by Brian Keene
When it remained unmoving and utterly quiet, I let go of that held breath in a hostile rush of air and turned away. The silence was almost palpable, a weight on my shoulders, a thickness coating the insides of my nose and throat. I began drumming on the edge of the stage by my knee.
I hadn’t realized I was humming until a voice behind me joined in. For a few seconds, the voices were the only thing that existed in the gloom. Then I caught on and I shut up. My head snapped up and the stage lurched in my vision. My gut clenched. I turned slowly back to the creature in the cage.
The last note—the alien voice—trailed off. The creature tilted its head at me and slowly repeated the same bars from The Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” that I had just hummed. I scooted closer to the cage and softly, I sang that same segment with the lyrics. The space between its eyes crinkled as if it was thinking.
Then it sang the words back to me in perfect English and intonations . . . in my voice.
My mouth hung open.
“You understand me?” I asked shakily.
It looked at me a moment, its expression placid and, I assumed, uncomprehending, then turned away from me.
“Hey! Hey you,” I said a little louder. “How—how did you . . . do you understand? The song, do you know that song?” I supposed it was possible that the creature had heard it on some scientist’s radio—maybe the dead guy had been a fan back when he’d had a face—or maybe it had picked up the song through whatever sound transmissions had brought it to this dimension.
I tried another one, softly singing a few bars of Ozzy’s “Killer of Giants.” I wasn’t a terrifically great singer, but I wasn’t terrible, either. I could certainly carry a tune, especially if I knew it well, and the creature in the cage . . . well, it matched me note for note. Excited as I was, I forgot that singing out loud was forbidden by law and common sense, and as I sang Metallica’s “Sanitarium” to it and it sang back, I actually laughed out loud. It didn’t understand one goddamned spoken word I said, but it was communicating, alright. It could hear the sadness in ballads, the adrenaline and anger of thrash metal songs, the good-natured fun of party songs. I saw emotion reflected in those shining eyes; I saw sentience. I’d say I saw humanity there, but who’s to say that thoughts and feelings are the exclusive domain of human beings?
I think my struggling attempts on Eddie’s guitar were what woke up the guys. They came flying out of the back room as if I’d set in on fire.
“What the hell you doin’?” Joey asked.
“It talks!” I replied.
“What?” Eddie, still bleary-eyed, stumbled toward me, looked down at his guitar, and frowned.
“Well, it doesn’t talk, exactly, but it knows music. Listen.”
I gave up trying to play the guitar and sang a few bars of the band’s first hit, “Revolution.” The creature in the cage sang along with me, this time in Joey’s voice. Joey sank to his knees, his mouth hanging open.
“Ga-daaamn . . . it fucking sounds like me,” he whispered.
“Yeah, it can do that, imitate voices. I don’t know how it knows, but it does.”
“Does it understand the words?” Charlie asked. He was the band’s drummer didn’t talk much, but when he did, he usually came right to the point. “Can we talk to it, ask it to let us go?”
The guys all looked at me.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Joey threw his hands up angrily.
“I mean, I don’t fucking know. How would I? I only just found out it could sing like, ten minutes ago.”
Eddie took the guitar out of my hand and strummed it. “Hey, fucker, let us goooo-ooo-ooo,” he sang. “We don’t wanna starve in this place no mooo-ooo-ooo . . . .”
The thing tilted its head and regarded Eddie with what I think was a quizzical stare.
Then it began to sing to us.
My vision blurred until I couldn’t see more than the hazy, transfixed silhouettes of my brother and his band. I reached out to the nearest figure but my hand wavered in and out of the world. It didn’t hurt, and I wasn’t scared. On the contrary, my skin all over felt like a living thing, every part of it rippling across my body in vaguely pleasant little waves. Nothing mattered just then but the music of the creature in the cage. It filled the core of my being, lifting me up. It was orchestral, choral, a thousand voices across aeons of time and space coming together, tapping into the heartbeat and breathing of the universe, and my own heart and lungs joined in. It soothed every old hurt, dispelled every old fear, and opened up vistas in my mind’s eye of other worlds hurtling through alien space, of stars which were more than stars twinkling between moons named for alien gods. I had no form, no limitations; I was a traveler through the dreams and memories of a collective of otherworld souls, moving like the wind, like the voices, like my own universe and the universe of others . . .
***
Then I woke up.
I guess maybe I floated in and out of consciousness for a while, maybe unwilling to let go of the music. I remember snippets of visions which came to replace the gorgeous, impossible landscapes of the music. I remember blood—a lot of it—and partially dissolved limbs. I remember screaming, and disjointed lights, and rough hands. I remember the clinking of empty bottles.
Then darkness, all-encompassing.
Then the hospital, its stink of bleach and too bright lights, and the government men with all the questions.
They said I went crazy, locked away so long in that club. Eleven days, they said, with little water and no food . . . until I began eating the others. The booze, they told me, must have dulled my senses—my common sense or sense of humanity or decency, their looks said—enough to do what I’d done. They’d found my passed out in a fairy ring of empty booze bottles, pale and skinny and stinking of sweat and rotting meat.
I’d only eaten some of them, they told me. Their faces, their fingers, their bones, their vocal chords. I’d left a lot of meat behind, the impractical cannibal.
When I asked about the thing in the cage, they pretended not to know what I meant. They’d found nothing in the abandoned old club except me, the bottles, and the bodies. I described the thing. I described its cage and the dead scientist—that had been the only dead and rotting body, I swore it. They gave each other odd looks and scribbled in their notepads, but when I pressed the issue, they told me I had hallucinated it. Of course they did; the government wasn’t going to cop to anything so careless and dangerous as leaving one of their pets behind for an unsuspecting public to stumble on.
When I insisted that the thing had done all that killing, had dissolved the others with its voice, when I bolted up in the hospital bed and pulled against the wrist restraints and insisted that the creature had used music to drug and kill my brother and friends, they called a doctor. I screamed at them to find it, to find the creature in the cage so they could see and understand but really, I wanted the music. I needed it.
So, I sang instead. I tried to mimic what I remembered of the creature’s song, but it wasn’t the same, not even close. There was a pinch in my arm and my sight grew dim, but I kept singing. I sang in the darkness until I swallowed blood and before that darkness swallowed me, the silence swept my voice away.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ADAM CESARE is a New Yorker who lives in Philadelphia. His books include Mercy House, Video Night, The Summer Job, and Tribesmen. His work has been praised by Fangoria, Rue Morgue, Publishers Weekly, Bloody Disgusting, and more. His titles have appeared on “Year’s Best” lists from outlets like Complex and FearNet. He writes a monthly column for Cemetery Dance Online. He also has a YouTube review show called Project: Black T-Shirt where he discusses horror films and pairs them with reading suggestions. www.adamcesare.com
ALAN M. CLARK has produced illustrations for hundreds of books of fiction, some non-fiction, a few textbooks, and several young adult fiction and children’s books. His awards include the World Fantasy Award and fou
r Chesley Awards. He is the author of twelve novels and four collections. His Jack the Ripper Victims Series—thriller novels about the lives of the murderer’s victims—has now been completed with The Prostitute’s Price, the story of Mary Jane Kelly. The novel is scheduled for released by IFD Publishing in the second half of 2018. He comes from Nashville, Tennessee, was educated in San Francisco, California, and currently lives in Eugene, Oregon. www.alanmclark.com
BRIAN KEENE is the author of over forty books, mostly in the horror, crime, and dark fantasy genres. His 2003 novel, The Rising, is often credited (along with Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead comic and Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later film) with inspiring pop culture’s current interest in zombies. Keene’s novels have been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, Italian, French, Taiwanese, and many more. In addition to his own original work, Keene has written for media properties such as Doctor Who, The X-Files, Hellboy, Masters of the Universe, and Superman.
Several of Keene’s novels have been developed for film, including Ghoul, The Ties That Bind, and Fast Zombies Suck. Several more are in-development or under option.
Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as The New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publisher’s Weekly, Media Bistro, Fangoria Magazine, and Rue Morgue Magazine. He has won numerous awards and honors, including a World Horror Grand Master award, two Bram Stoker awards, and a recognition from Whiteman A.F.B. (home of the B-2 Stealth Bomber) for his outreach to U.S. troops serving both overseas and abroad. A prolific public speaker, Keene has delivered talks at conventions, college campuses, theaters, and inside Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, VA.
DOUG MURANO lives somewhere between Mount Rushmore and the mighty Missouri River. He is the Bram Stoker Award-winning editor of Behold! Oddities, Curiosities and Undefinable Wonders and the co-editor of Bram Stoker Award-nominated Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories. Doug is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association and was the organization’s promotions and social media coordinator from 2013-15. In 2014, he served on the World Horror Convention’s steering committee as its social media director. He is a recipient of the HWA’s Richard Laymon President’s Award for Service.
Follow him on Twitter: @doug_murano. Visit his official web presence: www.dougmurano.com.
BRYAN SMITH is the author of more than thirty horror and crime novels and novellas, including 68 Kill, the cult classic Depraved and its sequels, The Killing Kind, Slowly We Rot, The Freakshow, and many more. Bestselling horror author Brian Keene has called Slowly We Rot, “The best zombie novel I’ve ever read.” 68 Kill was adapted into a motion picture directed by Trent Haaga and starring Matthew Gray Gubler of the long-running CBS series Criminal Minds. 68 Kill won the Midnighters Award at the SXSW film festival in 2017 and was released to wide acclaim, including positive reviews in The New York Times and Bloody Disgusting, among others. Bryan has also co-scripted an original Harley Quinn story for the House of Horrors anthology from DC Comics.
Bryan’s first several novels were released in mass market paperback by Leisure Books. His more recent releases have come from his own imprint, Bitter Ale Press. Numerous new projects are forthcoming.
GLENN ROLFE is an author from the haunted woods of New England. He has studied Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University, and continues his education in the world of horror by devouring the novels of Stephen King, Ronald Malfi, Jack Ketchum, and many others. He and his wife, Meghan, have three children, Ruby, Ramona, and Axl. He is grateful to be loved despite his weirdness.
JEFF STRAND is the four-time Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of 40+ books, including Blister, A Bad Day For Voodoo, and Wolf Hunt. Cemetery Dance magazine said “No author working today comes close to Jeff Strand’s perfect mixture of comedy and terror.” He lives in Atlanta, Georgia.
JOHN SKIPP is a New York Times bestselling author, editor, film director, zombie godfather, compulsive collaborator, musical pornographer, black-humored optimist and all-around Renaissance mutant. His early novels from the 1980s and 90s pioneered the graphic, subversive, high-energy form known as splatterpunk. His anthology Book of the Dead was the beginning of modern post-Romero zombie literature. His work ranges from hardcore horror to whacked-out Bizarro to scathing social satire, all brought together with his trademark cinematic pace and intimate, unflinching, unmistakable voice. From young agitator to hilarious elder statesman, Skipp remains one of genre fiction’s most colorful characters.
JONATHAN JANZ is the author of more than a dozen novels and numerous short stories. His work has been championed by authors like Joe R. Lansdale, Brian Keene, and Jack Ketchum; he has also been lauded by Publishers Weekly, the Library Journal, and the School Library Journal. His novel Children of the Dark was chosen by Booklist as a Top Ten Horror Book of the Year. Jonathan’s main interests are his wonderful wife and his three amazing children. You can sign up for his newsletter, and you can follow him on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Amazon, and Goodreads.
Born and raised in Wisconsin, KELLI OWEN now lives in Destination, Pennsylvania. She’s attended countless writing conventions, participated on dozens of panels, and has spoken at the CIA Headquarters in Langley, VA regarding both her writing and the field in general. Her works include the novels Teeth, Floaters, and Six Days, novellas Waiting Out Winter, Wilted Lilies, and Forgotten, more of both and the collection Black Bubbles. Visit her website at kelliowen.com for more information.
MATT HAYWARD is a Bram Stoker Award-nominated author and musician from Ireland. His books include Brain Dead Blues, What Do Monsters Fear?, Practitioners (with Patrick Lacey), and the upcoming The Faithful. He curated the anthology Welcome to The Show, and is currently writing a novel with Bryan Smith. Matt wrote the comic book This Is How It Ends with the rock band Walking Papers, and received a nomination for Irish short story of the year from Penguin Books in 2017. His work has appeared in Clickers Forever, Tales from The Lake Vol. 3, Lost Highways, Dark Moon Digest and many more.
Hailed as “one of the best new voices in horror fiction” by Brian Keene, MATT SERAFINI’s books include Feral, Devil’s Row, Island Red, and Under the Blade, which FilmThrills called “one of the best slasher films you’ll ever read.”
He co-authored a collection of short stories with Adam Cesare called All-Night Terror and his short fiction has appeared in numerous anthology collections, including Dead Bait 4, and Clickers Forever: A Tribute to J.F. Gonzalez.
He has written extensively on the subjects of film and literature for numerous websites including Dread Central and Shock Till You Drop. His nonfiction has also appeared in the pages of Fangoria and HorrorHound.
Matt lives in Massachusetts with his wife and children.
MARY SANGIOVANNI is the author of the The Hollower trilogy (the first of which was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award), Thrall, Chaos, Chills, and the forthcoming Savage Woods, and the novellas For Emmy, Possessing Amy, The Fading Place, and No Songs For The Stars and the forthcoming A Quiet Place At World’s End, as well as the collections Under Cover Of Night, A Darkling Plain, Night Moves, the forthcoming A Weirdish Wild Space, and numerous short stories. She has been writing fiction for over a decade, has a Masters in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University, and is a member of The Authors Guild and Penn Writers.
MAX BOOTH III is the Editor-in-Chief of Perpetual Motion Machine, the Managing Editor of Dark Moon Digest, and the co-host of Castle Rock Radio, a Stephen King podcast. He’s the author of many novels and frequently contributes columns to both LitReactor and Gamut. Follow him on Twitter @GiveMeYourTeeth or visit him at www.TalesFromTheBooth.com. He lives in Texas.
PATRICK LACEY was born and raised in a haunted house. He lives in Massachusetts with his fiancee, his Pomeranian, his over-sized cat, and his muse, who is likely trying to kill him. Follow him on Twitter (@patlacey), find him on Facebook, or visit his website at https://patrickclacey.wordpress.com/
RACHEL AUTUMN DEERING is an Eisner a
nd Harvey Award-nominated writer, editor, and book designer from the hills of Appalachia. Her debut prose novella, Husk, was published in 2016 and drew praise from many critics and fellow writers. Her upcoming novel, Wytchwood Hollow, is set for publication in 2018. She has also written, edited, lettered, designed, and published comics and short prose for DC/Vertigo Comics, Blizzard Entertainment, Dark Horse Comics, IDW, Cartoon Network, and more. Deering is a rock ‘n’ roll witch with a heart of slime. She lives with a bunch of monster masks in rural Ohio.
ROBERT FORD fills his days handling marketing and branding projects. He has run his own ad agency, done a lot of freelance, baled a lot of hay, forked a lot of horse manure, and once had to deal with a very overripe iguana.
He has written the novels The Compound, and No Lipstick in Avalon, the novellas Ring of Fire, The Last Firefly of Summer, and Samson and Denial, and the short story collection The God Beneath my Garden. In addition, he has several screenplays floating around in the ether of Hollywood. He can confirm the grass actually is greener on the other side, but it’s only because of the bodies buried there.
SOMER CANON lives in Eastern PA with her husband, two sons, and five cats. Her preferred escape has always been reading and writing and horror has always been the hook that catches her attention best. Feel free to find her on social media and never fear, she’s only scary when she’s hungry!
THE END?
Not quite . . .
Dive into more Tales from the Darkest Depths:
Novels:
The Third Twin: A Dark Psychological Thriller by Darren Speegle
Aletheia: A Supernatural Thriller by J.S. Breukelaar
Beatrice Beecham’s Cryptic Crypt: A Supernatural Adventure/Mystery Novel by Dave Jeffery
Where the Dead Go to Die by Mark Allan Gunnells and Aaron Dries
Sarah Killian: Serial Killer (For Hire!) by Mark Sheldon
The Final Cut by Jasper Bark
Blackwater Val by William Gorman
