The figure on the right held up a hand, hidden beneath fabric. “Back of the line.”
“I just need to talk to Esmeralda. We’re old friends.” Not exactly true. The two knew each other from working on the same block. They occasionally talked business, she asking him why he’d thought a metal music store would work, and he asking her how she managed to stay in business for so long.
The robed figure studied him for a long time, facial features mostly obscured, before allowing Josh to pass.
The closest members of the line, two middle-aged women with perms gone bad, protested. “Get back here,” they said in unison. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
For a moment, the surrounding crowd joined in the insults and Josh imagined them growing not just impatient but violent. Aside from the off-duty officer in line, there didn’t seem to be any security. If things took a turn for the worse, who would control the crowd?
Josh stepped inside and was met with Esmeralda’s huge form as she nearly knocked him over on her way to the counter. “You can’t do this,” she said to no one in particular—or perhaps everyone. “This is my store. I won’t let you take it over like this.”
“I’m guessing this wasn’t your idea?” Josh said as he took off his headphones.
“Of course not. And please tell me you’re not here for an autograph.”
“Not unless she wants to sign my forearm. I forgot my poster.”
She snickered. “She just might. Two girls have already had their tits signed.”
“What is this? A Mötley Crüe show?”
“I wish it were so simple. I might’ve actually agreed to that.”
“Then if you didn’t agree . . .”
“Apparently her little management team—those creepy bastards in the robes—went above my head and got permission from the property owner.”
“Is that legal?”
“I don’t think so but that girl has reach now that she’s a millionaire. Not to mention she has a way of . . . getting people to do what she wants. Getting in your head.”
Don’t think of the lyrics. Don’t think of the lyrics.
“I understand completely.”
A few fans left with signed merchandise and a few more entered, giddy with excitement. They walked past the potions and entered the farthest curtained room, reserved for tarot cards and fortune telling. It seemed dark in there. Infinitely dark. He could not see Angie Everstein and for that he was thankful.
“I came to see about moving that crowd away from my store but I’m guessing that’s out of your hands too.”
She nodded, eyes glued toward the curtained room. Two more robed figures guarded the entrance.
“If it were up to me, I’d have these people arrested for trespassing. You know how much business I’m losing today?”
“No one’s buying these on their way out?” He lifted a vanity magnet with a cartoonish image of a witch.
Esmeralda shook her head. “Not one sale. It’s like these people don’t see anything other than the Angie sign out front.”
“Well, if you need more CDs for her to sign, come find me.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s the weirdest thing. Driving me crazy. They keep showing up in the shop. Not to mention records and a cardboard cutout. Thought it was a joke at first.”
“That’s quite an elaborate joke.”
He thought about the cardboard clone of Angie, how her static eyes never seemed all that static. “I don’t think it’s anyone that works for me, though.”
“Then who?”
He shrugged, mostly because he didn’t want to speculate.
Esmeralda lowered her voice. “If I were you, I’d get rid of it. All of it. You don’t want that shit in your store, Josh. It’ll only draw them in.”
“Them?”
She nodded. “The glitter—”
“Critters.”
“That’s right. Her fans are very loyal. Just take a look out there.”
The crowd had grown more disorderly. One of the perms tried to cut in line but the police officer elbowed her in the face. She held her nose as blood streamed from between her fingers.
“You can’t do that,” someone in the line said from behind him.
“Says who?”
No one answered.
Esmeralda sighed. “Like I said. Get rid of her merchandise. You don’t want to draw those . . . critters into your place.”
“Yeah,” Josh said, watching the bleeding woman. She didn’t seem to notice the pain anymore. Instead she stared into the front doors, intent on meeting her idol while her nose gushed. “Maybe you’re right.”
The stage was bigger now.
Much bigger.
Shawna climbed Gallows Hill, winded from her trek, and took a seat on the stone wall. She kept her hearing aids in, listened for birds, though she didn’t hear any. Nor crickets or squirrels. Perhaps her condition was worsening with age like the doctors had warned. The aids were more of a Band-Aid than a cure. Eventually they might not help anymore. Then she’d hear nothing at all.
But that was the least of her worries.
She checked Facebook on her phone. Several new comments and she had been tagged in four posts. All of them mentioned the photos of her sister. Some speculated if Shawna’s own breasts were as nicely shaped, ugly face aside. Twitter was just as bad, let alone Instagram.
She shut her phone off and stared at the stage. It had seemed deeper within the forest the last time. Now, she could’ve sworn it was closer, like the construction crew had lifted and repositioned the behemoth. Lights had been set up along with what looked like pyrotechnic equipment.
She did not want to picture her sister up there, shaking to the beat of her synthetic songs. And those lyrics. She’d never liked pop music but there was something in particular about her sister’s words that made her stomach tie itself into knots.
What was it her sister had said yesterday?
It’s about you, Sis. It’s always been about you.
Her mind traveled dark pathways. The creeping things invaded her memories.
Suddenly the stage was something living. Something breathing. Something with more eyes than there were people in the world. You could run but its reach was far. It would find you one way or another.
Her once peaceful spot, the place she went when the world was too much, had turned into a nightmare. She couldn’t come here anymore. It didn’t feel safe.
Her heart hammered. She made to spin around but something grabbed her from behind, rough hands securing her throat and squeezing.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” a voice said.
She tried to kick, to bite, to scream, but her mouth was covered. She smelled chemicals, stinging her nose and eyes and then stinging no more as Gallows Hill and the stage with a million eyes faded into nothingness.
For a long time there was only darkness.
Slowly, sounds crept toward her. Shawna supposed she was dead. Otherwise the voice that spoke couldn’t have been so clear, like she’d never suffered hearing loss to begin with. It wasn’t the same as whoever had restrained and maybe killed her. This was softer, calmer, yet it was the least soothing thing she’d ever heard.
“She wants to play,” Angie said.
“Who does?” It was Shawna’s voice except she wasn’t the one speaking. This was a much younger version of herself, a memory she’d tried desperately to forget. Did the dead dream?
“You know who, silly. Her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb, Sis.”
“I’m going to tell Mom.”
“Do it and she’ll find out how much you’ve been swearing.”
“I don’t swear that much.”
“And I’m a good liar. Ethel wants to play.”
Though Shawna couldn’t see her sister or her younger self, she could picture it just fine. They’d been in their room. Nearby lay a SpongeBob SquarePants blanket and
a pile of stuffed animals. Moments before, the items had been under Angie’s bed. Not just being stored but covering up the symbol that had been drawn months before.
“Would you like to say hi to her, Sis? She’s been dying to see you again.”
Present day Shawna opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out.
Angie grabbed onto Shawna’s sleeve, pulled her under the bed. Pulled her toward the symbol and everything it promised.
Pulled her toward hell.
She opened her eyes.
Someone paced in front of her, stopping suddenly now that she was awake. “Finally. Thought you’d be out for the rest of the day.” A man. The man who’d restrained her.
She sat on a cold metal chair, hands and feet zip-tied. Her mouth was not covered. She started to scream but the man moved forward, inches from her face. His cheeks were covered with black and gray stubble. His hair was an oily mess, strands pointing in every direction. “No one’s going to hear you out here. Plus I’ve got a bitch of a headache.” From his pocket he pulled out a bottle of Advil and dry swallowed three pills.
“What do you want?”
“You. At least I think I do. Please tell me you’re Shawna Everstein. I checked your pockets. No ID of any kind.”
She shrugged. “I don’t drive yet.”
“But you are her, then?”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Far from it. You might be my only hope.”
She wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Not to mention he looked crazy. “Are you kidnapping me?”
“Not exactly.” He walked toward a workbench, ruffled through pages of some sort. The bench was littered with folders and crumpled documents. Along the wall were corkboards and pictures. Arrows had been drawn, dots connecting to dots. Chaotic and calculated at once.
Finding what he’d been looking for, he turned and held an image in front of her face. A head shot of Angie, taken during the final week of the competition. “This is your sister, correct?”
She did not answer. She looked around for an exit but there were only walls. From behind she felt a cool draft and realized where she was. A storage unit. She was in a maniac’s storage unit and would likely be chopped to pieces.
He caught her looking at the walls. “I know this seems . . .”
“Crazy?”
“Yeah, crazy. Sometimes it seems crazy to me. I wish I was just losing my marbles. Things would be easier that way.”
“Why are you looking for my sister? Are you a stalker or something?”
He rubbed his eyes, both bloodshot. “No, I’m a police officer. At least I was.”
“Please let me go.”
“Soon. Now just tell me. You’re her sister, right? You’re Shawna?”
She nodded, unsure if she’d just prolonged or shortened her life. “Now tell me what you want.”
He studied the image of Angie, ripped it in two, tossed it to the floor. “I want her dead.”
“You and me both.”
He gave a sad smirk and looked at the mess of information on the wall. They weren’t all pictures of Angie. Many were strangers, each positioned above newspaper clippings. “She’s clever, your sister. She makes you think she’s an angel but it’s quite the opposite. She’s even better at killing than she is at singing.”
Shawna wiggled her hands but the zip-ties were too tight. They dug into her skin, cut off the circulation. “What are you saying? That Angie killed all those people on your little collage? My sister is a cunt. I’ll give you that much. But she’s not a murderer.”
“Maybe not in the normal sense. But trust me, she killed these people and plenty more will die if we don’t do something about it.”
“Who are you?”
He stopped pacing. “My name is Mike Mallory and I’m here to stop the apocalypse.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SOMETHING UNDER THE SURFACE
CLOSING TIME.
Esmeralda usually ended her day around five. She ought to stay open later, especially around Halloween, but she made enough during peak business hours to keep the lights on and pay her rent. Now, though, it was pushing seven and those robed figures were just now ushering the last of the fans onto the sidewalk.
She’d made three sales today: a bottle of water, a broomstick key chain, and a book about the Salem witch trials. The rest of her customers had been too consumed with the signing.
She wondered how much money she’d lost but her thoughts were quickly replaced as the last fan stepped outside.
The doors closed.
And locked.
There were four Robes in the shop now. Two at the entrance, two near the tarot booth. The curtains were still closed. Strange thing was, she hadn’t once seen Angie. Hadn’t even caught her entering the shop. Her managers—if that’s what they were—had probably let her in through the back before Esmeralda even got in this morning. But that begged the million-dollar question.
Where had they gotten keys?
From Arnold, she supposed. She thought of his haunting face, the way he’d looked ready to scream at any moment. He didn’t seem like the type to back down but perhaps he really had been threatened.
“Okay,” Esmeralda said. “I let you have your signing. Now it’s time to get out of here.”
No one answered. The Robes stood still. Everything stood still.
Aside from the curtain. It fluttered from a breeze that wasn’t there. There were no windows in the rear of the shop.
She cleared her throat. “You got what you wanted. Now please leave.”
“Not yet.”
The voice did not come from any of the Robes, nor from the tarot booth. It came from her left, and when she turned, her heart worked overtime.
Angie Everstein stood mere feet away.
“Been a long time,” she said.
Esmeralda gulped. Her throat was a desert. An extra-large Mountain Dew stood on the counter. She licked her lips yet she couldn’t bring herself to move.
“Thirsty?” Angie smiled.
“What’s this all about? I asked you nicely to—”
“To leave. Yes. I heard you the first time. And the fifth. I just wanted to say how much I appreciate all this. You don’t know how much you’ve helped, Esmeralda. Not just this but with . . . everything.”
She was talking about the spells, of course. The spells that a younger, slightly less evil version of Angie had been so eager to learn. Spells that even experienced witches shied away from. Witchcraft was, for the most part, misunderstood. The movies would have you think it was all curses and conjuring. But in reality, it was more about nature than demons. Still, there was a dark side, a subsection of spells reserved only for those brave enough to learn them.
Esmeralda recalled how she’d helped the girl find the right books and ingredients, taught her the correct words. It had seemed harmless at the time. Surely nothing malicious would come from it. All fun and games. Stiff as a board and all that.
How wrong she’d been.
“What did you do?” Esmeralda said, throat drying by the minute. “What did I do? I should’ve never taught you.”
“Maybe it is your fault. Or maybe I would’ve figured it out eventually. You’re tired, Esmeralda. I can tell by looking at you. Your heart can’t keep going like this.”
Esmeralda’s pulse struggled to keep up. Dehydrated now. Food half digested, midsection flaring with pain. Maybe she’d skip dinner tonight. Maybe tomorrow was the day she stuck to her diet for good.
Except now that she thought about it, she was hungry. Just as hungry as she was thirsty. Famished. She imagined her favorite artery-clogging meals. Burgers and fries and milkshakes and bacon. Yes, those heavenly strips of pork fat she so enjoyed. She could actually smell them. Could actually hear them sizzling.
Her stomach gurgled. Despite the pain she wanted to eat. Wanted to eat for the rest of her life until she could eat no more. Until the food blocked her esophagus and her airway. Until it stretched her gut so
far the flesh tore. And still she would chew and eat, chew and eat. She would never stop. Not until her heart stopped.
She opened her mouth, tongue salivating. She breathed in the salty aroma.
“Here,” Angie said. “I want to give this to you.”
Esmeralda opened her eyes. She was back in the store. The scent was gone. The discomfort in her midsection returned. As did her fear.
Angie held a ticket.
“A VIP pass,” she said. “For the concert. It’s open to the public but we think there will be quite the crowd. It would be a shame if you didn’t have a good view of the stage. Especially after all the work that’s gone into it.”
“I’m busy that night.”
Angie pretended to pout. “I understand. It’s Halloween, after all. But I’m extending the offer anyway. Believe me, you won’t want to miss it.” She set the ticket down on the counter, next to the Mountain Dew calling Esmeralda’s name. “Just think about it, okay?”
Esmeralda nodded. She would think about it, all right. She would also think about packing her bags and heading down to Florida.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Angie said.
“What?” And that’s when Esmeralda knew for sure. The girl was not just a girl anymore. God knew what she’d been playing around with, what she’d managed to invoke.
Angie smiled. For a split second, so quickly it seemed a mirage, her teeth were more like fangs, jagged and long and uneven. And were those drops of blood along the tips? And were her eyes green? Reptilian? Inhuman?
The moment passed and she was the world’s most famous pop star again, though Esmeralda knew it was just a charade.
“Do you smell bacon or is it my imagination?” Angie wrinkled her perfect eyebrows. She studied a watch encrusted with diamonds. It sparkled even in the dim light of the shop. “It’s getting late.”
The Robes moved in unison, marched toward the door and unlocked it.
“Good to see you again.” Angie touched Esmeralda’s arm and her pulse tripled. Every strand of hair stood to attention in response.
She strutted out of the shop, followed by her team.
The silence that followed was heavier than Esmeralda herself. She grabbed her keys and thought about sipping her soda. But it seemed too close to the curtained tarot room. The darkness over there swayed on its own accord and even though she was alone in the shop, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a million things watched her.
A Voice So Soft Page 7
