This is the sequel to ‘Whispers of Morgan’.  I would suggest reading that story before continuing. 

This story is rated R for violence and sexual content.

I don’t own the characters from Starsky & Hutch nor do I derive financial benefits.

Chapter One

Starsky started up the long flight of stairs with trepidation.  He was dying.  He could feel it the moment he’d left the safe confines of his car—his breaths were coming in quick gasp, his heart was beating wildly, and sweat poured from his body.  Starsky eyed the darkened windows of his apartment as he climbed the stairs.  He hadn’t anticipated working late so he’d neglected to leave the lights on.  Now he would have to pay a heavy price and walk into a dark apartment.  He stumbled on the last steps as a wave of dizziness nearly toppled him back down the stairs.  He desperately grasped the railing, his damp hands sliding over the ruff wood.  He knew he had only seconds before he was completely incapacitated.  Thankfully, a sudden rush of adrenalin propelled him forward and he entered the apartment quickly and turned on the lights.  He leaned heavily against the door, his eyes closed, his body still shaking.

Starsky opened his eyes and gasped as he realized the shades were up.  It was almost as if the darkness were trying to come inside.  He quickly walked through the apartment, turning on more lights and pulling down the shades.  He shuddered as he recalled his terrifying trip up the stairs and how it had all started.

It had been nearly a year since Morgan Harlow’s death.  Her family had been sentenced to jail for their crimes against him.  They were locked away, but then so was he.  He was a prisoner of the light—venturing out only during the daytime, a sort of reverse Vampire he laughed to himself.  It had been that way for nearly a year and no one had noticed, not even Hutch.  Simply put—he was afraid of the dark and it had all started with Janet Harlow.

Janet Harlow was the matriarch of the Harlow family.  She was a cruel, vindictive woman who would stop at nothing to control the people around her.  She was nearing forty when she had her first and only child, Morgan.  She had enjoyed complete control over Morgan until the young woman fell in love with a cop and announced her intentions to marry.  Janet was angry.  She had planned for Morgan to be her companion during her old age and she wanted to control her so she had her nephew kill her fiancé and hide the body.   Morgan was lead to believe that she had been deserted.  Unfortunately, the young woman became mentally unbalanced, eventually committing suicide by plunging her car into the lake and nearly killing Starsky in the process. 

Janet Harlow blamed Starsky for not saving her daughter.  She wouldn’t accept her part in her daughter’s death.  Starsky would not have been in the car in the first place if she hadn’t caused Morgan to become so unbalanced that she sought the first cop who bore a passing resemblance to her fiancé and tried to kill him because of it. 

The hatred that Janet Harlow felt for Starsky intensified to the point that she devised a plot with her niece and nephew to get revenge against him.  She used her connections to develop a drug that would make Starsky hallucinate and think he was actually being haunted by the spirit of Morgan Harlow.  She had her niece impersonate Morgan and make nightly visits.  Starsky developed a habit of sleeping with the lights on which probably lead to his development of Nyctophobia.  Now this fear threatened to do what Gunther’s bullet could not—end his career.

Starsky entered his kitchen and grabbed the coffee container from the top shelf.  It had been his love of coffee that had allowed Janet Harlow to administer the drug.  Starsky shuddered as he recalled the last time he saw the old woman.  It was the day the verdict was read.  Janet Harlow had sat quietly, her white hair pulled into a tight bun, her steel grey eyes full of confidence as she waited for the jury to return.  Starsky would never forget the look of shock on her face when the jury came back with a guilty verdict.  She had screamed like an animal caught in a trap and then she  looked at Starsky and with hatred dripping from every syllable spoke the words that still reverberated in his mind,

“You will suffer as I have suffered.  You will live as I will live.  And one day you will beg for death and I shall not grant it.”

Hutch had moved protectively closer to him, almost as if he too felt the icy grip of fear that coursed through Starsky’s body. But that had been five months ago.  He’d returned to his life as a cop and Janet Harlow sat in jail along with her niece and nephew.  Still, the affects of her crimes remained like a lingering echo.

Starsky decided that he didn’t want coffee after all, so he put the canister back on the shelf and went to his bedroom.  It was still early, but he was tired.  Lately he was having trouble waking up in the morning. It was probably due to the stress of the past year.  He thought about talking to Hutch, but his friend had been through so much over the past few years.  First there was the long recovery from the Gunther shooting and then the Harlow family.  Both had lead to a difficult recovery for Starsky, but the Harlow family had nearly taken his sanity.

Starsky looked at the telephone.  One call and Hutch would come and they would work on this together.  Still, what could Hutch do about an irrational fear?  He pushed the thought aside, closing his eyes.  Well at least he had doctor Crabtree.

Doctor Crabtree was the psychiatrist that Starsky saw after the Harlow scheme had been revealed.  It was a requirement that Starsky see a psychiatrist before returning to duty.  Starsky had strongly objected to seeing the department shrink.  He was tired of their probing and endless questions.  He had spent seven months talking to them after the Gunther shooting and wanted nothing more to do with them.  Eventually, Dobey had conceded and compromised by suggesting doctor Crabtree. 

Starsky had liked the doctor the minute he met him.  He was an unusual man who reminded Starsky of the television doctor, Marcus Welby.  Gone was the cold, impersonal attitude of the psychiatrist he had known in the past.  In its place was a kind gentleman who spoke with a trace of a southern accent and served Mint Jubilee on the porch of his old Victorian home.  Each visit to the doctor made Starsky feel like he was visiting an old friend.

The doctor used his living room as his office.  It was a comfortable room with its hardwood floors, scattered oriental rugs, overstuffed chairs, fresh flowers and a large fireplace.  Doctor Crabtree always sat in front of the fireplace as he listened to the curly-haired detective speak of his life over the past two years.  Starsky found himself pouring his life out to a man who reminded him of a kindly grandfather.  He spoke freely to the doctor about the shooting that nearly ended his life.  His feelings of betrayal when he discovered Hutch with Kira. And he spoke of his fear when he actually believed that he was being haunted by Morgan Harlow.  The doctor listened to all of this while sitting in his overstuffed chair smoking a pipe, the fire ablaze behind him.   Eventually, Starsky no longer felt the need to see the doctor and he returned to work and his life continued as before. And then his fear of the darkness nearly suffocated him with its intensity and he returned to the doctor.

Nyctophobia —the fear of the dark.  Doctor Crabtree had explained that although the fear was usually the domain of children, there were also adults sufferers.  Starsky laughed.  He was a homicide detective who’d faced deadly criminals, survived Viet Nam, and looked death in the face more than once.  He remembered the doctor looking at him, his face serious.  “But you’ve never faced a ghost,” he’d said.  And he hadn’t.  The fact was he had spent weeks suffering under the impression that he was being haunted by the spirit of a dead woman.  He’d believed it through the haze of drugs and lack of sleep.  He’d spent weeks sleeping with the lights on, trembling with fear.  He knew the doctor was right, he was afraid of the dark.  So afraid, that he suffered severe panic attacks whenever he found himself in darkness. 

Starsky asked the doctor if he had a cure—he wanted his life back.  He wanted to wake up in the morning knowing he wouldn’t have to rush home because it was getting dark.  But the doctor didn’t have a cure.  Instead he told him that it would take time and maybe a little therapy to overcome his fear.  He encouraged him to come back and talk about it, but Starsky was tired of therapy and so he had returned home and turned the lights on and pulled the shades down and waited as the fear worsened.

Starsky stretched and looked at his clock.  It was ten o’clock and he was in bed.  But what else could a young, attractive, single cop do who was afraid of the dark.

***                                                                                                                            ***

The eerie darkness of the streets reflected in shadows against the streetlights.  He saw the woman standing under the lights, her white blond hair falling softly around her shoulders.  She was young, no more than thirty, but she had no innocence left in her eyes.  Starsky saw that as he approached.  This one had lived a hard life.  This one had glimpsed the depths of hell.

He came closer.  He could smell her now, the cheap perfume nearly suffocating him.  The woman smiled and her eyes traveled the length of his body.  He approached her, returning the smile.  The woman never saw the knife in his hands until it was too late. 

Starsky awoke to the steady pounding at the door.

 “Starsky, open up,” he heard Hutch shout.

Starsky looked at his clock.  It was ten o’clock in the morning.  He’d slept for twelve hours and he was late again.  He could tell from the pounding at the door that Hutch was not amused.   In the past three weeks, he’d been late at least four times, and it was his turn to pick up the blond detective. 

Starsky grabbed his robe and headed for the door.  He braced himself as he opened it and saw the angry detective standing there, his eyes ablaze.

“What the hell happened this time, Starsky?” he said, entering the apartment, and putting his hand on Starsky forehead.

Starsky shrugged him off.  “I ain’t sick, Hutch.  Just overslept.”  Starsky said, heading to the bedroom.  “Let me get showered and changed.  Won’t take long.”

“Nope, buddy,” Hutch said, grabbing his friend’s arm, effectively halting any chance Starsky had of escaping without giving a reasonable explanation.

Starsky faced the blond detective.  He could see anger etched on his friend’s face, but he could also see the concern there.  The blond knew something was wrong.  Starsky could have been the best actor since Lawrence Oliver, but when it came to the Blond Blinz, no amount of acting talent could cover the fact that something was wrong with him.  The two detectives were simply too close to keep secrets from one another.

Starsky took a shuddering breath, locking eyes with his friend.  He would tell him everything now.  He cleared his throat, ready to speak and then the telephone pierced the silence. 

Hutch looked at Starsky.  “Let it ring,” he said, his voice, his hand resting softly on Starsky’s arm.

Starsky closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the comforting touch of his friend and then he turned and walked to the telephone, the moment lost.

****                                                                                                                               **** 

The two detectives drove to the park and were greeted by a young, white faced, rookie. 

Starsky looked around the park.  It was a beautiful day.  The birds were singing.  Children were playing, and a dead body lay in the rose garden.  The incongruity of the moment was as staggering as the heat on this hot, summer day.

“The…the body is over there.  She was stabbed,” the rookie said through clinched teeth.  “Ripped opened.  Like…like…”

 Starsky placed his hand on the rookies shoulder, guiding him to his squad car, and opening the door.  “Why don’t ya sit down while my partner and I take a look?”

The rookie sat in the car, his eyes looking in the direction of the body. 

Dobey had called the detectives only minutes ago and told them to get to the park.  Starsky was both relieved and disappointed—relieved because Hutch would have more time before he had to deal with yet another problem involving him and disappointed that he was still keeping secrets from his best friend.

The sun stood high in the sky, its hot intensity making the shirt cling to Starsky’s body.  He could smell the scent of roses in the air mingled with a slight ting of death.  A tall, black cop carefully removed the white sheet covering the body.

Starsky gasped when he saw the girls face.  She was young, no more than thirty.  Her eyes were open, staring into the distance as if she sought the face of her killer.  Starsky backed up, his heart beating so loudly he could hear it.  He was aware of the startled look on Hutch’s face as he turned and staggered toward the car.  He reached the car, his legs barely carrying him as he leaned on the hood, his eyes closed.  He heard the thud of footsteps and knew without opening his eyes that it was Hutch.  He felt Hutch grab him, pulling him into a strong embrace.  He was oblivious to the stares he knew this had to be causing.  A wave of nausea swept over him as he was plunged into darkness.