpet wasn’t even close since it used to be green shag.
She walked down the hall glancing at the photos depicting Dean as a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, with his shoulder-length dark hair, sideburns and contagious smile that showed off the sexy dimple in his right cheek.
She moved on, venturing toward the bedroom. She hesitated at the doorway.
This room was where he had decided he had nothing to live for. She didn’t go in.
Instead, she took a detour into the den. The floor television model was showing a Long Trail episode, one of her favorites. Dean, or rather his character Samuel Baines cleverly stopped a bank robber from killing a hostage. Dean was talented. He was charming and lethal all in one.
Ignoring the roped off area, Tricia made herself at home and took a seat. She tossed her backpack at her feet. Dean had sat in this chair; this was his. She lightly caressed the threadbare arms of the recliner. She snuggled down to watch the show, catching a whiff of cologne. She smiled wondering if it was Dean’s scent forever embedded within the fabric of his chair.
On the television, she watched Dean out draw the outlaw. This episode, this scene in the saloon was his last.