“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
PART TWO: CHICAGO BOUND
One thing I’ve gotten good at is being able to hold my memories at a distance. I haven’t got them perfectly trained, but they’re getting better at not appearing until they’ve been called. My childhood, for the most part stays away. Recent memories with my band, they’re in focus front and center, ready to show off at a moment’s notice. What I find really strange, though, is that the memories of the last few days are somewhere in between. Blurred and stubborn. I can picture the Memphis diner where me and Octavia ate lunch, but I can’t remember what we did later that day.
I know I have to.
Maybe I don’t want to.
If it hadn’t been for the green neon open sign in the window, I would’ve assumed the bar was closed. There was a dust-stained banner above the bar reading Bailey’s Burgers, painted in faded red and blue over the dirty white wall. The paint was peeling, the windows were slightly cracked, the door looked like it had a bullet hole right above the handle.
“Are you sure this is where you wanted to go?” I asked.
“Just wait, you’ll see.” Octavia said.
The bar was dim-lit, and the air-conditioner was broken. There were five tables set up on the floor, and four booths along the back wall. Two of them empty. We decided to sit at the far end of the bar, backs to the wall, facing the front door. The bartender sauntered over and gave us a welcoming nod.
“What’ll it be?” He asked.
We had burgers. Amazing dive bar greasy pickle juice soaked burgers. And two of the coldest pints of beer followed by two shots of some unknown whiskey set up by the bartender. “On the house.” He attempted a wink.
The jukebox was broken and playing nothing but Elvis songs, but we didn’t mind.
“What did you think of the crossroads?” I asked Octavia.
She put her burger down, nodding, “Yeah. I was glad I saw it, but it felt, I don’t know, empty.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “I was thinking that maybe it was a crossroads, not the crossroads. Like there isn’t just one. I mean, we all travel our own roads, so perhaps the places where we can supposedly ‘sell our souls’ are at different locations as well.”
“Good point.” Octavia paused for a second, “So are you looking to sell yours?”
I laughed, but the look Octavia gave me was a little disconcerting, so I stopped on a nervous chuckle. “Serious?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Ah, no. Not at the moment. Honestly, there was a point where I would’ve, but right now, I don’t know. I think I’ll make a go of it with my soul intact.”
Octavia smiled at that. She pulled a folded bill from her pocket and placed it on the counter. As the bartender came to collect, she scribbled something on the back of a napkin. “Let me know if you change your mind.” She said, handing it to me with a quick wink. It had her name and phone number on it.
“You want my soul?” I laughed. “A ride to Memphis wasn’t good enough?”
“No, Memphis is great. It never hurts to ask for a little bit more, though.”
We laughed together, but something about her laugh seemed a little forced. She wasn’t serious … was she?
I thought about asking if she wanted to continue to Minneapolis but decided against it. I wasn’t looking for a relationship, and I didn’t really need the company. A brief unexpected meeting and a new story to tell was good enough for me. “Okay, so, since I’m keeping my soul, what are your plans now?”
“Well, maybe we could talk about your guitar?”
“My guitar? The parlor guitar in the back of the Chevy?” I asked, surprised she’d noticed.
“You haven’t played it yet, have you?”
“Well, not exactly. I mean, I played it a bit when I got it. Sounds strange, but that’s what it cost me. A song.”
Octavia moved back to the bar and sat. “Shit.”
“What? What’s this about?” I asked, feeling a mix of confusion and anxiety, even though I wasn’t sure why.
“Let’s move to a booth.”
We sat across from each other, leaning in like sharing secrets. Here hair matched the red vinyl upholstery. The seats were sticking and squeaking as we moved.
“Okay, this is going to sound strange, I get it, but listen…”
I nodded silently.
Octavia continued, “I was looking for you at the motel, or, looking for the guitar. I knew you had it as soon as I saw you. It’s a unique and special object. There’s an energy that surrounds that instrument, and it rubs off. I was hoping you hadn’t played it yet, but I should’ve known. After all, you are a musician, and you wouldn’t have been able to take it as far as you did if you hadn’t.”
She was right. This was beginning to sound beyond strange.
“So, I’ve got a magic guitar?” I said doubtfully.
Octavia dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand, “Not magic. Cursed.”
I know my disbelief was evident, “How is it cursed?”
“The guitar is bound to you now. If you can keep it safe, and not give it too much, you might be okay,” Octavia told me, “Only there are others who want it. They cannot take it from you, but you could be convinced to give them the guitar. If you are tricked, the curse sticks with you. The only way to get rid of the guitar now is to give it away willingly and with full truthfulness. That, regardless of who wants it, will be difficult.” Her expression changed as she finished.
“Do you want it?” I asked.
“Oh yes. For a long time now. But I can wait. You aren’t ready to give it to me yet.”
“So, what do I do with a cursed guitar?” I wondered.
“Honestly, it depends on your motivations. You could do a lot, but the price could be high. The main thing you need to know, and be careful about, is what the guitar wants. It’ll want you to play it. It wants to feel your essence. When you do play it, try to be alone. Do not play it in front of people and definitely do not play it on stage.”
“Okay, you’re saying the guitar wants me to play it.” My head was starting to hurt, and I was hanging out with a crazy lady.
I started wondering if there was an easy way out of this insanity. “Hey, is this a crossroads type of thing? Are you trying to pull some kind of gullible musician cruising Highway 61 scam? What’s the catch? What do you really want? Attention? A ride? Money?”
Octavia sighed, it was obvious I wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t give up. I had to hand it to her, she had a story to tell, and she doubled down on it.
“Look. It’s crazy, I know. And yes, it actually is a crossroads thing. But not in the way you think. You got the guitar at a church…”
I froze.
“How’d you know that?” I interrupted.
She ignored me, “so think about it. Crossroads. Not two roads crossing, but at the end of a road, where there’s a cross. That’s why we couldn’t find it. It was taken and hidden under the shadow of the cross until you took it out of the church.”
I was about to get up and walk out, wanting to forget all of this and leave Octavia and her crazy cross talk, when the front door swung open.
The late afternoon light fell in behind a figure. Standing silhouetted against an entering wave of dust and warmth. There was a train passing down the street, I could hear the crossing signals clang and the steady rhythmic beat of the cars. It played an interesting soundtrack to the man’s entrance.
The other interesting thing was his hair, which I didn’t notice until he moved inside. It was an almost electric blue. Thick and vibrant, cut in a casual pompadour. He gave the bartender a nod and seemed to ignore us as he moved across the room. He sat at the bar, back towards us, but I could tell he was watching our reflections caught in the large mirror set up behind all the bottles. Not staring, just looking casually in our direction.
The bartender placed a bottle and a glass in front of him, and the man muttered something. The bartender gave a strange little half smile and walked over to our booth where he placed a couple of shots overflowing with whiskey and gestured towards the bar.
“From your friend. He said to say, ‘with condolences’?”
“Shit.” Octavia said again, but she raised her glass towards the bar in an alcohol salute. I did the same, looking at her curiously.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
I could tell she was about to say no, like she did when we were passed by that green Dodge on the highway, but then she thought better of it. “Yes.”
She stood up, placed a hand on my shoulder, “But I wish I didn’t. You stay here, okay?”
I nodded, but I stayed watchful, already deciding if something happened, I’d do my best to … do something. I wasn’t sure what would happen, or what I would do, but I was ready.
I wasn’t ready for what happened next.
They danced.
In the dim golden glow of the now almost empty bar, the blue haired man and the red-haired woman slow danced to the crooning strains of Elvis’ “Always On My Mind.”
Their movements were steady and familiar, effortless in the slow sway around the room. As they passed, I caught the scent of her lavender and his whiskey. Saw his hand move up the small of her back exposing a sliver of moonlight skin and something darker. A tattoo, perhaps?
It was like they’d been dancing together forever. The song lasted three and a half minutes. It felt like days. They stood in the middle of the room, looking at each other, in the silence between songs, and then they turned to look at me.
The blue-haired man winked, and as he did the shot glasses on the table in front of me shattered.
I jumped up, “Shit!”
The bartender came over with a cloth and an apology. I looked over at the man on the dancefloor, and he gave me a quick shrug and smile. I felt a sharp shiver as goosebumps ran up my arms to circle around the back of my neck. Octavia walked up to me, and as I stood, she reached her hands out to take mine.
“How is your skin so cold?” It was like touching ice.
“I’m just a cold-blooded girl,” She winked, then looked over her shoulder at the blue-haired man, “but we need to go. Is it alright if you take me a little further up the road?”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure why, but I had the feeling that if either of us stayed in the bar, things would get bad. She led me out quickly. We didn’t finish our drinks, we didn’t talk to the bartender, and the blue-haired man stood silent, watching us leave.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Start driving, and I’ll tell you.” She said.
Once we were on the road, she spoke again, “You’re staying here tonight, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go to your room, then.”
I gave her a quick sideways glance, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Things were getting even more weird.
She laughed, “Oh, right. I get it. You think my associate and I are pulling some sort of grift on you, right? Follow you back to your room and rob you?”
I shrugged, “it’s possible.”
“Right, only the thing we both want is sitting in your back seat, and thankfully I’ve managed to buy you some time. I like you Wills, so for now think of me as being on your side.”
I looked at her suspiciously, “For now?”
She gave me a long look back and a soft whisper, “for now.”
“Who was that, back there?” I asked again.
“Corso.”
“That doesn’t tell me much, for now…” I glared at her, she laughed
“That’s all you get.” She smiled, “for now.”
I remember we got to The Crescent Inn, a cheap little motel located a mile or so outside Memphis city limits, where I was staying. It was a place to crash, and then in the morning I was going to continue to St. Louis. A four-hour drive, but I wasn’t in a rush as I wasn’t expected in Minneapolis until October 5th.
I sat on the couch, she stood by the window, peering out as if watching for something, or someone.
I held the guitar in my hands; it had a nice weight, a strong body. It felt good, not cursed. “Okay, since you claim to know so much, tell me more about this damn magic guitar.”
She spoke, still looking out the window, her voice soft through the curtains, “On this mortal plain we are all bound by certain rules. Some of them may not make sense to you in your world, your reality, but we cannot break them. The guitar you are in possession of is an arcane artifact that we do not have the power to take. It must be given willingly or traded for something of true equal value.”
“So … I can’t just give it to you?” I asked.
“You could try, though I don’t think you’re strong enough yet.” She replied.
I handed Octavia the guitar, she accepted it. I could tell even though she was acting fairly aloof, the solidity of it in her hands was making an impression. Her eyes had a slight shine of desire that wasn’t there before, and her breathing was a little shorter, sharper. She looked slightly desperate.
“That was easy, right?” I said.
“Just wait. Maybe half an hour, maybe less.” She replied, standing in front of the window, facing me, but staring at the guitar in her hands.
It was less. Maybe fifteen minutes.
My fingers started to twitch, and I felt beads of sweat start forming on my forehead while my arms and neck started to feel cold. My chest tightened, and my teeth clenched.
Octavia just watched me.
She had a sad look in her eyes.
She watched me as she held the small guitar, carefully, gently. As if it were a living thing. My mouth tasted metallic.
“I can’t believe you have this.” She whispered.
“How long have you been looking for it?” I asked, trying to get more of the story, and distract myself from the knots that had started moving down my neck, along my spine. The last time I’d felt those kinds of aches was when I’d given up cigarettes. I’d felt them before that too, but worse. I didn’t want to get to that point again. My vision started to narrow, and I felt a kind of fog descend on my brain.
“Oh, I’ve been looking for a long time.” Octavia said quietly, a tender voice cooing over the guitar in her hands. She looked at it longingly, then handed it to me. Suddenly the fog lifted. “But I can tell you need it back. For now, it’s yours. Or maybe, you are its.”
“Right.” I nodded, still unsure of how much to believe, but as soon as my hands were holding the instrument the tension was gone. My fingers were steady, my neck didn’t ache, my head felt clear.
I didn’t want to believe Octavia, but it was getting harder and harder not to.
At least I was pretty sure that Octavia hadn’t been lying to me about the blue-haired man. There was no sign of anyone else showing up at the motel room, just us. “And you and this … Corso? I don’t get it. You both want this?”
I held the guitar in both hands. It lay flat, the sound hole dark and silent, the strings wound taut. I had a flash of my vision from the previous night, the shadow, the shape. Suddenly it made sense, and I shivered. It was a little disconcerting to realize the shiver was less from fear and more from excitement.
Octavia answered, “Yes. We both want it. And there are others who want it as well for their own nefarious deeds. Some for the mysticism; they believe in the curse. Some don’t care if it’s good or evil, they just want to feel the power.” She moved closer to me, standing above me, looking down as I held the guitar. “Some just want to hear the magic.”
I remember her hand reached down, her finger pulled at the lower E string and released. I remember the tone, the vibration moving through my body. I remember my breath catching, and then hearing an echo of the E in my mind. I felt a need to match it with a chord. Something harmonic that would capture the spirit.
Something with tension.
I barely registered Octavia moving backwards to sit on the bed, silently watching me as my fingers moved up and down the fret board, trying to find the connection to the sound in my mind.
It wasn’t there. it needed an edge to fill it out. I started playing an unresolved chord to move tension into the harmony of the minor chord, but then I hit that E string again, which led to a new progression. My fingers felt like they were moving without me. The sound was getting louder than it should have been. I felt my vision narrowing again.
And then I don’t remember.
Now, I’m awake, sweating, staring up at the stained ceiling. Not on the carpet, thankfully. It’s too hot, but I can’t tell if it’s me or the room.
I sit up slowly, feeling shaky. Head pounding. Not sure if I’m alone or not. I mumble out a weak hello but hear no response.
I try to stand, but my legs won’t have it, so I crawl, head still throbbing, towards the bedroom. Towards the window. My eyes get hit hard by the midday sun as I pull the curtain aside.
“Damn it.” I mumble, and slide down to the floor, back against the wall, staring at the empty room.
Not completely empty, because the guitar was staring back.
I know I’m still in Memphis, but I’m not sure if I should be. Don’t know the time, don’t know the day, don’t know what happened.
I want to crawl to the bed and sleep for days, and I would have, but then I notice the blood. A partial handprint on the inside of the motel room door. Another on the wall by the bathroom. I take a deep breath and look down at my palms. Dark brown, dried blood.
My mind, hurting, tries to figure it out, but the room spins. I feel a sense of panic start to rise. The guitar, Octavia, the sound. There was a sound, and then there was nothing.
I manage to stand and make it unsteadily back to the bathroom. I stand, staring at my reflection, the scene not properly registering yet. In a state of shock, pushing the panicked feeling towards the back of my throat, I wash the blood off my hands.
Splash cold water on my face. Push my hair back. Continue to stare at my reflection.
Then I catch it, behind my reflection. Movement.
My heart stops for two beats longer than it should, my entire body is tense, my breath is held. A shadow behind me. It’s just light playing from the window.
“Wills”, a voice, quiet. A man’s voice.
“Cris?” I whisper. The name catches in my throat.
I turn around, nothing. Look back at the mirror, a shape standing in the other room, pale, thin. Almost invisible thin. I can see the wall behind him.
“Cristopher.” I manage to speak, and turning around again, the figure fades as the motel room door opens.
“Who’s Cristopher?”
It’s Octavia.
“What happened? Where were you?” I’m still shaken by my vision, but I need answers.
She walks to the small table, puts two coffees down and sits, gesturing towards the other chair. “Sit down. This is not going to be easy…”
“There’s blood!” I shout, my shaking hand trying to steady itself as I point to the wall behind me.
“Stop. Quiet.” Octavia demands as she moves towards the bathroom. “This is why you shouldn’t play it unless you’re alone. It takes you away, devours your energy. The blood, this time, is yours. You went into a trance and played until your hands started bleeding. You’re a decent player, not bad. I can see why you were chosen. Now, it is you who must make a choice.”
My sense of reality was slipping, and I was struggling to come to terms with everything. My voice comes out a little sharper than I mean it to, “Choice? What do you mean choice?”
“You let the guitar guide you, or you let the guitar take you.” She says. “Until it has taken what it wants, you won’t be able to let it go. When you played it the first time, it connected with you. Last night when you played, you connected with it. It knows you now. It’s tasted your blood and now there’s no turning back.”
“Okay,” the panic rises. “So, what the fuck does it want?”
Octavia gives me a sad look, “Not what, but who. The guitar has an agenda. Six strings, six souls. Right now,” she glances over at the instrument leaning against the wall, “it has two. You are the one tasked with taking it to get the remaining four.”
I heard what she said, but it barely registered over feelings of disgust and revulsion. I couldn’t do this. “What is your role in this? Why are you here? For the guitar?”
“No.” Octavia said softly, walking over to the guitar. She picked it up and placed it on the table between us. “Not many know this, but not all souls make it on to the body. Perhaps it is only the carriers. Many souls are taken, but only a few are allowed to harbor the instrument. These are the ones that end up here.” She points at the figures that look as if they’d been burnt on to the surface behind the strings, “I’m here for one of them. I’m here for Lillian.”
I look at her, realizing that what she’s describing could now be my destiny. She reaches out to the guitar until her hand hovers over the bridge, but she does not touch it.
She continues. “After six it’s full, then the cycle begins again. Lillian was the first to be taken after the last time the instrument emptied its souls into the shadowed place. If I don’t find a way to get her out before it’s emptied again, I’ll lose her forever.”
“Who was she?”
“Lillian? She was … everything. We’ve watched empires fall; generations die…” Octavia lowered her hand then. She let a finger touch one of the silhouettes etched into the guitar. It was a longing touch, but her eyes flashed up towards me and turned red for a second. “Cities burn.” Octavia explained how she followed the guitar to Nashville, but then lost the trail, until I ‘rescued’ it from the church. Now it’s back trying to fill itself with the souls it was promised, and now my name is on that list.
I stare at the guitar, not wanting to touch it, realizing that’s not an option anymore. I’m brought back by the phone ringing.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Wills. It’s Anne. You good?”
“Ah…” pause, take a breath, look over at Octavia. She gives me a little smirk and a raised eyebrow. Yeah, the truth isn’t gonna work right now. “Yeah, I’m good. What’s going on?”
“Well, something went down in Minneapolis. Evidently the club caught fire last night, and so there’s no show.” Anne explained.
“Really? That’s horrible. Was anyone hurt?” I asked.
“No, don’t think so. But now we’re just going to head for Chicago. We’re getting a couple of extra nights at a hotel there, so wanted to check in. See if you wanted us to get you in as well. Where are you?”
“Memphis, but yeah. I can get to Chicago tomorrow. Does that work?” I ask, watching Octavia. She’s giving me nothing but a dead stare.
“That’s perfect. We’ll get you a room, so call when you get into town. See you soon!”
“Yeah, bye.” I hang up, still watching Octavia. I tell her what happened.
She smiles and stands up. “Sounds like it’s begun. Your fate has been cast. You are going to be needed immediately in Chicago.”
“Really? But I was going to be there in a few days. Why the rush?” I ask.
“Patience is a virtue. The guitar has no virtue, only desire. You go where it guides now.” Octavia tells me.
“Are you coming with me?” I ask. “And what about Mr. Blue Hair. Corso?”
She laughs, “It’s up to you. But let me warn you, you’ll probably be safer with me. And Corso, we have an understanding. He’ll keep his distance, but sometimes his idea of distance can be a little unnerving. Keep them close, they say.”
“I guess we head to Iowa, stop in Davenport as planned, but after that I’ll head to Chicago. Return the car there and join up with the band. I don’t know if you joining us would be the best idea, though.” I told her.
“Aw, are you embarrassed to be seen with me William?” She gave a little snicker. “Afraid of how I look? No worries. I can follow discreetly. I’m not letting you, or that instrument, out of my sight.”
I stare at the guitar. My thoughts speeding until they hit the brakes, hard.
I feel suddenly angry, rebellious. “Wait. What happens if we’re supposed to play a show in Los Angeles, but the guitar wants me to go to New York? I can’t just drop everything I’m doing and just follow the whims of this thing.”
“Wills, listen. That’s part of the curse. That’s how it gets you to merge with it. That’s how it got Lillian. Right now, it has the upper hand. You need to play it more; you need to speak to it with your thoughts and your fingers and listen to it respond to you with music. You can work together. If it feels you are working with it, it will work with you.” Octavia explains.
“Octavia, I don’t know about this. I’m not sure if I’m up to the task, and I’m not sure if that’s the right way to go.” I say.
“It’s the only way to go unless you want to let yourself be completely at its mercy. You need to show strength. You need to accept it, but you can’t let it take over. This is your Fate. Think of it like an intelligent parasite, or maybe more like a controlled addiction.”
That’s what I was afraid of. Not the addiction part. I’ve had a lot of experience with that. It was the control part. It took everything I had to finally quit smoking cigarettes. It took even more to quit the harder stuff.
“Remember when you asked who Cristopher was?” I asked, picking up the guitar that lay in front of me. It felt like the perfect weight. Octavia nodded, watching my hands.
“He was a bandmate, and a good friend.” I didn’t even notice that my left hand was fingering the instrument’s neck. Fingers touching frets, but not playing anything. “He was my best friend, and earlier I thought I saw him here, in the room.”
Octavia leant forward, spoke softly, “But he wasn’t. At least as far as I know. You said he was your friend. He’s gone. Passed away, right?”
“Yeah, a few years ago.” I could hear the sadness start to build behind my words. “We had a history. Not always a good one. We used to do everything together.” I took a deep breath; it was all going to come out. “We used to do a lot of drugs together. That’s what killed him, and that’s what got me to stop. Now, there’s this thing, and yeah, I’m a little nervous. Maybe scared. I don’t know.”
Octavia put it together, “You’re afraid of the addiction, not the substance.”
I nodded and held the guitar out in front of me, like a sacrifice. “It’s not that I can’t control it or even need to. I enjoy the total lack of control.”
“Then we’re going to have to work on that, aren’t we? Control is one thing you’re going to need.”
Memphis to Davenport was uneventful. Other than trying to get Octavia to open up about Corso. “So, tell me about your blue-haired man.”
“Demon.” Octavia finally said.
“What?” I exclaimed, almost swerving off the edge of the freeway.
“Corso. It would be ‘blue-haired demon’. Although, I guess the whole demon classification is kind of subjective. He’s a trickster, but there are demonic elements to him.”
I couldn’t believe it. Here I am, driving up Highway 61 with a cursed guitar talking to some strange woman about trickster demons. Cristopher would have been in seventh heaven. I give Octavia a sideways glance, “And you? Let me guess … demon as well?”
This is all so damn strange I kind of have to go along with it or go crazy. Again. I’m not ready for crazy again, or any other time.
“Kind of.” She blurted out, and then hesitated, “I guess I’m no longer practicing. No longer engaged, you could say. I was more along the lines of a Succubus.”
I could feel heat rise, and knew my face was flushed. “Really?”
“Yeah, but I am not who I used to be. When I met Lillian things changed. I learned anger and skin do not hold a relationship together. There’s more than that in all of us. I just need to get her back.” Octavia falls silent, distant.
We drive the rest of the way to the motel in Davenport, and that’s where I see something familiar. The olive-green Dodge.
“Look” I point it out to Octavia. It’s in the motel parking lot. “I’m gonna guess this isn’t a coincidence.”
“Probably not.”
“You said you didn’t know who it was.”
“I don’t know who it is, but yeah, I have an idea and I’ve heard stories.” She revealed. “Much worse than Corso. His name is Mael, and he doesn’t mess around. I’m guessing he wants the guitar too.”
“And is he dangerous?” I ask. “If cobras are dangerous, then yes.”
I get a room key. We walk across the lot, the Dodge Dart is empty, and there’s no sign of anyone else on the property. I open the iron gate that leads to a slightly cracked blue staircase angling up to the dirty white tiles of the second floor. It’s something generic that I can’t even remember. Motel 6 without the 6. Holiday Inn without the holiday. Days in without the daze.
The door is painted to match the stairs; a sky blue that’s seen too much sun. Cracked and faded. The door opens slightly as I touch it with the key. Not locked. Octavia, behind me, grabs me by the shoulder. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
Silently, I put my finger to my lips, and move my head close to the door, listening. Nothing. I push the door open all the way. The room is empty. The bed is made, the carpet is a horrible shade of beige, the light from outside falls across the room in slow motion, kicking up dust and a swampy old musty scent. It plays over strangely shaped wax plants and outdated magazines on the thrift store coffee table and rolls towards the yellow linoleum cracking in the kitchenette.
We took a few steps in and noticed how cold it was. It shouldn’t have been that cold. I cracked out a weak ‘Hello?’ and felt the hairs on my arms start to rise, from the chill and the silence that seemed to reverberate in waves around me. The smell got more intense.
Octavia moved through the room, then stood by the small fridge, looking around. Her head tilted up slightly as if she was trying to catch the scent. I moved towards the bathroom and opened the door.
He was probably in his early twenties. Dressed in possibly a waiter’s uniform. Black slacks, white button-up shirt, thin black tie. He lay on the bathroom floor; legs straight, arms crossed on his chest. His head had fallen awkwardly to the side, and his eyes were gone.
I felt like I was going to throw up. “Octavia.” I cried hoarsely.
She appeared behind me. “It was him; he was here. Do not call anyone, I’ll be right back.” And she was gone, leaving me with a friggin’ dead body. Nice. His skin had turned a sort of dirty dishwater grey, and I realized there was no blood. Like he had just died, and someone had plucked his eyes out like carrion over roadkill. Then I noticed the flies.
They were scattered around the room, flying little black spots. A few had landed on the man’s head, crawling around the closed mouth, the dry-cracked lips. Crawling up towards the slick black hair plastered with gel and sweat on his forehead. Crawling into the empty holes where his eyes used to be…
I ran towards the sink, managed to pull the trash can out from underneath it, but it was nothing but dry heaves. My body totally shaking, my head pounding, I slumped back against the counter.
“Hello William.” A voice from the living room.
I stood up, still shaking. He was sitting on the couch, in the middle. Legs straight out, crossed at the ankles, arms splayed along the backrest in a relaxed fashion. He was an older man, but hard to tell how much older. His silver hair, cut angular with his bangs swept to the side falling staggered over his strangely steel silver blue eyes. He was dressed in a stylish dark blue two-piece suit over a black button-up shirt and burgundy leather Oxfords.
He lifted an arm, waving me over, and let it fall towards the nearby lounge chair. “Please sit.”
I did. My entire body was tense. Suddenly I realized who it was. “You’re Mael.”
“I am.” He smiled at me, but with his mouth only. His eyes didn’t move at all, they just locked on to mine. “Now that we know who we are, let me get right to the point. You need to give me the guitar. I can wait until it is done with you, but when that time comes you need to know it is rightfully mine. Not Octavia’s,” he spit her name out distastefully, “and definitely not that creature, Corso.”
In the blink of an eye, he was on the edge of the couch, leaning towards me, “Do you understand me?”
I think I nodded but was too frightened to know for sure. Then the smell hit me again. “The body, who?”
Mael gave me another lifeless smile, “Doesn’t matter. There was a diner down the street, I picked up something to go. Not the most satisfying, but it’ll do. Now, back to the guitar.”
He reached his arm out. Suddenly, the guitar was in his hand. He leant back cradling it. “Have you heard it yet? Or have you only just played it?”
He slowly ran his fingers down the strings, then hit a Dsus2 chord. It hit me like a solid wave of sadness.
Mael glanced up, “Ah, I see you have only played it then. Then I will let you hear it.”
His fingers started moving, plucking out a series of notes and chords. I couldn’t quite make out what he was playing, but I could hear it. I could feel it. An ancient melody was taking shape, and there was something menacing underneath.
From somewhere a slide appeared on his left hand. It wasn’t metal, looked more like bone. Mael’s fingers were all over the place, moving from picking the strings like a possessed banjo player to gliding the slide low and tight across the strings.
I started to feel uncomfortable, something in my belly, moving up into my throat, but I couldn’t move. I was stuck, listening.
My vision clouded and then the thumping started. It felt like my heart at first, hitting inside me, but it was deeper, moving through me, like the pounding was in my very soul. Then slowly I realized it was the guitarist’s foot on the horrid carpet, softly stomping out the time. As his foot hit faster, my heart beat faster. The rhythm pushing the melody pushing the chords pushing me. Like a march, like a blind march into some cavernous abyss.
The guitar made sounds that I’d never heard before. The notes cut and curled, pulled, and stabbed. They moved around me, as if looking for a new way in. I was losing touch. Mael’s smile grew bigger, his eyes grew colder, the beat sped up, as did my heart.
“Stop it!” Octavia stood in the doorway, her eyes on fire, her hair blown as if a wind was racing through the room.
The music stopped, I slid off the chair, my body clammy and cold with sweat, my heart slowing back to normal. Mael stood, dropped the guitar, and was in front of Octavia before it hit the floor.
“It is mine.” He said between clenched teeth.
Octavia stood her ground, “Right now it is his. Daemon. Leave.”
There was a flash of darkness, like a shadow exploding, and Octavia stood alone. “He’s gone.” She stood over me, lowering a hand to help me up.
I gestured towards where the body was. “What do we do now?”
“That was a warning. He can’t take the guitar, but he can influence you and make you want to get rid of it. That will only end badly for you.
“But what about the body?” I was pointing and shaking again, “We can’t just leave it there! We need to call someone, find out who it was.”
Octavia started towards the bathroom. “Stay here, I’ll fix this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you,” she pointed at me, “Stay here.” She gestured towards the couch. I nodded.
Ten, maybe fifteen, minutes later she came back. “It’s okay, if anyone’s looking for him, they won’t find him here.”
“What did you do?”
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s just say that dead flesh is not a problem for us.”
I’m not sure about Octavia, but I did not sleep the rest of the night. Thankfully she took over the driving in the morning, and three hours later we were in Chicago. She left me and the car at the rental place I had contacted, and while she went to wherever she went, I waited for my band to show up.
I didn’t have to wait too long.
I could hear Dante’s engine before I saw it, and when it turned the corner, Anne at the wheel, I was overwhelmed with relief and exhaustion. Unfortunately, that didn’t last.
At least I managed to not think about what had happened for a few hours. Anne looked at me, knew what I was thinking, and smiled. “Right. Coffee …”
She navigated us to a small corner café where we ordered our coffees and sat in a booth. None of us felt right about what had happened in Minneapolis, but we were all glad that we’d be able to play again.
Anne’s eyes narrowed as she sat across from me. I knew she was trying to read me. She knew something was up, that something had happened. I didn’t bite, just gave her a smile and gazed into my coffee as if I was trying to decipher the future. But I could not stop thinking about Octavia. I had no idea where she was, but I knew she’d be close. I also knew I wasn’t ready to mention her to the band.
Although, I knew the band might be an issue I’d need to deal with sooner rather than later. If the things that had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours kept happening, I realized the rest of the band might be safer if I wasn’t around. We had four shows to play, and then I might have to leave.
I guess it depended on the guitar. And Octavia.
I couldn’t tell Francis and Anne about that. Not now. Maybe not ever. I wasn’t in the habit of keeping secrets from them, but now I was keeping two, and it sort of worried me.
But the guitar…
I wasn’t thinking about it directly, but more of a sideways thought. About how the strings sounded, about how the notes felt thicker in the air. About how I wanted to play it in the same way that I used to want a cigarette, or something else. Something worse.
I sigh, don’t know what to do other than keep going. I hope things don’t get worse or weirder.
Of course, I was wrong, and they get both.
“Still working through the journals. Some of this is very hard to read. Obviously not all written in a calm or peaceful state of mind. More next week.” – Abigail Forte