The questions spiraled from there, bringing on a migraine that bordered on unbearable. He closed his eyes, nodded off, and found peace for the first time in a long time.
Until a short doctor wearing a long white lab coat shook him awake. The headache was still there, resting just under his left eye. If anything, it had worsened. He wanted to ask for some painkillers but feared he’d come across as a junkie. He made to stand and almost tripped, held the wall for support.
“Mr. Meyers?” the man said. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, held out his hand. They shook.
“I’m Dr. Girard. I’ve been taking care of your wife.”
He winced at that word. Wife. They’d been separated for a year, yet they were, legally speaking, still married. He’d hoped to speed up the process by selling their condo. Maybe then she’d come around to the divorce. He wasn’t sure why she kept delaying. Perhaps some part of her still loved him. More likely, she was just lazy.
“How is she?”
Dr. Girard’s voice transitioned from empathetic to the robotic tone reserved for healthcare professionals. “I’m afraid she’s lost a lot of blood. We have her under observation. After forty-eight hours, we suggest she be transferred to a psychiatric facility for further evaluation. There are several local options we can discuss.”
“She’s never done anything like this. I didn’t even think she was capable.”
“Of course.” He did not sound all that convinced
Nor did Josh. The way Melissa had been acting these last few years, the way she’d spent more and more time indoors with the lights off, the way she’d taken on so many lovers instead of job interviews—was this really that far off?
Yes, he thought. Because this wasn’t just her depression. This was something else. It had to do with the song she’d been listening to. The song that silently played on the floating television as they spoke.
“Can I see her?” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he meant it.
“We’d like to run some more tests. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow?”
Josh nodded. “That would be fine. You’ll call me if anything happens?”
“Yes, of course. We’ll be in touch with any developments.”
“Thank you.” He opened his mouth to ask about those painkillers after all but Dr. Girard was already navigating the maze-like hallways behind the nurse’s station. His lab coat fluttered behind him like a persistent ghost.
Josh left in a hurry, braved the tourist traffic, and parked a half-mile away from the shop. He would’ve been better off walking from his apartment but it was a moot point as he made his way through the front doors. Trish wasn’t behind the counter.
The speakers played something horrid: a combination of feedback and ambient noise that did his headache no favors. “What the hell is that?” he said, covering his ears.
When no one answered, he stepped toward the stereo and turned the volume down. His ears rang in protest of the sudden silence. “Trish? You here?”
“Out back,” she said. “That you, boss?”
“Who else would it be? When’s the last time you saw a customer in here?”
She didn’t answer but his question hadn’t been entirely rhetorical. Despite the Halloween season, business was less than booming. If their sales didn’t spike soon, he’d be forced to close up shop for good. And then what? Go back to his insufferable office job? Become a barista? He didn’t want to go down that road. His store was still open. The proverbial fat lady remained quiet for the time being.
Though he wondered when she’d speak up as he surveyed the store.
It came as no surprise that more of his inventory had been replaced with Angie memorabilia. Her face was at the front of each rack, covering up death and black metal albums. There were two cardboard cutouts now, one for each back corner. He had to convince himself their paper eyes wouldn’t blink at any moment.
“That’s it.” He grabbed the closest box of CDs that hadn’t yet been unpacked, searched for a label. Why hadn’t he thought of such a simple solution before? Except it wasn’t a solution.
Every box was void of information. No writing or markings of any kind.
“It’s gotta be Jeff or Tommy. I can’t remember if they gave their keys back.”
“You’re wrong,” Trish said from behind.
He spun around, hand to his chest, unsure how many more scared-shitless moments his heart could take. “Jesus, will you stop sneaking up on me like that?”
“Jeff and Tommy didn’t do this.”
“How can you know for sure?”
She evaded the question and waved him toward the front counter. She set down a pile of CDs onto the counter, none of them Angie’s. From her pocket she pulled out a cigarette and lit it like a reflex.
“How many times have I told you not to smoke in here?”
She dodged that question too. He didn’t find cigarettes attractive but there was something endearing with her. He could not deny the crush he’d developed but even if he did manage to ask her out—and that was a big if—he could see it ending the same way as his marriage. She would control him, call every shot, while he sat back and obeyed like a good little boyfriend.
The static noise appeared again. He covered his ears and winced. “What is that? Turn it off, will you?”
“That’s just it. I can’t. Not really, at least.”
“What do you mean?”
She stopped smoking for a moment and retrieved a Pig Destroyer CD from one of the clamshell cases. On the cover was an image of a bloody corpse that seemed much more innocent than the shop’s new inventory. She put the disc into the stereo and pressed play.
And the noise reappeared, even worse this time.
“There’s something wrong with the stereo now too? We don’t have the money for a new one.”
“The problem isn’t the stereo. Check this out,” she said, cigarette dangling from her mouth. She swapped the CD out for one of Angie’s and her voice spewed from the speakers, singing lyrics about loving you for all eternity and other such nonsense.
Josh’s blood rushed below his beltline. He leaned forward to hide his erection and told her to shut it off. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that the only CDs that work are hers. I’ve tried about fifty others. Same goes for the records.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I didn’t think so either but it’s the truth.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Outside, tourists passed by in droves, though none of them visited the shop. It didn’t make any sense. If half of their inventory was now the most popular album in the world, why in God’s name were their sales dwindling?
The answer came to him. So simple. So alarming.
Because everyone already has her album.
“I think I know where all of the merch has been coming from,” Trish said.
He was barely listening. “Huh?”
“The merch. I think it’s coming from the pop princess herself.”
“What makes you say that?” His mouth went dry.
“Because when I came in this morning, I saw someone out back. They caught me looking and ran off. At first I thought they were just dressed up for Halloween. Not all that out of the ordinary. But then I realized I’d seen that same costume around town. They were wearing this long robe. Reminded me of a druid or something. I think they’re part of her team. And I think they’re the ones dropping the shit off. Not to mention breaking in and setting it up.”
Ludicrous. Just a conspiracy theory. He looked into Trish’s eyes for a hint of her trademark sarcasm but her face was deadpan. She was telling the truth. “Why?” he said. “Why are they doing this?”
She shrugged, blew another cloud of smoke that momentarily clouded his vision.
And in that moment, his periphery played a trick on him.
He saw yet another cardboard cutout of Angie Everstein, standing just behind Trish. The cardboard winked, just as he’d pre
dicted, and held up a stiff hand, waving him toward her. He almost screamed but the vision—if that’s what it was—passed. He blinked and she was gone altogether.
“Come on,” Josh said, grabbing his keys and hurrying toward the exit. “We’re closing early tonight.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BENEATH THE SURFACE
“IT’S JUST UP HERE,” MIKE Mallory said. He climbed two sets of stairs and turned the corner toward yet another hall. There were small windows along the way, offering views of Boston Harbor. Shawna wondered how many of Angie’s fans were in the city this very moment. No, not just fans. What was the term they used?
Glitter Critters.
She didn’t like the moniker. It brought to mind other things aside from fanatics. Aberrations that defied every law of the physical world. Joints with too many angles that housed limbs with too many claws.
By the time she climbed the second set of stairs she was sweating and not just from the exercise. A cold sweat. A fear sweat.
On the right lay a doorway. She caught the back of Mike’s feet as he stepped inside. Music filtered into the hall. Hip-hop of some sort. She peeked her head in and saw what looked like a small recording studio. A console with infinite knobs and switches and faders. Two laptops sat nearby, sound waves flickering on the screens.
Behind the console was a window overlooking an even smaller room. The walls were lined with mesh foam. Sound-proofing. Two strangers occupied the studio. The first was a man of perhaps twenty-five. His body was covered in tattoos, many crudely done. A dollar-bill sign rested under his right eye, like he cried money.
The second stranger was perhaps twenty years older. His beard and wavy hair had gone prematurely gray and his glasses were much too big for his sunken face. The professor, she assumed.
Mike whispered something into the older man’s ear and he nodded, held his hand out. “Gary Foster. Nice to meet you.”
She studied his fingers before shaking them. Her gut insisted this was a safe space but she wasn’t counting anything out. “Hey.”
“You’re her sister?” Gary studied her, probably shocked at just how different twins could be.
“In the flesh.”
“I’m glad you’re here. Come in and shut the door. We have a lot to talk about and a short time to do it.”
Mike beat her to it, closing the door and locking it.
“Would you like some coffee?” Gary adjusted his glasses as they began to droop down his nose.
“I’m fine,” she said, though her eyelids told a different story. They felt plastered to her pupils, shutting on their own accord. It had been a long, sleepless few days.
“I’ll grab you a cup anyway,” he said. “Just in case. I suspect we won’t be getting any rest for a long time.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he turned toward the man sitting down. “Curtis? Three coffees if you don’t mind.”
“Am I your servant now?” The man—Curtis—stood. He touched the nearest fader and turned the music down.
“We don’t have time to argue. Just get it, will you?”
Curtis adjusted his backwards Red Sox hat and walked through a side door she hadn’t noticed until now. He made a show of it for the professor, let him know he wasn’t happy.
“I apologize for him,” Gary said, keeping his voice down. “He’s a talented producer and engineer, one of the best I’ve ever worked with. But he’s got a chip on his shoulder. And he’s on edge. All of us are, I suppose.”
“You can say that again.” Mike rubbed his eyes and scratched his stubble.
A few moments later Curtis returned with three cups of coffee. He handed them out. The paper cup was thin and burned her skin but the strong aroma calmed her some.
“We’re out of cream and sugar, I’m afraid,” Gary said.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I drink it black sometimes.” A lie. She drank it with enough cream and sugar to constitute a milkshake. She’d never had a cup in her life until Mia introduced her. Now if she didn’t drink at least two a day, she developed a caffeine headache. A gift from their time together. A scar in a weird sort of way.
“What is this place?”
Mike looked too exhausted to explain and the professor, supposedly an expert on whatever subject they were here to discuss, wasn’t the world’s most social person. He radiated an awkwardness he’d likely had since childhood.
“This is my studio,” Curtis said. “Built the place myself. Big G just wrapped up his newest mix tape here. Ever heard him? Gonna be big. Mark my words.”
Foster smiled apologetically. “Curtis is right. This is a recording studio but more importantly it’s an underground one. Lesser known, if you will.”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Curtis said.
“What I mean is that this place—it’s not on certain individuals’ radars.”
“You mean my sister.”
He nodded. “And I’d like to keep it that way. Our experiments have proved crucial.”
“What kind of experiments?”
Foster took two large sips of his coffee. A few drops clung to his upper lip but he didn’t notice. He set the cup town, walked toward the console, and asked Curtis to switch the song. “I apologize in advance,” Foster said, looking at both Shawna and Mike, the latter of which covered his ears.
Before Shawna could ask what he meant, the hip-hop song ended abruptly. A new song replaced it. No, not a new song. She’d managed to hear it plenty in the last six months. No matter how hard she tried to avoid the melody, it always seemed to slither into her life. Just like the creeping things. She’d be at a store or on the bus and the soft, haunting voice of Angie would appear from nowhere.
“Forever with You” played through the speakers.
The room halved in size. She hadn’t noticed the lack of windows until now. Behind her, the locked door was miles away. She made to remove her hearing aids but Mike uncovered one of his ears and held her arm.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“How do you feel?” Foster said. He wore headphones, yelling a bit too loud.
“Horrible,” she said. “I feel horrible.”
“Be more specific. Tell me exactly what’s going through your mind.”
“Nothing really. Except I want to scream. I want to reach over there and rip out every wire until they’re sparking. And when the song’s done I want to take those wires and wrap them around—”
Foster nodded for her to go on but the song was too much. Her heart threatened to stop beating if it didn’t burst first. The room shrank again until she was inside of a grave. No light. No air. Nothing but darkness. She swayed, nearly fainted, but Mike caught her.
“That’s enough,” he said.
“Very well. Curtis, turn it off, will you?”
“Yes, Master.”
The song faded, though Shawna swore she heard it a few extra moments longer.
“It’s still there, isn’t it?” Foster said. “In your head, I mean.”
She nodded, mouth hanging open. “How’d you know that?”
“Because I’ve been studying your sister’s music and the effect it has on people since she won that little talent show. And the effect, I’m sorry to say, is not good.” He turned toward Mike. “Officer Mallory first brought it to my attention. The murders, I mean. They seemed unconnected, given how far apart they occurred, but there was one common thread that eventually could not be ignored.”
He took another gulp of coffee, finishing the cup and crumpling it. “Her music stimulates the amygdala, the aggressive portion of our brains, the fight or flight response. Only in this case, the listeners almost always choose fight.”
“So like a subliminal message?”
“Yes and no. The song itself is harmless. The lyrics are average and dull and the melody is nothing we haven’t heard a thousand times over. It’s what’s beneath the surface that causes the effect.” He turned toward Curtis. “Show her the isolated track.”
Curtis, for all his defiance and tough-guy attitude, looked childish in that moment. He tried to play it off as annoyance. He failed. “Do we have to?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
Curtis sighed and played with more of the knobs. On the computer screen, several of the sound waves vanished until only one remained. The song was still paused and the line was jagged, not unlike fangs.
“Ms. Everstein, what you’re about to hear is . . . quite disturbing. I won’t play it for long but you need to see what we’re dealing with. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“Very well.” He nodded toward Curtis, and everyone, Shawna included, took a deep breath.
The noise played over the speakers. For that’s what it was: a noise. There was no music or cadence to be found. It reminded her of a radio signal gone bad. Something you heard late at night in between channels, when stations went off the air. It was harsh, a bit like white noise, except it wasn’t entirely random. There was something inside the chaos, something like screaming. Yes, that was it. Screaming. Hundreds upon thousands of shouts so distorted, so high-pitched and shriek-like, she couldn’t help but reach for her ears.
Except her arms froze. She didn’t want to stop. The revelation came suddenly. She felt both euphoric and disgusted. She thought of those wires again, how easy they’d be to wrap around each of the others’ necks. She had little to no upper body strength but she was certain she could kill at least one of them.
Her upper lip felt warm and she tasted salt. She wiped her nose and the back of her hand grew dark red with blood. The sight of the fluid angered her and she longed for those wires—her potential weapons—even more.
Her sight vanished. As did every other sense save for her hearing. How ironic. The one thing that was guaranteed to fail her now kept her in this state or trance or whatever the hell it was.
A hand on her shoulder. And a voice. Not Angie’s but a man’s. A man calling for her from eons away. Telling her to open her eyes.
She did so.
And was back in the recording studio.
Mike and Foster hovered over her. Curtis held what looked like a rag. He tossed it to her and she held it against her nose. The bleeding died down some but it was replaced with a dull headache in the back of her eyes.
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