A Voice So Soft

by Patrick Lacey

  “Not so fast,” Melissa said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t fantasize about this a thousand times over. Your poor, depressed wife finally wanting to fuck you again instead of strangers. And that cute little metal chick you hired because she had a sweet ass. Tell me you didn’t have wet dreams of us sucking you off at the same time. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  He was too exhausted to argue. “Just get off me, will you? I want you to leave.”

  “Sure, you want us to go, boss.” Trish winked at him, tongue working vertical miracles. “But someone else doesn’t agree.” She grazed her teeth along the flesh. Not enough to hurt but enough to remind him who was in charge.

  “She’s right,” Melissa said. “Just lay back and relax. Let us do all the work. Then, when we’re through having fun, we’ll bring you to the concert.”

  At the mention of Angie, the song began to play.

  He looked toward the living room, where his ruined turntable had been thrown to the floor and smashed. The same went for his alarm clock. Which meant “Forever with You” did not play from any external source.

  The lyrics entered some deep chamber of his mind and he knew there was no going back. Angie had won. He covered his face in disgust as Trish and Melissa quickened their paces. He begged his pleasure center to switch off but he was granted no such wish. He came quick and hard.

  Trish moaned and smacked her lips. “You taste great.”

  He turned his head and vomited onto the bed.

  “Not quite the reaction we were hoping for.” Melissa took off her shirt and instructed Trish to do the same. “Our turn to play.”

  Josh grabbed the skull-shaped lamp from his bedside table. He’d had it since childhood, purchased on a trip to New Orleans, which he’d deemed the Salem of the South. It was perhaps his oldest and most prized possession, even more so than his record collection. No matter how tough things became, no matter what life threw his way, that lamp had always been with him. Lighting up the darkness, if only a bit.

  But Josh Meyers did not have time to reminisce. He smashed the lamp against Trish’s skull. She yelped and fell off the bed. Before she could get back up, he stomped on her chest. She did not fight back, made no attempt to get up. He stomped down twice more until she stopped breathing and moving.

  He expected Melissa to claw at him but instead she held her stomach and laughed. Tears streamed down her face.

  “Josh, honey, I didn’t think you had it in you. She’s taught you well.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Angie. She’s in you now, part of your blood stream, and she’s turned you into the man I wanted all along. What do you say we fuck for old time’s sake?”

  She started unbuttoning her pants. Josh raised the lamp, broken now, above his head and brought it down against her face. The first blow sculpted a second mouth into her left cheek. The second blinded her. She collapsed to the floor, on top of Trish, muttered something softly but the song in his head drowned out the words. He had a feeling it wasn’t an apology.

  He made it as far as the back stairs before the music overtook him. He could feel himself changing, giving all his energy to her. A pop star he’d loathed since she’d first won that shitty talent show. And now he would become one of her disciples.

  His arms shook. He convulsed with something like a seizure. His last thought was of his broken record player, the sound of the needle scraping the vinyl. It meant something, he knew, some final warning from whatever was left of his mind. He looked down from the stairs of his third-floor apartment and realized that all stereos had an off switch.

  He laughed at the notion, as blood leaked from his nose and eyes, as his erection jutted out once again, and all the way down as he dove off the stairs and headed face-first to the grass below.

  “How much farther?” Curtis said, not for the first time.

  Mike and Foster told him to shut up in unison.

  Though it was dark, the flashlights they’d brought from the RV offering only small beams of illumination, Shawna could tell he was sweating badly. He wiped at his forehead every few moments, holding trees to keep up.

  Shawna didn’t blame him. Her lungs and legs burned and she found herself in the rear of the group for most of the trek. It wasn’t just exhaustion keeping her back. She was out of shape, had skipped her fair share of gym classes, but there was something else slowing her down.

  She heard things in the forest. Things she could not blame on snapping twigs or their hushed voices calculating how close they were to the stage. These noises were unaccounted for: whispers and moans and words she couldn’t make out. After telling herself it was just nerves, she finally gave into her nerves.

  They were not alone in these woods. Something was following them. It kept to the shadows. Hid itself well. She got to thinking: these trees were ancient, from a time predating humans. She thought of all the things that might have climbed them. The ground beneath her feet had once belonged to a different continent, before it broke away and traveled the globe. How many other legs had walked its surface?

  “You okay back there?” Mike said. Was that genuine concern in his voice? She couldn’t remember what her father’s voice sounded like. This was the closest thing to a paternal exchange she’d had in years. It almost warmed her.

  “Fine.” She wondered if the rest of the group heard the sounds as well. If so, they gave no indication.

  She walked for a few more minutes, telling herself there was nothing following the group, not believing a single word.

  The Robes had chosen the stage’s location for a reason. Gallows Hill was steeped in local history and when you took into account the legends surrounding Salem State Park, you had yourself a goldmine of folklore. Except folklore implied fiction and the sensation along her buzzing skin felt anything but fake. If you believed the lore, this place was swimming with restless spirits, Ethel, perhaps, among them.

  Her mind conjured creatures but her thoughts cut off when Mike hid behind a tree. He held a hand up high, signaled for them to keep back.

  “What is it?” Foster said. He’d switched to a pair of sport-proofed glasses, a string attached to either end to keep them in place should he need to run.

  “We’re close,” Mike said.

  “Finally.” Curtis sat down against a tree to catch his breath. From the sounds of it, he’d be waiting for a long time.

  There came a steady drone of infinite voices. The crowd.

  Mike cursed and she saw why as she took a few steps forward. They’d come at the concert from the wrong angle, steered off course along the way. The stage was to their left instead of dead center. They’d need to backtrack and she wasn’t sure if they had time.

  She walked up to his vantage point and lost her breath.

  It was the largest gathering she’d ever seen. Forget Woodstock. Forget Coachella. They’d cleared enough trees to fit hundreds of thousands. You couldn’t see a patch of grass or any ground. The concertgoers were packed so tightly they moved as a single organism. The lines wrapped around the corner and down the street. No end in sight.

  “It’s worse than I thought,” Mike said.

  She nodded. “They’re going to be pissed when we kill their queen.”

  They still hadn’t discussed the other part of the plan. The part that involved escaping. She didn’t broach the subject. Because part of her knew the answer already.

  There was no escape plan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SHARP ENOUGH

  ESMERALDA BROKE AWAY TO MAKE one more phone call.

  She’d been placed on crowd control, keeping track of incoming concertgoers. Gallows Hill was filled beyond capacity. It was hard to imagine it had ever been a field meant for quiet observation. Now it looked more like a gathering for the pope, thousands flocking to Salem to catch a glimpse of their savior.

  She made sure no one was watching, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed. The robe was tight against her body, the fabric thick and heavy
. It was a miracle she hadn’t fainted.

  Come on, she willed. Pick up.

  When Jeannie’s voice played through her ear, she could’ve cried. “Hello?”

  “Jeannie, it’s me. Listen, I should be leaving later tonight. I just have to take care of something first. There’s been . . . an emergency. A lot of strange stuff has been happening up here. Do me a favor, will you? Don’t listen to the radio until I get there.”

  “. . . you’ve reached Jeannie. I’m not here right now but please leave a message . . .”

  A long pause, followed by a beep.

  She sighed. “Hey, Jeannie. I . . .” Her mind scattered. The robe became a furnace and panic crept into the picture. She covered her eyes, stinging from sweat. Could she do this? Could she really do this? “I wanted to let you know I’ll be leaving soon. It’s a hell of a drive so I’ll probably have to stop somewhere to sleep. I can’t wait to see you. Talk soon.”

  She hung up. What if something had happened to her friend? What if this . . . epidemic went beyond Salem? She imagined good ol’ Jeannie, college roommate extraordinaire, as a group of glitter critters ripped her eyes out and ate them like candy.

  “Ms. Hopkins,” said a voice from behind. A voice that was undeniably Glenda.

  She spun around.

  “Is everything okay? I noticed you’d moved from your spot.”

  “Everything’s fine. Just needed some air.” She pointed to her hood. “I don’t know how you deal with these things. They must way ten pounds.”

  “Oh, you get used to them.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Not awkward exactly. She was too scared to feel awkward. Eventually, Esmeralda nodded toward the ocean of moving bodies. “It really is something, huh?”

  “Not as much as we’d hoped but the night is still young. Our Queen won’t let us down. Speaking of which”—she waved Esmeralda on—“Angie would like to see you before the show begins.”

  She faked a smile. This was what she’d wanted and feared most. She couldn’t stop this massacre if she didn’t get within arm’s length of Angie but part of her still wanted to make for the highway. “I haven’t finished my shift.”

  “You’ve been doing a great job,” Glenda said. “But Angie requests your presence.”

  Another false smile, this one so wide it hurt her cheeks. “Lead the way.”

  She followed Glenda through the crowd, almost losing sight of her several times. It was hard work pushing through the critters, even along the side barriers. Eventually the numbers dwindled to the occasional fan or two, hoping to sneak a peek without actually attending the show. Glenda and Esmeralda entered the woods, what was left of the fading sun vanishing behind fall foliage. The stage was a few minutes’ walk at least.

  “Did I ever tell you about the first time I met Angie?” Glenda said.

  She had several times but Esmeralda let the woman talk just the same.

  “I’d been managing Lady Gaga for a couple years. That woman is talented. I’ll give her that much. But after a while, it seemed like she didn’t know what she wanted to be. Is she country or pop or R & B? Then comes along this young girl, barely a senior in high school, singing her heart out on stage in front of judges. She belonged at the top of the charts from the start.”

  Esmeralda let her take the lead by a few feet. Even beneath her robe, Glenda’s ass worked the woods like a runway. A trained professional, always on for the cameras even when the cameras were off. It was a body to drool over, something Esmeralda could aspire to but never achieve. Glenda may have been past her prime in show business terms but she was still a knockout by everyday standards.

  “I was seeing this actor. Jay Schwartz. Well, he changed his name to Gardner but he was Schwartz to me. Beautiful boy. Nothing serious but he could fuck for hours on end, which a woman needs every now and then. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Do I ever.” She hadn’t been with a man in nearly twenty years, grew winded when she touched herself let alone another human being.

  “We’d just started making love when Angie came on the television and I didn’t know what came over me. I rode Jay like a bull and next thing I know, his face is blue and he’s begging me to let go of his throat but I didn’t—I couldn’t—until the song was over and by that time he was already gone. I slipped out of his place and took all my stuff. The papers said it was autoerotic asphyxiation. That’s when I knew. Angie’s voice—it’s not just a voice.”

  “You’re right about that.” Esmeralda looked around. Nothing but trees and bushes. No sign of any other Robes. She slipped the chef’s knife from her belt. The same one she’d threatened Glenda with back at her apartment. Still unsharpened. Still sharp enough.

  Glenda went on about her faithful queen and the next stage of human evolution and a million other things but Esmeralda stopped listening. With one shaky hand, she grabbed a fistful of Glenda’s bleach blond hair, and with the other, she slid the blade across her fake-tanned throat.

  The blood poured quickly and freely down the front of Glenda’s robe. She remained lucid for a moment, covering the wound and studying the streams of red as they cascaded from her throat. She did not scream, didn’t even fall at first.

  “I’m sorry,” Esmeralda said. And she was. Killing was not something that came natural. Her stomach heaved at the dying woman before her. But she didn’t have time to dwell. The stage was close and she’d need to get there before the show started.

  If Queen Angie wanted to see her, Queen Angie would get her wish.

  She hid the blade beneath her robe and walked toward the stage.

  From behind there came a loud thud as the world’s most popular talent manager fell to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE INTERVIEW FROM HELL

  MIKE MALLORY HELD AN INDEX finger to his mouth, told the group to stay quiet. Up ahead, standing beside a tree, was a Robe. Hood down, revealing a masculine face with stubble that bordered on a beard. He did not look their way. He smoked a cigarette, tipping the ash to the ground and watching as the wind took it away. Something told Shawna the man was not supposed to be this far from the show, slacking off before the house lights went on. It was heartening in a way, knowing even Angie’s most devoted fans still evaded work once in a while.

  “The hell’s he doing?” Curtis whispered as Mike made his way toward the man.

  “What do you think?” Foster looked at his feet and covered his ears.

  The Robe hocked a loogie onto the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  And gasped as Mike brought down the rock he’d picked up from the ground into the man’s skull. Two quick bashes did the job. The man did not scream on his way down, only gasped as his face hit the soil.

  “Come on.” Mike tossed the rock onto the man’s chest. He wiped his hands on his robe as if he’d just sliced some vegetables, made it look easy.

  The trees thinned enough to see the mass of people once again. Their collective voices were deafening. The video screens were closer and Shawna could see stock photos of Angie. Press pictures that had played on the news, at first, but they grew stranger after a while.

  First: a photo of her sister, smiling mischievously at the camera.

  Next: Angie holding what looked like a prop sword, a large boa constrictor around her neck.

  The topless photos from the Internet.

  Real-life versions of the paintings that had been erected at Salem High.

  Her sister wearing a blood-red bikini, standing in the middle of what looked like these very woods, standing in the middle of a mass of things.

  Shawna squinted, couldn’t make out finite details, but knew they were not human.

  Eventually the images faded, replaced with a video.

  The crowd cheered at the sight of Angie’s moving mouth, looking into the camera as someone off-screen asked her about her childhood. It sounded like Glenda.

  The documentary, Shawna realized.

  “I grew up in
Salem, Massachusetts in a middle-class family,” Angie said, voice echoing throughout Gallows Hill. Her eyes sparkled in the frame and her make-up was beyond professional. “My father left when my twin sister and I were very young. I don’t remember much about him. He was there one day, gone the next. No warning or anything.”

  No warning? Oh, there’d been plenty of warning. Their father had begged Kristen to get a job, to stop driving their family into debt. He had his reasons—plenty of them—and he’d given more than fair warning. It may not have justified his decision, but Shawna couldn’t say she blamed him.

  Angie answered a few more generic questions. What made her want to be a singer? How did she hone her talent (without a single mention of Ethel)? What did it feel like winning Harmony Club?

  Kristen Everstein was next up for the interviews. She smiled for the camera, pretended her life was grand and free of financial hardship and Shawna nearly believed her. The family photos set up in the background added to the façade. Normally they were kept in a box in the basement.

  “Ms. Everstein,” Glenda said from off-camera, “are you proud of your daughter?”

  Kristen nodded much too quickly. “Of course. It’s been delightful to watch her journey.” Delightful wasn’t in her mother’s vernacular. She ought to have gone into show business herself.

  “I can only imagine,” Glenda said. “When Angie first started singing, did you ever think she’d make it this far?”

  The frame skipped, a quick-jump edit. Perhaps Kristen had taken too long to answer. “I knew she’d do great things. I just didn’t know how great. She’s determined. Always has been. I can still remember hearing her voice while I made supper for the girls. It isn’t easy being a single mother. I tried my hardest and her voice, so soft, so soothing—it always made things better.”

  Shawna rolled her eyes. The only family meal she could remember was overcooked macaroni and cheese served from a cardboard box.

  A few more questions, a few more stock answers, and the interviewee switched. Shawna’s pulse quickened as her own face adorned the screen. It was strange seeing her features stretched to their maximum. The make-up team had done a bang-up job. Gone were her blemishes and acne scars, the oil that made her face reflective. But her pig nose remained. As did the hearing aids, sticking out of her hair no matter how hard she tried to hide them.