A Voice So Soft

by Patrick Lacey

  A million things with sharp teeth.

  “Apocalypse?”

  The man—Mike Mallory, apparently—nodded and began his pacing routine all over again. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that your sister’s songs have . . . a certain effect on people.”

  She shrugged. “I guess she has a lot of fans if that’s what you mean.”

  “Cut the bullshit. You know exactly what I mean.”

  She thought back to every time she’d heard “Forever with You” and how it made her feel. She’d attributed it to headaches and heartburn and sibling rivalry. That and she hated pop music. But there was something, some undefined feeling that surged through her body whenever Angie’s voice spilled from speakers. Which is why she’d avoided the single at all costs. Not to mention she had a secret view into the life of its creator. She knew what Angie was capable of.

  “Who’s Ethel?” Mike said.

  “What?”

  “You said something about Ethel while you were out. She your friend or something?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have many friends these days.” She wondered if things would be different if Mia were still around, if she hadn’t changed her entire personality right around the time that . . .

  She tensed in the chair, zip-ties digging further into her wrists and ankles. “Holy shit.”

  “Believe me now?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I have this friend and she changed, you know? But not like a normal change. Not the kind that happens in high school. It was instant. One day she was like me and the next she started wearing glitter like it was perfume. Her skin always shimmering in the light. She was blinding. And that was right around the time that—”

  “That Angie won the competition.”

  She nodded.

  “You want to know where I was that night? I was responding to a domestic dispute. Only it wasn’t a dispute at all. It was a double homicide. A little girl killed both her parents then gouged out her own eyes. She came at me. And I . . .” He covered his own eyes for a moment. “I got to thinking. There was something wrong with that girl. The girl on TV. The girl that turned out to be your sister.”

  “Where was the murder?”

  “Indiana.”

  “So you think my sister killed two people through the television?”

  “Yes. As crazy as it sounds, I do. It was her voice or her lyrics or something else I haven’t figured out. And it wasn’t just the one murder. There have been numerous deaths connected with that song.” He pointed again at the makeshift diorama on the storage unit’s far wall. She thought of every stereotypical detective in every stereotypical detective movie. Breaking out on his own to solve a case. Losing his marbles in the process. Mike fit the bill perfectly.

  Only, in those movies, the cops were the good guys. She still wasn’t sure about Officer Mallory. He seemed to be on Shawna’s side but she wasn’t counting anything out just yet. After all, she was the one tied up.

  His index finger landed on a picture of a woman. Red hair, smoker’s lines, and eyes that looked slightly off center. “Renee Walters. Forty-eight years old. Meter maid. Retired early because of rheumatoid arthritis. She moved to Georgia from Michigan because her doctor said the heat would help the pain. She was found dead in her living room, a shotgun in her right hand, most of her brain in her left. Before she killed herself, she went next door and murdered an entire family, as well as their two cats and a puppy.”

  He moved his hand toward a teenage boy with a chiseled jaw and shaved head. “Billy Lockheart. Dropped out of school at sixteen. Started as a bag boy at a local grocery store in Wisconsin. Worked his way up to the register, then assistant front-end supervisor. Officials found him after responding to a noise complaint. He was in the back room, hanging from a noose with rope he’d bought at the hardware store across the parking lot. He didn’t kill anyone but there was a sizeable hit list near his body.”

  Next: a curvy college girl with deep dimples in her cheeks. “Karen Lopes. Found—you guessed it—dead in the bathroom of her local mall in Arizona. She’d busted one of the mirrors and slit her throat but not before dragging Timothy Girard into the stall with her and stabbing him in the face thirteen times. He was six. Are you beginning to see a pattern?”

  “I’m seeing a bunch of dead people who lost their minds.”

  He nodded. “And what ties them all together?”

  “I’m guessing they were all fans of my sister.”

  “Not necessarily. But her music was playing during the crimes in every single instance when police officials arrived, whether it was on their phones or the store speakers or car radios. Like I said: your sister’s music has an effect on people. And it’s spreading.”

  He stepped toward a poster she hadn’t noticed until now: a map of the United States. There were perhaps one hundred thumbtacks, some red, others blue, scattered along the country. At least one in every state. “The blue ones are attempted murders. You’ll notice there are more red ones. Those are the successes.”

  The storage unit grew cold, though she was almost certain it was weather controlled. A strong breeze blew against the walls, rattling the metal like something outside wanted in. “Okay, that’s a lot of people. But why doesn’t it happen to everyone? Why hasn’t everyone killed themselves and everybody around them? Angie is the biggest star in the world right now. We should all be dead.”

  He studied the map without blinking. “That’s the part I can’t figure out. The part that’s driving me nuts. Remember the sixties? When they said the Beatles were putting subliminal messages into their songs? And then again in the eighties. A bunch of conservative pricks said Iron Maiden and Judas Priest were doing the same thing.”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “It’s like that but real this time. There’s something . . . under the surface of her music. Something that affects us all but not at the same time.”

  She thought of her sister’s lyrics, that robotic yet perfect voice crawling through her mind. She thought of what the words might make her do. She thought of the world slowly slipping into madness. Of Mia, her deadbeat mother and her bullies. Of Ethel. She thought a thousand horrible thoughts and wanted to gag. Mike Mallory may have been a few singles short of a pop album but his argument was beginning to make sense.

  “And besides,” he said, “I haven’t listened to the song enough to actually study it. And I don’t plan on it. All I know is that she has to be stopped before it’s too late. Before they finish that stage.”

  “You think something’s going to happen during the show.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like what?”

  He changed the subject. “I know someone. A professor. He’s an expert in this area.”

  “What area?”

  “Subliminal psychology. Real smart guy if a bit eccentric. We’ve been in touch since the world started going to hell. He tends to agree with me when it comes to your sister. I think he can help us.”

  “Us? Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?”

  He stepped toward her, pulled out a long and sharp knife.

  She closed her eyes, stopped breathing, stopped thinking.

  And gasped a sigh of relief when he cut the zip-ties. Her wrists and ankles flooded with pins and needles. She rubbed them and stood, dizzy.

  “Go home,” Mike said. “Sleep on it. Think about what I said and let me know if you’re going to help me.”

  “How will I find you?” She wasn’t sure if she planned on going back to him or going straight to the cops.

  “I’ll find you. Thank you for listening to me tonight.”

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, save for the wind picking up outside. In the distance, something—a trash bucket or recycling bin—was blown along the street. It sounded like a scream.

  She left without saying anything else and despite how badly she wanted to stay away from home, she jogged back, breathless as
she stepped through the front door.

  The rooms were too dark. Like her sister or something worse—if there was such a thing—waited just beyond her periphery. She did not stop until she was in her bed, door closed and locked behind her.

  She lay awake until morning.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PROGRESS

  THE STAGE WAS NEARLY COMPLETE.

  Many of the surrounding trees had been removed to allow for construction. The previous spring, a real estate developer had proposed erecting two oversized condo complexes. Hundreds of protestors had proudly held makeshift signs warning of the environmental effects of such a thing. The project was called off shortly after. But this project had either escaped their notice or they were too busy to care.

  If you walked through Gallows Hill and the construction site tonight, you would notice certain trees deep within the woods. New trees that had not been there weeks or even days before. The scenery, it would seem, shifted by the moment. Even the roots beneath the ground twisted and turned like worms just before rainfall.

  Wildlife mostly kept away from the area. Last summer, there had been a gypsy moth outbreak. Hundreds if not thousands of caterpillars climbed the bark, feasting on the wood before their bodies went into hibernation. Weeks later they bloomed as pests.

  But the park was nearly silent now. No signs of squirrels or birds or raccoons. No signs of beetles or ants or earwigs. From the outside it was a dead zone, though that wasn’t exactly true.

  A stray cat made its way up the hill, oblivious of the stage and the historical significance of the area. It knew nothing of witches and black magic. It knew only hunger. Its owners had abandoned it two weeks prior, moving out of their apartment complex in a hurry. It had once been overweight, gluttonous, but fourteen days of living in filth had transformed its body. Ribs poked through patchy fur. Its belly ached. It would kill for food.

  Its nametag read Whiskers.

  Whiskers turned the corner, jumped onto the stone wall, and peered into the forest where the stage lay. It cocked its head, listened. Nothing. No chirping or howling or breathing. No sounds of any kind. On an instinctual level, it knew something was wrong but hunger overpowered these internal warnings. If it had known who Angie Everstein was, been able to interpret the message beneath her lyrics, it would turn around and sprint back the way it had come.

  Instead it jumped from the wall and walked slowly toward the stage.

  Though the day had been warm, the New England weather about as predictable as the future, the night was near freezing. A dense fog resulted, moving in from the ocean like a wall of smoke. It obscured the forest so the stage was more of a suggestion. As were the trees and the bushes and the—

  And the shapes that could’ve been human or something else.

  Whiskers stopped suddenly when the forms came into view. Its periphery swam with movement. Shadows danced and swayed. It heard something like music in the distance.

  It hissed as the shapes moved closer, looked in every direction for escape, but it was surrounded now. The only way out was to climb the stage. It did so with ease. Though it was exhausted, fight or flight took precedence. The metal platform was cool beneath its paws.

  The shapes ascended the steps and soon its chances of escaping lessened with each moment. It located the closest tree, prepared to jump.

  Something reached out of the darkness, grabbed onto its tail, pulled it backward.

  Whiskers hissed again, opened its mouth and bared its teeth, the movement more dog-like than feline. It sunk its teeth into flesh, heard the figure moan in response. Whiskers dove for the tree, claws locking onto ancient bark, and climbed to the closest branch. From its perch it watched the shapes gather. The music grew louder. They sounded like humans, like its former owners before they abandoned it. Those humans used to hum songs under their breath while they cleaned. This was similar but lacked melody. More archaic. Whiskers did not understand, yet it knew the song was wrong. Its patchy hair grew stiff. Its skin grew taut.

  The cat did not stay long enough to see the ceremony nor the ritual. It climbed farther, tight-roped across a brittle branch, and dove to a neighboring tree. It repeated this process until it was finally out of Gallows Hill. Though its stomach still ached with emptiness, it was preferable to whatever it had just witnessed.

  Back on the hill, with Whiskers gone, the robed figures sang and danced and prepared for their princess to bring forth the new era.

  The soil warmed.

  The temperature lowered.

  And the days until the concert lessened.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NEW ADDITIONS

  THE NEXT MORNING JOSH HEARD Angie’s voice in a dream.

  It was early, the sun too dim to filter through the curtains of his one-room apartment. The lack of natural light was normally a blessing. He liked to sleep in when he could, though he rarely slept at all these days.

  Now, though, he begged to wake up.

  Across from his bed, leaning against the kitchen counter, stood Angie. She wore nothing at all. Her skin shimmered even in the darkness and her eyes were two dark storm clouds.

  “Do you want to fuck me?” she said.

  He wanted to shake his head. She was too young for him, not to mention there was something . . . wrong with her. Something he hadn’t yet figured out. But instead he nodded against his will.

  “I bet you do. I bet you’d like to stick that cock of yours right up inside me. It’s so tight, Josh. Tighter than that ex-whore of yours. Just say the word and I’m yours.”

  He opened his mouth to say no. “Yes.”

  She smiled and sang that song that had taken over the world. Every inch of Josh’s skin tingled as it had that day in the shop, when he’d first heard the chorus. He’d known then something was wrong. Talk about an understatement.

  Her voice grew louder and her belly, smooth and flat a moment before, expanded exponentially. Something beneath the skin rippled and swayed. Something that wanted out.

  She’s pregnant, he thought.

  As if to confirm this revelation, the skin shredded and something made its way onto the floor. Something misshapen and ancient and ugly beyond description.

  He woke screaming.

  His alarm clock read nine. It was a CD player combo that played the same song each morning, an old Black Flag B-side, but today it had somehow triggered the radio, which had in turn triggered the world’s most popular single.

  “Forever with You.”

  He turned it off and got out of bed. The apartment swam around him and his mind felt capsized. He couldn’t remember the night before, wasn’t sure if he’d gone out to drink or stayed home. The crushed cans near the recycling bin solved the riddle for him. There were twelve in all. Cheap stuff he hadn’t drank since college. Melissa had told him he was becoming an alcoholic near the end of their marriage. Maybe she’d been on to something. He didn’t like to give her credit but the proof was in the pudding, or in this case, the hangover.

  He opened the cabinet and retrieved his beloved bottle of aspirin, washed down two capsules with tap water.

  In the bathroom he disrobed and stepped into the shower. Normally he bathed quickly but this morning he allowed himself some indulgence, basking in the heat of the spray. Flashes of his dream steamrolled into his mind. His stomach churned and his bowels protested but, despite his body’s disgust, his lower half didn’t get the message.

  He was far from flaccid as he recalled Angie’s dream face. Never mind that her body had been a vessel for something else. Something more nightmarish than the nightmare itself. His balls tingled and he began stroking himself like a reflex. He would’ve stayed that way had he not remembered he needed to meet with Melissa and the realtor she’d chosen without his input.

  His erection shriveled in mere seconds after that.

  In the kitchen he made coffee and dry toast. The thought of food was repulsive. His stomach gurgled as he forced it down.

  Running late, he sped outside an
d into his car. Even now, when they were separated, when he let Melissa stay in the home he’d bought, he still let her run his life. Pathetic wasn’t a strong enough word.

  The CD in his stereo, an old thrash band called Nuclear Assault, skipped badly. He took it out and examined its bottom surface. No scratches. He tried again with the same result. Finally, he gave up and backed out of the driveway, wincing at the glare from the sun.

  At the end of his street he turned left, stopped at the red light, and hung his mouth open as he saw the billboard. The night before it had been an advertisement for a local mechanic and an offer for the cheapest oil change in town. He’d gone to the place plenty of times, admired the way they ran such an honest business. Today, though, there was nothing resembling their logo or their money-back guarantee.

  This morning it was an advertisement for the new Angie Everstein CD, named after its title track.

  She smiled, teeth glowing a preternatural shade of white. The image seemed three-dimensional, like the mouth could open and close without a moment’s notice. Her eyes were a sickly shade of green. He swore they followed him, no longer poster material but gooey flesh. If he stayed there long enough, studying her features, those eyes would blink. He was sure of it.

  The car behind him honked its horn, the driver flipping him off. The light had turned green. Thankfully, it was a different shade of green.

  Josh sped off. His ears rang, the headache sharpening despite the pills. He pinched the bridge of his nose and, against his better judgment, turned the radio on.

  Part of him was not surprised to hear Angie’s robotic voice shouting at him.

  Forever with you. I’ll never leave your side.

  He turned the dial. The next channel played Angie as well. He turned it again with the same result. And again.