PART THREE: NEBRASKA BLUES
“I recently found a lead that might help in the search for my brother, William “Wills” Forte. A journal he had written, along with a cassette that was filled with what can only be described as very unusual field recordings. Seeing as the nature of these recordings seemed to push towards an evil energy, I sent the tape to a friend to help me understand the music, who in turn sent it to guitarist Kirk Hammett.
We have decided that while we cannot allow the actual sounds from the cassette to be released, we can share renditions of the music. Kirk Hammett has agreed to quickly transpose the less complex portions of the cassette while keeping the integrity of the original field recordings intact. These you can play or loop alongside the reading of each part, to create the appropriate mood for these journal entries.
We still advise you take precautions before listening to the recordings (such as burning sage, reciting prayers, drawing protective sigils). What you will hear are some phrases and motifs inspired by the cursed melodies recorded on to this mysterious cassette.” – Abigail Forte
I’m in a bar. It’s familiar, but strange at the same time.
There’s a row of shots filled with a red liquid lined up on the stainless-steel counter. I hope it’s not blood.
A soft blue glow plays across the room, shifting shadows and light across the empty booths. I try to stand up, but I’m frozen. Out of the corner of my eye I see a movement by the far wall. A wave of dread crashes over me.
It’s a dark shape; a solid emptiness, if there was such a thing. But behind it is another figure bathed in a pale green luminosity. The lighter figure moves through the darkness and takes on a recognizable form. It’s Cristopher.
I hear a scraping sound, metal on metal. The shape that is Cristopher moves towards a Jukebox in the corner. The dark shape shifts and pulses in place. I can turn in my seat but can’t stand up or speak. Cristopher puts his hands to his face; his arms are covered in cuts and his eyes are covered by two quarters. He takes the coins and pushes them into the jukebox.
His white T-shirt is torn and stained with blood, showing skin paler than any skin I’d ever seen. Almost translucent. His dyed black hair is edged with a midnight blue and falls over his face as he turns to look right at me, eyes wide black pools.
“I know you loved this song.” his voice appears inside my head. It’s a song we wrote together. The music turns into a distorted ring, Cristopher moves towards me, and I hear the metallic scraping again. It’s Cristopher’s fingers. They’ve become hypodermic needles, scratching along the steel bar.
The dark shape moves forwards and pushes Cristopher towards me. The fingers that are needles plunge through the glasses of red liquid and into my arms.
I wake up screaming. Screaming alone against the sound of the telephone.
*****
“William? William Forte?” A steady, smooth voice asks after I shake out a hello.
I close my eyes against the remnants of the bleak visions, one hand holding the phone and the other pushing fingers against my temples. “Yeah, this is William.”
“My name is Harry Velvét, and I believe you have a guitar I am interested in.”
My eyes open, stare at the phone, are demons calling me now? “Harry Velvay?”
“Velvét. Like Velvet, but smoother.” The voice says, with the faintest hint of annoyance. “And do you know this guitar I am speaking of?”
It’s not annoyance, it’s impatience. I’m not ready for whatever this is, but it’s better than a jukebox nightmare. “Yeah, I think so. Small, six strings, apparently cursed.”
There’s a dry laugh at the other end of the line, “Right then. I know you can’t part with it yet, but I’m willing to offer a substantial amount if you would consider parting with it at your journey’s end.”
“Seems like you know a lot about this guitar. Why do you want it?” I ask.
“It’s not for me. I’ve been asked to acquire this instrument for a client. I know you want to think about it, but I will make it worth your while. You are in Chicago now, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I will be in Denver for a few days this week. Would you be able to meet me there? I’ll pay for any expenses, but I think it would be in your best interest, and this matter would be best discussed in person.” Harry pauses, continues. “This is a rather delicate transaction.”
“My best interest?” That line always put me on edge. “Why should I trust you, and how do you know about this?”
“It’s my job to know.” Dry and solid is the only response after a long pause. “Denver, then?”
“If I can.” Depends on what the guitar wants, I think to myself.
There’s another thick pause on his end of the line, “Understood. I’ll be in touch.” The phone call ends as abruptly as it started.
I grab the guitar from the soft black guitar case I bought to carry it in and sit on the couch, holding it by the neck and resting the body on my leg so I can study the engraved silhouettes below the bridge.
“Souls in a song.” I whisper to myself, turning the guitar around. I stare at the lines and markings covering the hard wood. I notice that it’s not random. There are carvings of letters and some numbers. They seem random, but I can make out the letter B, maybe a Y or an F? Possibly an old phone number, and a name.
I need to make my mark as well, I think, and while I don’t know where that thought came from, it seems important. Maybe just my initials.
I spin the guitar around again, hold it, and start playing, feeling the strings strain against my fingers. “Practice, practice, practice…”
Noting how the previous chords I had played were a bit minor and a little on the dark and heavy side, I decide to move a little brighter, to something more major sounding. Maybe it will push the balance of control a little more to my side. Hopefully nothing will go wrong.
I start out with a simple chord progression in A major, and instantly I feel an electricity shoot up my arms. I try to keep focus, concentrating on the notes, plucking the strings with my thumb and index finger. What the hell? It won’t let me play in a major key. Suddenly, my fingers shift notes, and unfamiliar lyrics move into my mind. I hear the words as they come out as a sort of chant or prayer.
Rattle my nerves, shake my bones, burn my thoughts, steal my soul…
It feels natural, easy. I keep going. The notes start becoming more of a drone, the words circling in my head. I start relaxing into it until my I’m brought back into the world by a sharp rapping at the door.
“Wills, you there?” It was Octavia. “C’mon, open up.”
“Hold on, give me a second.” Exasperated, I head towards the door.
“You’ve been playing.” She says, breezing in past me and sitting on the couch beside the guitar. “Did it speak? Did it tell you where to go?”
“And hello to you too.” I grumble, feeling out of sorts and slightly angry about the interruption. And slightly embarrassed about the anger. I play it off casually, “Sorry. Not enough coffee.”
“I think it’s more than that. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours.” She gave me a sweet smile.
“Hours?” I exclaim.
Nah, I picked up the guitar and played for like fifteen minutes…” I looked at the clock by the bed. “What? It’s nine pm? What happened” I had picked the guitar up around 11 am, just after talking to Harry Velvét!
“I just thought you were ignoring me, I heard that writing a good tune can make anyone lose track of time.” Octavia quips and holds the guitar up and studies it. “It’s losing some of the wear on the edges. You took it somewhere, didn’t you? It’s been maligned. This blood on the strings, it’s not yours.”
I stare at her for a second, then look at my hands. She’s right. My fingers are sore, but not bleeding. “I don’t know.” I whisper, feeling a strong sense of foreboding start to rise in the pit of my gut. I look up at her again, half asking and half wondering, trying unsuccessfully to keep my voice from wavering. “Where did I go?”
She let out a laugh, and said, “Let’s see if we can figure that out.” She pointed at the chair, “Sit down, Play. You need to bring the memory back.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I said, reluctantly reaching for the instrument. “But then again, I’m crap at listening to my own advice.”
“Then let me give you some.”
Octavia leans back, arms crossed in front of her. I’m sitting on the one chair in the living room. “This much I know, the guitar works through the melody. You need to work through the rhythm. Start with something simple and keep time with your foot. Concentrate on the beat and the melody will naturally appear.”
“Okay.” I nod.
I start with a simple two chord progression, D to Em, D to Em, one strum per beat. My foot keeping time with each downstroke.
“That’s it,” Octavia whispers, moving behind me. “Keep playing and quietly count it out. The melody will follow, the memory will come. The more you do this, the easier it will be to remember.”
I follow instructions with soft strums and a quiet count; one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, repeat…
The strum and drone of my playing starts to surround me in waves and my vision grows dimmer, and fish-eyed, like an old television turning off and fading to black. When the darkness fades, I remember. I’m standing outside, holding the guitar, on a cracked dirty sidewalk in front of an old building.
It wasn’t darkness, it was just my eyes slowly closing.
Now they open; darkness fades to dim lit motel room. Octavia sits across from me on the couch. “Did it appear?”
“Not all, but something. There was an old Greystone. Dirty front, lots of trees … and a sign above the entrance. Saints for Sinners – Tonight 9 PM.”
“Keep playing. Soft simple strums.” Octavia whispers. “And remember.”
I strum and speak against the rhythm. “I go in. It’s like a church … but it’s not. It’s a great hall that’s made to look like a church, but it’s a club. There’s a long room with benches, or pews, and they’re staggered back and forth along the floor. There’s a low wooden stage set up at the far end.”
It starts coming back faster now, still blurred around the edges, and hazy, like calling a dream back into focus. I remember walking up the aisle, holding the guitar by the neck in my left hand. There’s two people on the stage, sweeping it, setting it up for a performance of some sort. They move off into another room without looking in my direction. There are flowers in vases all along the edges of the room, white and red, lilies and roses, I think.
An old man appears on the stage, moving through a split in the dark blue curtains set up along the back. He doesn’t look up, so I’m not sure if he knows I’m there. I am walking, moving, but I’m not sure if I’m there either. His walk, strong and steady to the wooden stool sitting center stage, is at odds to his faded pale wrinkled skin. When he finally does look up, his fatigued gaze under silver-grey hair gives away his age far more than his movements did.
His expression doesn’t change, but a flash of fear shoots behind his weary eyes. He makes the sign of the cross and grabs an acoustic guitar that’s been propped up by the stool. I’m not positive, but it looks like an old Stella acoustic. It’s in superb shape. Solid wood with a smooth finish.
“I thought I’d have more time.” He says. His voice strong and smooth, like good whiskey. “I’m not gonna be able to play my show tonight, am I.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t know how to answer. The guitar I’m holding does, though. I can feel the strings quietly vibrate under my fingers. The thick stench of flowers surrounds me, and I can hear a buzzing in my head.
I say under my breath, “I’m not sure if I want to remember…” I exhale slow, knowing I have to.
“Go on.” Octavia says quietly.
“I walked closer to the stage and started playing as I walked. I’m not sure what I was playing at first, but the old man knew.” I recalled. “He started plucking along with his guitar and singing some lines along with it. I figured it out after a couple of lines.”
Get six gamblers to carry my coffin
Six chorus girls to sing my song …
It was ‘St. James Infirmary’, and I have no idea how I knew that one, but the old man knew it well. He sang, his voice carrying through the empty hall deeper and richer than any I had ever heard before. I stopped in front of the stage, playing the guitar along to his choice of a final song. It felt like the last wish of a dying man.
Six chorus girls to sing my song
Put a jazz band on my tail gate
To raise hell as we roll along
This is the end of my story
So let’s have another round of booze…
And before the old man came to the end of the chorus, I felt my right hand come down hard on the lower E string, snapping it in a sharp twang.
Instead of dropping down, loose towards the floor, the string went taut and shot out at an impossible speed, growing to an even more impossible length, and wrapped around the throat of the old man on the stool. I swore it was going to take his head clean off, but it didn’t.
The string held tight as the body fell with a dull thud, the old man’s guitar knocking against the stand and falling to the ground as the stool clattered to the stage. The two men I’d seen earlier appeared from behind the curtain, curious, but before they could rush to the fallen body two more guitar strings broke and shot out. The A & D strings wrapped around their necks in similar fashion, but faster. They didn’t pull, those two strings, they just wrapped and held.
They held steady as the E string pulled the old man through his own blood, more streaming down his neck and dripping across the stage, over the floorboards. I was frozen, couldn’t move. I could only watch as the string, tightly wound around the man’s neck, pulled him struggling and bleeding, towards the guitar, still in my hand.
When the body, now a limp dead weight being dragged across the room, got about five feet from where I stood, the string stopped pulling. I felt my arms, holding the guitar, start to shake. It felt like a heavy electricity was being pushed into my chest, through my chest. And then it seemed to reverse and move back outwards through me, through the sound hole of the guitar.
A dark shape, a thick shadow, moved out of the sound hole like a shifting tentacle of black smoke, and wrapped around the broken neck of the body on the ground.
I watched, paralyzed, as the smoke shape pulled the body into the guitar like a whip, crushing and contorting the bones into shapes of anguish. The horrific sounds of breaking bone echoing in my mind.
“And then everything went dim and I blacked out. I couldn’t remember anything else until I heard you at the door.” I finished playing the guitar and turned it face up to look at it. My heart stopped. I immediately noticed the changes on the body. My voice shook. “Oh my god, look! Now there’s three figures under the bridge, and none of the strings are broken!”
I stared at the guitar; it felt the same, but it looked different. Newer. Cleaner. The blood was gone, as if it had never been there, and the sound hole was empty. Just a shadowed circle leading into a hollow body. And there were less scratches in the finish.
Then realization set in. My body shook uncontrollably. “We need to call the police.” I looked pleadingly at Octavia. She had a deadpan expression.
“Not a good idea.” She moved to the kitchen to get me a glass of water.
“What do you mean, not a good idea?”
“Think about it. What are you gonna say, big boy? My guitar killed three people and ate one of them? They’ll lock you up for sure.”
I downed the water too fast, stood there shaking and choking. “But…”
“But nothing. We need to go. I can’t fix this one.” Octavia started gathering my belongings.
“The band…” I started…
Octavia interrupted with a quieting finger pointing at me. “Shush! Right now! No band. You can call them, or you can disappear. But you can’t stay. The bodies will be found.” She throws the soft case at me, “Put the guitar away and meet me in the parking lot.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“I do. We’re in Chicago, and I’m a demon. Between those two things it’s not that hard to get a car.” She flashes a fast grin. “Hurry.”
And she’s out the door.
I stand in the middle of the motel room. Feeling lost, scared, freaked out, angry, and maybe a little excited. “Damn it. The band.” I mutter to myself.
I want to run, hide, vanish. But I’m in this now. I think about leaving the guitar in the motel room, but as soon as the thought crosses my mind I hear that screeching metal on metal again, and it feels like a fist is clenching my heart. I fall to my knees clutching my chest. “Fuckin’ hell!”
Then a cold thought enters my head … It’s got its strings wrapped around me as well.
I take a few deep breaths, try to center, and call Anne.
*****
Much to my surprise, she took it better than expected. Which is to say there was a little less yelling and a little more swearing. I couldn’t exactly tell her why I couldn’t make the next few shows, or why I couldn’t be in the band at all.
I started with family issues, making it up on the fly; mom is in the hospital, not sure what happened, it was all so sudden. My sister really needs me there, and no it can’t wait.
Then I finished it off with how I was feeling a little disillusioned with it all. This actually felt a little more truthful. I hadn’t realized it until I said it, but I had been getting tired of our music. I wanted to take it somewhere else. I still had to lie through my teeth just to say good-bye. It hurt Anne, and it killed me, but it was the only way.
I ended with, “Maybe in the future, I don’t know.”
“Maybe go to hell.” Was how she brought it to the finale.
I walked out of the room and to the parking lot feeling like crap. Like I’d lost yet another family, all for what? This guitar? How many times have I messed up my life over some unwanted evil? Too many. And I’m pretty sure I’m running out of lives to mess up.
Running out of friends, too.
“Ready?” Octavia yelled out the window of a candy apple red sporty looking coupe. A 1988 Chrysler Conquest.
“Not really inconspicuous, is it?” I slide into the passenger side seat.
“Doesn’t need to be, not yet.” She winks, “So, where to?”
I remember the phone call from this morning. Seems like a lifetime ago. “Denver.”
*****
The drive from Chicago to Denver is about 15 hours, so we decide to stop for an overnight in Omaha. We find a cheap motel in the downtown area, so we reserve a room and just outside of city limits we stop for gas at a Fill & Food station.
Octavia insists she fills the car, so I head inside. I notice the clerk behind the counter smiling at me from under a red and white striped trucker cap. He looks familiar, but I don’t dwell on it. I grab a couple of sodas and some chips and head for the counter.
The place smells awful, like dead rotting fish.
“Find what you’re looking for?” He pulls the snacks towards the register.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I didn’t mean here…” he leans forwards with a grin, pushing back his cap to reveal a flash of blue hair.
“Corso!” I shout, stepping backwards too quickly and crashing into a rack of plastic wrapped pastries.
“In the flesh.” Corso stood up straight, gesturing towards the door, “Didn’t want to bother your companion but thought it would be good to get a little one on one.”
“How did you get here? How did you know … what do you want?” I stood slowly, trying to get back my cool. I glanced towards the pumps but didn’t see Octavia.
“Ah, nothing bad. As a minion from Hell, I know quite a bit. You have the guitar, Octavia’s got dibs on her lover girl, so I just want the opportunity to throw my name into the ring for the instrument itself … no strings attached.” His smile gets wider, almost too wide. “Get it?”
I nod, speechless for a second, then “How did you know we were stopping here?”
“The guitar. It’s like a beacon to the past, present, and future.” He leaned forwards again, lowering his voice, “And you’re not exactly keeping a low profile. There’s a couple of bodies back in Chicago that have the authorities asking questions, and between us, a detective by the name of Hawkes is giving them some answers.”
“They can’t know it’s me…” I stammered. “There’s no possible way. Besides, it wasn’t me, it was this wretched thing I can’t get rid of.”
Corso feigns a look of concern, “Oh, did I strike a chord?”
I didn’t respond, so he sighs with exasperation, “Well, you’re no fun. I might have compared notes, though. From what I’ve heard somehow, they know a guitar was involved. Don’t fret, though. I didn’t drop any names…”
The door chime rings as someone enters the mart. I turn, it’s Octavia.
“You ready?” She asks.
“Corso,” I hiss gesturing with a jab of my head.
“What? There’s nobody there.”
I look at the counter, and she’s right. Nobody there. Just a trucker cap, and my snacks. “I swear, he was just here.”
Octavia closes her eyes, turns in a circle, “yeah, it’s possible. I can sense something strange here, but I can’t quite pinpoint it. Could be him. He has a habit of appearing in places you wouldn’t expect him to be, but he’s gone now. We should go too.”
The night road felt long and empty. Octavia glanced at me as she drove, “What did Corso say?”
I told her about the detective, and she nodded.
“He’s a trickster,” She said, “So I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped some hints to the cops to liven up the chase. He likes to have fun, only his mischievous version of fun doesn’t really match up with anyone else’s. Still, I had a feeling things would start to get bad. I think if we keep moving and try not to leave too much of a body count, we should make it through this.”
“Too much? I don’t want to leave any!” I stared at her.
“It’s a bit late for that, you rascally li’l devil! You need to learn how to work with the guitar a little more. Maybe then you’ll be able to leave less of a trail.”
We pulled into a space at the motel. Octavia turned towards me, “Unfortunately, until your time is done, dear, there will be more casualties. You need to figure out how to deal with it or it will deal with you and drive you crazy. I mean, crazier.”
I follow her into the room, and we sit for a bit. I’m pretending things are normal but inside I can’t believe what I’m experiencing. Watching bad TV in a motel room in Omaha while a redheaded Succubus sits cross legged on the carpet facing the door like a Buddha from hell, probably doing some kind of demonic astral projection.
Right, normal. I tell myself
Octavia’s eyes open suddenly, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go.”
“Go? Where … now?” I ask.
Her eyes flashed for a split second, “Cemetery. Bring the guitar.”
I tried to protest as I felt an invisible force guide me to the guitar case and follow her out the door.
It was a quick drive. About four miles and we’re at the Holy Sepulchre Cemetery. Only problem is that it’s close to midnight, the gates are locked, and we really shouldn’t be in a cemetery after hours.
Octavia drives around to a spot that’s partially obscured by trees. We park, and the next thing I know she’s over the fence, beckoning for me to follow. “The fence is low, c’mon, you can make it. You’re not scared, are you?”
“Scared? No.” I pause, “Wait, are you even allowed to be in there? I mean, consecrated ground and all.”
“I’m not a Christian demon, Wills, it’s fine. Let’s go”
We cross the grounds until Octavia stops behind a tall statue of an angel. Wings held close to its marbled body, it’s sightless eyes stone cold and staring to the heavens.
“Here.” Octavia says, and we sit. “Now, play, but quiet, and chords only. Solid, steady, and don’t be afraid.”
My eyes widen, “Afraid?” I glance down at the sound hole, “Is that … thing going to come out? Grab the souls of the dead?” I look around, feeling panic rise, “I mean, here? Are you serious? Are you trying to call up some zombies or something?”
“There are no zombies here, Wills.” Octavia assured me, “And the only souls you will find at a cemetery are the ones that don’t need to be anywhere or have nowhere better to be. There are no dangerous cemetery ghosts. That’s just stuff for children’s stories.”
I give her a doubtful look but start strumming anyways. There are a few lights around the edges of the cemetery, but where we are there’s only a thin sliver of moon breaking through the clouds, and the occasional cross hit of car headlights.
I start to play. Not sure where to go at first, I quickly settle into a quiet strum in the key of E, almost chanting the lyrics to Where Did You Sleep Last Night over it.
Octavia sits, quietly watching. I close my eyes and concentrate on the rhythm. “What am I supposed to be doing?” I whisper in tune with the notes.
“Opening yourself. If there are ghosts in here, you can call them up.”
“Is that something I should be doing?” I stop against a sudden shiver that brings goosebumps up my arms.
“Yes,” she insists, “Keep playing.” Her eyes flashed again. “They can’t hurt you. They know this guitar and want to move closer into its sound.”
I take a deep breath and start playing again.
I feel them first. A strange heaviness in the wind, a shift of temperature in the air. An icy cold shadow passing right at the edge of my peripheral vision.
“They’re here.” I whisper.
“Keep playing.” She returns.
I feel the rhythm of the guitar move through my arms, through my chest, up my spine. I feel it in the base of my neck, pushing. The rhythm moves through my body, and I see the ghosts.
There are three of them. Possibly a family, I don’t know. They aren’t solid enough to make out any features, other than a translucent shiny shape that’s close to human. It’s a soft glow. It reminds me of the fireflies I used to chase back in Louisiana. There are two larger forms that I assume to be the parents, and a smaller one that could be the child.
They float in and out of the trees, softly circling towards where we are sitting. I’m playing without even thinking about it now, just letting my hands move against the strings while keeping my eyes on the drifting glow.
They circle slow, move closer, and start spinning faster. I’m stuck, almost hypnotized by the dancing lights swimming towards me. They aren’t making any sounds, but I can hear them within me, through the body of the guitar. A vibrating sound of pain and anguish. The dancing lights turn pale grey.
I’m feeling the pain of the dead.
It moves into me, into my bones. I’m feeling the cold, the emptiness, the void. I want to stop playing as the three figures move towards me, within touching distance, but I can’t stop.
I keep strumming a steady chord, not changing the rhythm at all, my heart pounding in time. My teeth are clenched and every muscle in my body feels like it’s about to burst.
Suddenly there’s a horrible blood curdling howl that cuts through the night, and the shapes freeze and flicker like static electricity caught in the darkness.
“What is that?” I hiss, stopping on the minor G chord and peering into the darkness.
“Quiet.” Octavia stands. Something’s wrong.
The dark shape comes out of nowhere. Moving at a steady pace and heading straight for the still hovering ghosts. I hear a snarl and see a glint of white teeth as the shape sprints towards us.
“A wolf!” I yell, standing while backing into the stone angel. Not the best place to be for a wolf attack, I think.
Octavia holds up a finger, “Not a wolf.” She says as the creature moves closer, then runs past.
It’s ignoring us and running tight laps around the specters, barking ferociously. They brighten like lightbulbs about to blow, and then vanish. The snarling shape slows and moves towards us, and now I can tell it’s a black dog. Sleek, with a short, compact body. Penetrating eyes, almost obsidian, with pointed ears that stand straight up.
“Hellhound.” I whisper, trying to push myself backwards through stone.
Octavia laughs. “No, not quite.” Then she recognized the beast. She looked angry. “Though he is indeed a hound. Aren’t you … Mael?”
The dog stops, and starts to shift, transform, moving like a mess of flesh and fur, until the demon stands before us. Unashamedly naked. “You shouldn’t be doing this.” He scolded, looking straight at Octavia.
She stepped forward, “Stay out of this Mael,” She growled.
He made a gesture with his hands, a fast-waving motion through the air, and suddenly he was clothed in a dark suit. “Ha, Succubus,” he says, “You have no idea what you’re dealing with here,” He brushed past her and stood directly in front of me before I could even blink. He smelled like freshly burned wood. “And you, human, you have no idea either. And you shouldn’t trust her.”
I tried to keep my words steady as I answered but failed miserably…
“I … I should trust y-y-you instead? Y-y-you j-just sh-shsh-shapeshifted from a dog right in front of us.”
He laughed. A full echoing across the cemetery shadows kind of laugh that ended abruptly. “You can trust me in that I will not lie to you, human. Other than that? I make no promises. The Succubus wants what the guitar holds. I want the guitar, but you are the keeper of its curse. She can wait, I can’t.” Mael turns to Octavia and continues, “You need to tell him the truth, Succubus. He holds the instrument, but nowhere near as tightly as it holds him. Only death can divide them now.”
I’m still shaking but finding some semblance of strength in the fact that I’m surrounded by these creatures, but none of them are harming me. I’m starting to feel like the guitar might be the only reason I’m still alive at this point.
“Octavia? What the fuck is he saying?”
She stands, glaring at Mael. “He’s saying it’s going to take a lot to break the guitars hold on you. And it’s not going to be without suffering.”
Mael laughs again, “Suffering? Yes, there will be suffering. It’s going to be the worst experience you’ve ever had. Tearing your filthy soul off that cursed guitar will make heroin withdrawal feel like a day at church.”
“He still gets his time, Mael. You know this.” Octavia steps in front of me.
“The human will get his time. Don’t worry about that. And you, Succubus? You’ll get yours too.” Mael finishes and throws his head back into a slow scream as his head starts to contort and elongate. The scream becomes a howl as his body twists as well. A long black tongue snakes out of his mouth and back in, and finally he falls to the ground, transformed into the black dog once again.
The dog takes off through the cemetery, pausing only briefly to turn and stare at me, before vanishing into shadows.
I drop the guitar and fall to my knees in the grass, shaking uncontrollably.
“Wills, you’re going to need to be stronger than this if you’re going to make it to the end.” She offers a hand, I accept, and she pulls me up.
I grab the guitar and steady myself against the stone angel, thinking about demons and dogs and graveyard ghosts. I feel queasy, but steel myself against the nausea. “Let’s get back to the room. Don’t want to deal with this right now.”
*****
Back at the motel, we stand on the balcony. The night is quiet, the breeze is cold, but comforting. I hold the guitar, slowly turning it, studying the names and numbers that have been scratched into the back, like scars. The wood catches a hint of moonlight and I see a small series of shapes form and fade as the moon vanishes behind another dark cloud. “Did you see that?”
“See what.” Octavia says, staring off the balcony into the night.
“On the back of the guitar, in the moonlight. Symbols. I can’t see them now, but they were there a second ago. I think they might have been astrological.”
“Alchemical.” Octavia says flatly.
“So, you saw them? I wasn’t imagining them?”
“No, you weren’t imagining them, and it’s nothing you need to worry about.” Suddenly Octavia is in front of me, facing me. I can feel a strange warmth coming off her. She’s inches away, but it’s like I’m stuck in winter while she’s basking in the summer heat. “Does it really matter right now?”
“I suppose it doesn’t.” I respond.
I try to turn the guitar to show her what I meant, but then she gives me a little smirk and reaches out with a short, shaped nail, painted an emerald green. She traces a design on the back of the guitar. A random scribble that becomes a strange symbol, like a triangle pushed against an elongated R.
“Aqua Regia” she whispers.
I look up at her, “How did you do that? I couldn’t even get my initials on there with a knife.”
“Our bodies are made up of similar materials with strong ties to the same realm. That’s partly why I don’t like to play this guitar.” And before she finished her sentence, she was behind me.
Her heat against me, arms around me. The same nail that carved into the guitar was traveling up my right arm, but it wasn’t cutting. It didn’t hurt. It felt like the edge of a velvet knife. I felt breath against my right ear.
“I can, however, play you…” she said in a whisper that cut each word out of the air.
I turned around fast, holding the guitar in front of me like some makeshift shield. “Don’t! And none of that eye twinkling stuff, either.”
Octavia laughed, an almost joyous laugh. Full and heartfelt, and so unexpected and honest it made me smile.
“Oh William, my dear little Wills. I’m just teasing. I’m watching the guitar, not you. You are not my type.” A sly wink and she was behind me again.
Not holding me, just another whisper. “But maybe I’m yours?”
I turn around as fast as I can, but she’s gone. All that’s left is me on an empty motel room balcony holding a guitar loosely in one hand, and the smell of a cinnamon scented candle that’s just been blown out.
I was shaking. Not cold, but my whole body shivered. I moved inside and sat on the bed. I placed the guitar next to me and let everything wash over me.
I’d never been in a situation like this before. I had no reference points. No way to deal, no coping mechanism. I couldn’t give up, though. I knew that much.
I also knew I couldn’t do it alone.
I needed help, had to call somebody. The police? The church? The FBI or an Exorcist? I couldn’t tell my band, especially not now, and I didn’t really have any friends. I was also pretty sure nobody would believe me anyways.
There was one person, though. Maybe.
I stare at the phone, not wanting to call, knowing I must call. I take a deep breath, dial.
“Hello?” The voice is so familiar, so far away.
“Abbie? It’s me…”
Silence.
That oceanic silence of heartbreak…
“It’s William.” Even though I know she knows.
“What do you want?”
“Is mom okay?” I ask, feeling like a gnat about to be brushed away. I hadn’t talked to my sister for over a decade, and suddenly I had no idea what to say.
“She’s … she’s fine William.” I can tell my sister is annoyed. “What do you want?” She repeated.
“I…” I paused for a second, unsure of how to continue, what to say. “I’m in a bit of trouble, and I could really use your help.”
Silence again.
Then, “Is it drugs again?”
“No!” I was taken by surprise; I didn’t know she’d known about that. “It’s not that. Look, I know it’s been a while, but do you remember what mom used to tell us, before things got really bad…”
“Before you ran away?”
“Yeah.” I stopped. I used to tell myself that I had left because I was strong and determined, and I could make it on my own. But now I was realizing that I left because I hadn’t been strong enough. I left because I was scared to stay.
I had a flash of the old house. My parent’s room. How I used to stand on their bed when the sun was setting and stare out a second-floor window. In the winter I would watch the sun set, the line of vision leading directly from me to a church steeple a few blocks away, to the point on the horizon where the sun would vanish into a line of red on the horizon.
A church on fire.
“I’m sorry, Abbie. I couldn’t stay. I know it was the wrong move, but can we let it go for now?” I rubbed my forehead, trying to get the right words to come out. “Listen, do you remember?”
“The four things…” Abbie whispered.
“Yeah,” I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, “The four things.”
After dad left, mom had struggled, but still she had these strange rules she would tell us at random times. I think the last things she ever said to me … she didn’t even say goodbye.
*****
She stood in the hallway, smoking one of her unfiltered Pall Malls as I shoved the last few of my belongings into a box.
“You comin’ back?” She drawled.
“Doubt it.” I muttered.
She grunted a response, took another drag, then exhaled with a cough and sucked the dispelled smoke up across a scowl and into her nostrils. I think when I decided to quit smoking that’s the image I came back to the most as a deterrent.
“I’ll call when I get there.” I said, walking to the front door, not looking back.
Another grunt.
Holding the last box in my arms tight, like a security blanket, I turned around. “Mom…”
She stopped me with a sudden unexpected move; her arm rising up, her hand clenched except for a yellowed index finger that pointed straight at me.
“You listen to me, boy, even though you ain’t never listened before. I know you’ve heard this before but hear it again. I got four things to tell you. Number one, don’t trust your father. I know he ain’t around, but still; don’t. Number two, never fall in love with a dead person. It won’t do either of you any good. On that, number three. Never kiss a ghost. It ain’t as bad as fallin’ in love, but it’s still bad. They ain’t gonna leave you alone if they get that.” She paused then and laughed as if she’d finished telling some great joke, then turned serious again. Her arms now crossed in front of her.
“Finally, number four. You never take anything you find at a crossroads.”
I didn’t have time to respond, as she turned back into the house I had grown up in and slammed the door hard, as if she was shutting me out forever.
*****
“Yeah, I remember.” Abbie said.
“Well, I think I got something from a crossroads.”
“Wills,” Abbie burst, “You didn’t!”
“Might have.” I muttered. “You can’t let mom know.”
“Where are you?”
“Nebraska now, but I’m heading to Denver.”
“I’ll meet you in Denver.” Abbie said softly, her tone changing to comfort. The tone of a mother. The tone of a sister. “Let me know where you’ll be staying. I can be there in two days.”
“Okay, I will. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks Abbie.”
There’s a noise behind me, and I turn to see Octavia standing on the balcony, as if she hadn’t vanished into thin air like a Genie a few minutes ago.
“Who’s Abbie?” Octavia asks.
“My sister, Abigail. I always call her Abbie.”
“Oh my,” Octavia smiles. “Denver is going to be fun.”
“I appreciate all of you who have sent in kind words. We have received some tips from people who say they have seen my brother, but nothing has been verified at this point. Still working through the journals. It’s emotionally draining, but worth the effort. More next week.” – Abigail Forte