“What the hell was that?”
“That,” Foster said, “was the hidden track. There’s one within all of your sister’s songs. It’s made in such a way that it disappears when coupled with the instruments and vocals. But it’s there nonetheless. Working its magic, so to speak. As you may have noticed, it has quite the effect.”
She managed to lift her head and prop herself up with her elbows. “I noticed.”
“Good,” Foster said. “Now that we’ve identified the problem, we can move onto the next step.”
“Which is?”
“Solving it.”
He let the sentence hang in the air but Foster’s proposed plan was simple, in a sense. It was, she supposed, the same solution Mike had theorized. What did you do when a song you loathed came on the radio?
You shut it off.
It took three tries for Esmeralda to dial Jeannie Rogers on her cell phone. She kept second-guessing herself, hanging up just before sending the call. They had, admittedly, not been the best of friends these last few years.
More like a decade, she thought as the dial tone pierced her ears. She winced at the sound, feeling anxious. Not just from reaching out to Jeannie after radio silence.
It was the sign across the street. The sign above the front doors of her shop.
Only it wasn’t her shop anymore, was it? That much was evident from the newly erected words, the neon light flickering in obscure patterns.
She read them again, hoping in some stupid section of her mind that she was just dreaming, that she’d suffered a heart attack and the surgeons were unclogging her arteries this very moment.
Fat chance of that, she thought. She could’ve laughed if she wasn’t so scared.
The words read: Angie Everstein’s Ye Olde Magic Shoppe.
“Hello?”
Esmeralda gasped at Jeannie’s voice. She’d all but forgotten about the call.
“Hello?” her old friend said again.
Esmeralda paused. She didn’t want to be a bother. Jeannie probably had better plans than to talk with an overweight phony witch that had fallen out of touch.
“Jeannie.” Her throat constricted. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been crying.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Esmeralda.”
A gasp. “Is it really you?”
She nodded. “Sure is. All four hundred pounds of me.”
Jeannie snorted. What came from her mouth during moments of joy was more like the sound of a pig at a trough than a laugh. In their younger years, Esmeralda would tell jokes every chance she got. She bought comedy books, memorized punch lines just to hear that squeal.
“How the hell have you been?” Jeannie said. “God, I can’t even remember the last time we talked.”
“That’s my fault.” She wiped her eyes but fresh tears replaced the old ones.
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I did. I honestly don’t remember the last time I gave you a call. I blamed it on being busy but the truth is that I haven’t been busy in a long time. I work and come home and hate myself a little more each day.”
“Honey . . . are you okay? You sound like you’re crying.”
“Me? Cry? We really have fallen out of touch.”
Another joke they’d shared. During the four years they’d roomed together, Jeannie had never seen Esmeralda shed a tear. Not from the stress of college, nor from her break up with Dylan, one of two serious boyfriends she’d ever had—not even when Esmeralda had learned her cousin Lisa had been killed by a drunk driver. Tears, it seemed, refused to pay her a visit.
How things had changed.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“How is it down there?” Esmeralda said. “In Florida, I mean.”
“Same as always. Sunny and warm, if not a little boring.”
“Sounds glorious.”
“What about up there? How’s Salem?”
Dangerous, she almost said. “Flooded with tourists per usual.”
“How is your shop doing?”
Her bottom lip quivered at the question. “Look, I was thinking—have been for a while—what if I moved down there? To your neck of the woods. You think you could point me in the right direction? I looked into condos and apartments but there’re too many to count. It’s overwhelming.”
She could sense the smile from thousands of miles away. Jeannie was moments away from her signature snort. “You kidding me? I’ve been waiting years for this call.”
In college, they’d vowed to head to the sunshine state the moment they graduated. Jeannie had gotten a job as a dental hygienist, made good money and benefits. Esmeralda had stayed back and worked a series of part-time, in-between jobs. She just needed some extra months to save money. Except extra months turned to years. Her parents got older and sicker, hearts failing with each passing day. So her dreams of Florida had grown distant until it seemed less like a state and more like some exotic country. After her parents died, just shy of six months apart, she’d started her business, thinking she could swindle tourists out of money. It worked. But with it, came the death of her dream.
“Esmeralda? You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here and that’s the problem. Look, if I were to head down there in the near future, you think I could stay at your place for a while? Just until I got on my feet.”
Esmeralda was certain she’d overstepped her boundaries. She hadn’t so much as called her best friend in a year, maybe longer, and here she was asking to be taken in indefinitely. She ought to hang up. She ought to accept defeat.
“Of course,” Jeannie said.
“Really?” She almost convinced herself those were happy tears in her eyes.
“I’d love to have you. I have a guest room I’ve been meaning to clean out. This will be the perfect excuse. I should be thanking you.”
“I think it’s the other way around. I can’t thank you enough. It means the world.”
“When are you leaving?”
Another glance at the sign. Her eyes were growing blurry but she could still make out the words just fine. “As soon as possible. I just need to get some things in order.”
“I can’t wait, Ez. I think you’re going to love it down here.”
“I think you’re right.”
They spoke for another few minutes, small talk at first, though the conversation turned to inside jokes and reminiscing about better times. When it came time to hang up, Esmeralda couldn’t help but feel she was saying goodbye for the final time.
Don’t think that way.
Across the street, shapes moved inside what had been her shop twenty-four hours ago. The woman on the phone—Glenda—had said Esmeralda could continue to operate her business with a few changes in place.
It was dark outside but the streetlight cast enough glow to see inside. The shop’s lights were turned off yet whoever lay within walked through the shadows as if they had night vision. She couldn’t make out details aside from their robes. They moved swiftly, quickly, and Esmeralda thanked the stars she hadn’t gone into work today.
She backed away, swallowed by the darkness of the neighboring alley. Her feet nearly slipped on several cobblestones but she did not dare turn away from the windows. It didn’t feel safe having her back to the shop.
Not until she reached the next block did she finally turn around and walk back to her apartment to gather what little belongings she planned on keeping.
Her chest heaved and her pulse protested. She wondered if she could run if the need arose.
And something told her it would arise.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BAR TALK PART II
“WHAT’RE YOU WORKING ON?” JIMMY said, sliding another beer across the bar. A small drop of foam spilled onto one of the several pieces of paper spread out in front of Josh.
“My finances,” Josh said. “My future. Or lack thereof.” There were hundreds of numbers scrawled in his chicken scratch. He’d added and
subtracted and subtracted again. Math had never been his strong suit but the answer to this equation was simple.
If something didn’t change, he’d be bankrupt come the first of November. The store had never brought in an excess of cash but it allowed him to pay his mortgage and keep the lights on. Now he was paying for two homes, one he’d let his estranged wife destroy, and another he’d littered with empty beer cans. If he didn’t sell the condo soon—and it was looking grave after Melissa’s incident—he couldn’t afford to keep his business.
“Tough times, huh?” Jimmy wiped at an invisible stain on the bar.
“The toughest,” Josh took a sip of his beer. Then another. Until it was nearly drained. Jimmy gave him a refill without asking. Josh was a quiet drunk, didn’t make a scene like some of the other regulars. He was rewarded with never being cut off or asked to leave. At least he was good at something.
He crunched more numbers, started a new list of solutions but nothing stuck. By the time he’d nearly finished his next beer, it was clear he was, for lack of a better term, fucked.
A group of college girls erupted with laughter at the corner of the bar as one of their friends fell from their stool. Jimmy walked over to clean up the mess, flirting with a blonde wearing sunglasses despite the dim lighting.
Josh was so caught up in the scene he didn’t notice the man sit next to him and whisper into his ear. “Don’t say anything. Don’t even turn to look at me. Keep doing your homework and pretend I’m a stranger.” Dan Peterson set his glass on the counter a little too hard.
“I’m really not in the mood tonight,” Josh said, staring at the liquor bottles ahead. Though Dan had grown on him during their last conversation, he was still one of the men who’d fucked Melissa. Not to mention he’d sounded off his rocker.
But so much had happened since then. He thought of his store and the cardboard cutouts and his wife’s bleeding wrists as she did a poor job coloring within the lines.
Maybe he hadn’t been off his rocker after all.
“I’m only telling you this because I feel bad, okay?” Dan stared at his sopping napkin, took a sip of what smelled like whiskey. “I shouldn’t have did what I did. You’re a good guy. A pushover, sure. But you’re not an asshole. That’s rare these days.”
Josh set his pencil down and arranged his papers into one stack. “Look, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve had a hell of a day.”
“You’re not the only one.” He lowered his voice, as if anyone in the bar could hear them over the college girls and the blaring music. “I have to be quick. They’re watching us. They’re always watching.”
“Who’s they?”
“Haven’t you figured it out by now?”
“Enlighten me.” Only Josh didn’t want to know.
“Her team, man. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen them. They follow her around like a fucking cult. In fact, I think that’s exactly what they are.”
“Is this about the stage again?” He hadn’t visited Gallows Hill this Halloween season. Work and life had gotten in the way but also he hadn’t wanted to visit. It felt safer not seeing the stage with his own eyes.
“It’s just about done now. Should be finished up in another day or two. Just in time for the big night.”
“You mean Halloween.”
Dan nodded in Josh’s periphery. “You need to pack up and leave town. Tonight, if possible. I already told my parents and my sister. I don’t know if they believed me.”
“Believed you about what? Look, Dan, I’m tired and you’re ruining my buzz.”
“It’s the concert. Something’s going to happen at the concert.”
“What?” He took another sip of beer and gagged. It tasted sour.
Dan slid his stool over so his breath grazed Josh’s ear. “They do things out there, in the woods. They dance and they sing and sometimes, if it’s quiet enough, you hear something singing back.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m telling you what I’ve seen and heard. You can do what you want with that information. Something rotten—bad with a capital B—is going down during that show. And when it does, you don’t want to be anywhere near this place.”
Josh did not respond. His insides curdled. The music and the patrons and everything else vanished. He was alone with his thoughts and he didn’t like where they led.
Maybe this guy’s crazy but he does make a terrible sort of sense. Look around. This town is going to hell. People are acting strange, as in slitting-their-wrists strange. Not to mention what’s going on below your belt lately. And it all comes back to Little Miss Everstein.
He couldn’t help but picture her perfect body. The way her skin seemed to glow a shade of white that reminded him of bone. The way her breasts jutted. The way her eyes—
The way her eyes were cold and dark and not the least bit inviting, though you couldn’t look away even if you wanted because once she had you, once she wrapped her elegant little fingers around you, there was no going back.
He shook his head and saw that Dan had left. The bar stool was empty and a woman with pink hair, skin dabbed with what looked like glitter, moved in to fill the vacant spot, ordering a martini—extra dirty.
“You’re a fan,” she said, catching his stare. “Aren’t you?”
Josh stood up. “What did you just say?”
“You’re a critter. I can tell. You love our queen and savior.”
Josh slipped two twenty-dollar bills onto the bar, much more than he needed to pay, though his finances had suddenly become less important. He kept his papers on the counter and left without saying anything else.
Outside, the breeze touched him like probing fingers.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HUMMING WHILE KILLING
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN Mike dropped Shawna off at her house. The documentary crew’s trailer was still parked across the street, windows tinted so they matched the night. She couldn’t tell if anyone watched. Maybe it was better that way.
The drive back had been quiet, her mind replaying the conversation with Professor Foster.
“This has to be a dream, right? I’m in a nightmare and if I scream loud enough I’ll wake up.”
“It’s a nightmare, sure, but it’s all real. And it’s only going to get worse.”
“What you’re asking me—it seems impossible. I can’t kill my sister. I’m not a murderer.”
“Even after everything you’ve learned about her?”
She looked toward her house and tried to recall the good times, before Angie was a pop star, before her father hit the road, before her mother had decided to spend their life away. The memories were light years away. She did not feel at home in her own home. Mike was right. This was a nightmare. “How would I . . . you know . . . do it?”
He shrugged, looking into the rearview mirror, then studying the trailer. She hadn’t seen him blink once since they’d met. “Let me figure that part out.”
For a moment, she saw through the tough guy façade and Mike Mallory seemed just as scared as she felt. “Her songs, they really made that girl kill her family like you said?”
His eyes went out of focus and she could practically hear the screams, smell the blood. “They prepare you for the worst. The force, I mean. You might see a murder or a car accident. Might witness someone bleed out in front of you, hold a civilian while they breathe their last breath. What I saw in that house was nothing like that. You can’t prepare for that. And it stays with me. I’ve seen five shrinks and they all come to the same conclusion. I’m a nice, easy diagnosis. PTSD with flashbacks and anxiety. Nothing fancy. With enough therapy and pills, they tell me, the visions will fade. But let me tell you: they’ve only gotten worse. Because she’s still out there. She’s still killing without lifting a finger. I don’t want to see any more little girls lose their eyes.”
“I never told you the rest of my story. About Ethel.”
“Does it really matter?”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” she said. “It does.” Her throat grew several sizes too large as the creeping things crawled into her mind. “She was a witch.”
“A what?”
“Ethel told us her entire life story. We thought it was a joke, just an old, cruel, dead woman playing games, but we did some research, talked to some librarians who pointed us in the right direction. A couple of kid detectives. You would’ve been proud. She was a witch and they burned her right here in Salem. Except she was the real deal. Used to torture animals and perform ceremonies in the woods. She didn’t bother the settlers and they left her alone. Until she stole a baby from its crib.” A sob threatened to burst from her mouth. Ethel had imitated the baby’s cry one night, cackling as she did so. And they’d helped her back into this world. Shawna was partly to blame for everything that had happened.
That poor girl would still have her eyes if she hadn’t let Angie perform her spell.
“I don’t get it,” Mike said. “Even if you did conjure a ghost or a witch or whatever she was, what does that have to do with your sister’s music?”
“Ethel wasn’t just good at rituals and killing. She had the prettiest voice in all of Salem. You could hear her singing in the woods while she did her dirty work. So they said, at least. Imagine that? Humming while you kill. She taught Angie how to perfect her voice, how to hit high notes no eleven-year-old should be able to hit. She created a star.”
“And what happened to this Ethel?”
She shrugged. “One day she just kind of faded away. I didn’t see her anymore, which was fine by me. And if Angie did, she kept it quiet. Maybe she’s still there, in my room, waiting for the right moment to show herself.”
The room in question lay in the upper left corner of her house. The window was not so much pitch black as it was dim gray, hall light filtering in through a partially closed door. She did not see any unaccounted for shapes, though that did nothing for her nerves.
“You ought to get some rest,” Mike said. “The next couple of days are going to be busy.”
A Voice So Soft Page 13
