Brimstone Dreams: A Horror Anthology

by Merz, Jon F. ; McKinney, Joe; Wood, Simon; Kenyon, Nate; Alexander, Maria; Shipp, Jeremy C. ; Burke, Kealan Patrick; Nicholson, Scott; Morton, Lisa; Nassise, Joseph

  Laura shook her head. "Soon after that a rich French merchant named Livron took him in. Livron bought him a new violin. The Guarnerius you see on display in Genoa today."

  "Wait a minute." Danielle sat back in her chair. "You mean there was another one?"

  "That's right. The real Paganini violin. The one that taught him how to play."

  Danielle smiled. The lights pulsed and played about her features like a living bruise. "You've been working too hard, babe. Violins don't teach people."

  "That's not the end of the story. The violin was bought from the pawnshop by a man named Hines. Hines unfortunately died young. Still, he made a name for himself before his death, in local circles. A brilliant musician, apparently. From there is was passed along to his daughter, who married a man named Giovannetti-"

  "The Giovannetti?" Danielle's eyes had gone wide.

  "Not the one you're thinking of, though it's the same family. The famous one, Roberto Giovannetti, was the great grandson of the woman who inherited that violin from Himes. She herself was a talented violinist, and she taught her own son, who passed it down, and so on-"

  "So Roberto Giovannetti played on the same instrument as Paganini?"

  "Before he disappeared three years ago, yes. A while after that his own grandson went through his things, and, not knowing what he'd found, pawned the violin to a shop in New York City for a few measly bucks." Laura leaned back and smiled. "And now I have it."

  "You can't be serious." The look on Danielle's face had progressed from skeptical to incredulous. "First of all that's crazy. Too much of a coincidence, two brilliant musicians separated by centuries using the same instrument without even knowing it. And anyway, there's never been anything but junk in those second-hand shops in Soho. You expect me to believe a violin worth hundreds of thousands of dollars-"

  "But don't you see?" Laura asked, he voice rising a bit in spite of her struggle to remain calm. "It wasn't just two brilliant musicians. Every single one of them who ever touched that violin, man, woman or child, had the gift. Or had it handed to them."

  The music suddenly stopped and all activity around them paused while the DJ spun another album. The waiter hustled up to their table, balancing a tray on his palm, picked up their drinks (Laura's beer still almost half full and warm a tap water) and slipped away again into the crowd spilling off the dance floor. Through all this Danielle stared at her friend across the table. "You actually expect me to believe," she said finally, and this time the smile was gone completely, this time she actually looked a little pissed, "that this piece of wood has…magical powers? A way of creating genius?"

  "I don't know," Laura said, unsure again after hearing it put that way. Out in the open for the first time. She remembered all her thoughts during the past few months, curiosity in the beginning, that growing into amazement as her research progressed, her own disbelief and then wonder and finally utter conviction. The violin was real, it was out there and she would find it. And she had. Was she crazy, after all?

  "I want to see it," Danielle said.

  "No." The word came immediately to her lips before she had a chance to think about it. "That's not possible."

  "Then I don't believe you. You're bullshitting me."

  "I am not." But Laura wondered what had made her tell in the first place. If she wouldn't show anyone, even Danielle, who she considered her only real friend in the whole city, what was the point? Through all this she had been alone, unable to share each moment of frustration and triumph as they occurred, afraid her discovery would be stolen from her before she even had a chance to see it Now that she owned the violin, with a receipt to prove it, what was she waiting for?

  "Come on. If you really have it then let's see. Put up or shut up, girl." Danielle grinned again, and this time Laura could see that there would be no backing down. Things had progressed too far.

  "Okay," she said. "But you have to promise not to tell anyone about this. Promise."

  "Tell anyone about what?" Still grinning.

  "Just wait," Laura said. "You'll see."

  It was raining as they left the bar. Neither of them had brought umbrellas, and it wouldn't have helped them much if they had; great gusts of humid wind blew spray in their faces, flipping wet papers across the shiny black pavement. The streets were jammed with slow-moving cars, their headlights stabbing through the rain, honking and swearing drivers hunched behind steering wheels. The whole city smelled like wet dog.

  Laura's apartment was only two blocks away, but by the time they reached it both girls were thoroughly soaked. Neither spoke on the way up in the elevator, the only sound the drip, drip of water from their clothes and hair hitting the floor. Laura had become increasingly nervous since they had left the bar, and now wished desperately that she had never called Danielle in the first place. The story was crazy enough; and what would she think of the rest of it, the stranger things she had come to believe in the course of her research?

  Then a worse thought sprang into her head. Suddenly she knew that when she opened the door to her apartment the violin would be gone. The couch would be empty, nothing but lint balls and dust gracing the red-wine cushions, and she would have to face the fact that she was crazy, after all.

  But when she opened the door and switched on the lights the violin was there. She could see its reflection in the big windows, streaked by rain, its shape seeming to ripple and bulge as the wind rattled the glass. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Well," Danielle said, slicking her wet hair back into a ponytail and securing it with a rubber band. "Let me see this miracle, will you? It's getting late and I shouldn't stay long. Billy will worry."

  Billy, Laura thought as she closed the door and locked it. She pictured a young, bronzed creature with sculpted pecks and washboard stomach, and jealousy washed through her like a bitter wave. She had never had the chance at a man like that, while Danielle seemed to attract them at will. She crossed the room to the couch, wishing again that she had never brought her friend here. But when she picked up the violin all those ugly thoughts disappeared. Under her flesh the soft wood seemed to hum at a pitch too high for human ears. She felt a gently tug begin somewhere below her breasts, an urge to cradle it in her arms like a baby. Who had crafter these strange curves? Does it matter?

  "Ugh," Danielle said, coming forward with her nose wrinkled as if she had just smelled something rotten. "It's dirty."

  "Nothing a little lemon oil won't fix."

  "Strange shape, isn't it? Something about the neck. And what kind of wood is that?" She reached out a hand and Laura jerked the violin out of reach.

  "Don't."

  "Hey, relax. I won't tough your precious instrument. Though I have to say I don't see it, I really don't. It doesn't look anything like a Guarnerius-"

  "It's not a Guarnerius. Haven't you listened to anything I've told you?"

  "It's just a crazy story. Come on, seriously."

  "I wouldn't expect someone like you to get it," Laura said. The blood had risen to her cheeks. Her heart was pounding and she gripped the violin tightly against her chest. Rainwater trickled from her hair down her face. "You don't even care about music. You're just happy lying around all day letting Billy screw you."

  Danielle turned back to her and her eyes glittered like cut stones. "I think I'd better leave."

  "Go ahead then. There's the door."

  "You're nuts, you know that?" Danielle said. "Honestly." When Laura did not respond she spun on her heels and left, slamming the door behind her.

  Laura collapsed on the couch, struggling with tears. Why she had gotten so angry was a mystery; after all, she was the one who had called Danielle in the first place. It was a stupid idea anyway, telling someone that story and expecting them to understand. It does sound crazy.

  Except it was true. All of it.

  She touched the violin and brought it to her cheek. The wood was warm as flesh. Outside the big bay windows lightning flashed, and a crash of thunder rolled past the bui
lding like the distant sound of drums. She had hidden from those storms as a child, cowering under the covers of her bed. How silly it seemed now to be frightened of a storm.

  Go ahead. Play it.

  She got up and went to find her spare string and lemon oil, and when she returned she began to polish the wood slowly, gently, washing away the dust and the old caked resin and human fingerprints, watching as the varnish began to shine under the lights. It was a strange wood. Danielle had been right about that, anyway. Soft in appearance like pine but a different color and pattern. And a strange shape, not like the old Italian designs at all, too long and thick in the neck and bulky around the base, belly rounded as if each rib and panel hadn't been glued together but rather had grown up out of each other like some sort of polished, sculpted tree. She wondered again where it had come from, what kind of man had built a thing like this.

  So beautiful, she thought, no matter if it is different. Or, rather, because it is.

  She wound the new string into place, tightened it and then admired her work. Danielle would hardly recognize it now. The violin sparkled. No, blazed was a better word, its varnish perfectly intact after all these years, not a crack or dull spot. A yellow-orange tint to it, like hundreds of tiny flames licking over its surface.

  A little voice spoke up from the depths of her brain. What about the other things? What about all the tragedies, the disappearances…

  And the way she had begun to suspect lately that Giovanetti's grandson had known exactly what he was doing when he pawned the violin to that store in Soho. That he had wanted to get rid of it.

  Ridiculous. But how else to explain such a valuable instrument sitting untouched on a dusty shelf for two years?

  Talent, it seemed to whisper. What you've always wanted. Right here. She let her finger run across the wooden surface. Traced the path of the grain, down across the belly and over the base, searching for the empty space within. Violins are like people, she thought, like women with their empty wombs, waiting for something to fill them up.

  She began with a simple piece, a Haydn sonata, letting herself become familiar with the finger board and the way the instrument melded to her body. The sound that came from within the violin was like nothing she had ever heard in her life, at once full and strong, and yet blessed with the most delicate pitch. The strings responded to her rosined bow with a firmness that at first surprised and then delighted her; never in her life had she played such an instrument! It was as if the violin could anticipate her every move. Nothing she had ever owned none of the practice instruments at the school had ever felt like this. She always knew, even after hours of playing when the blisters came and her neck began to ache, that she was holding a piece of dead wood in her hands and not an extension of herself.

  She tried a more difficult piece, a Mendelsson concerto that until now had eluded her. The opening faltered for a moment before she began to find the rhythm again and the violin responded, the music like a swelling wave. Give and take, an exchange as intimate as any other. The leather rest felt like soft lips against her throat, nuzzling her skin. She watched her reflection in the windows as if she were a spectator at a concert, her fingers growing a mind of their own, flying over the board at an ever-increasing pace as the concerto took flight and soared about the room, filling the high spaces and echoing back to her ears. Laughter welled up and spilled from her throat; this music, this beautiful music was coming from her, Laura Barnes! She closed her eyes against tears and felt her wet hair swinging in her face and the sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades, imagining herself on the stage of a gigantic hall filled with silent faces, spotlight hot on the back of her neck, the air alive around her as the violin melted into her flesh, obeying her every command, becoming one, beating with her blood. She sobbed with happiness as her mind lost itself among the lilting notes, and suddenly she was on stage, the packed house hanging on her every move, the air vibrating with the beauty of her music.

  She played on, losing herself as the violin worked its magic. Time passed, how long she didn't know. Gradually she began to realize that something had changed. The music was no longer familiar to her; it was a moment before she recognized it. She was playing a Paganini concerto.

  Or rather, it was playing her.

  The music had grown louder, fuller, as if an orchestra were accompanying her somewhere out of sight. Her hand had begun to ache. She felt as if something were being drawn from her, like the feeling of giving blood. Alarmed now, she opened her eyes.

  The impossible sight that greeted her in the window as she raised her gaze to her reflection made her cry out. Impossible, and yet there it was; and this was not what she'd expected, though she had expected something, hadn't she?

  The violin had swelled like a tick against her throat, its round belly becoming ever rounder, hard edges beginning to soften. She could no longer tell where the wood ended and her flesh began. And her hand, her hand was melting into the bow, the tips of her fingers running like taffy in the sun, white bone showing through strings of reddish, liquid skin. The wood was absorbing her, the two forms meeting and swirling and blending together.

  Who had made this thing?

  Terror overwhelmed her as the temperature rose in the studio apartment. Flames of a distant fire licked about her feet. Still she kept playing, helpless to stop now, muscles moving of their own accord. She tried to scream and found that something had happened to her vocal cords. Wait, she thought, you were supposed to teach me, you were supposed to make me a star.

  And yet she knew. A talent like this was only on loan, and she had known all along what the price would be, hadn't she? She was no equal for such a thing as this. How could she expect to match its strength when even the great Paganini had only played it to a draw?

  Her fingers had disappeared up to the third knuckle. The pain was sharper now, like a series of needles digging under her nails, except her nails were gone, they were…

  Laura tried to scream again and managed only a weak bubbling noise. Her hand had completely melted, the flesh of her forearm becoming part of the bow, still running over the strings as the cords were pulled from her neck. She strained and tried to tear herself away, muscles standing out in her shoulders, oh God the pain, it was too much and still it kept eating at her.

  Her vision filled with red. She felt something snap in her neck as her head bent back and touched her shoulder blades. She realized too late that there was something else she hadn't counted on.

  The violin was hungry.

  *** ***

  Danielle Aniston let herself into the dim apartment with Laura's spare key. The rain was coming harder now, wind rocking the old brick building, moaning around the windows like something big and mean trying to get in. Water dripped from a dark spot near the ceiling and pattered softly against the worn wooden floor.

  She didn't know quite why she had come back. She was angry at Laura, true, and wanted to get back at her for that crack about only caring about getting laid all the time. That wasn't the case at all. Danielle worked as hard as anybody and wanted to be the best, it was just that she was more of a realist. The number of people who actually made it big playing the violin…well, it was like winning the lottery. And of course you had to have the talent. You had to have the gift.

  But that violin had disturbed her tonight more than she had let on. She hadn't wanted Laura to see the way she felt, the way she wanted to touch it so badly her hands shook. So beautiful, but so strange. Even covered with dust, she could see it was something special. Those stories Laura had told, they were silly of course, but what if…

  It was warm in here. Laura must have turned the heat all the way up. She tiptoed into the living room, but when she saw that the bed against the wall was empty, she relaxed. Laura wasn't home.

  The violin was still sitting on the sofa facing the windows. It looked different somehow, full. Laura had given it a thorough cleaning, the much was obvious. The pattern of rain-streaked glass played about its rounde
d surface, making it appear almost like it was breathing.

  She stepped closer, fascinated. Lifted the instrument to her throat and settled her chin on the soft leather rest. It seemed to hum against her flesh, nuzzling her like a child at his mother's breast. She raised the bow, placed it gently against the strings, and closed her eyes.

  A single deep, thrumming note leaped from the belly of the violin before a string let go with a loud ping! Disappointed, she put it back on the couch and stood looking at it. Of course it was nothing but a fake, a cheap imitation that had fooled Laura.

  And yet. That one note had sent a chill along her spine.

  She picked it up again and traced a finger along its warm, smooth surface. She would replace the strings, replace all of them. She would clean every inch of its surface once again and make it shine. And then we will see.

  For a moment, somewhere deep within, she thought she felt a heartbeat.

  Nate Kenyon

  Nate Kenyon is the award-winning author of Bloodstone, The Reach, The Bone Factory, Sparrow Rock, and Prime, as well as dozens of short stories. His novel StarCraft Ghost: Spectres, based upon the bestselling videogame franchise from Blizzard Entertainment, will be released in September 2011 from Pocket Books. Kenyon is a three-time Stoker Award Finalist, and two of his novels have been optioned for film. He is currently working on a new novel based on Blizzard's Diablo videogame franchise. Visit him online at www.natekenyon.com

  Traffic School

  by Simon Wood

  You mill around in the parking lot with a bunch of other people waiting for traffic school to begin. This is your fifth class in as many years. This one court ordered. You check your watch again. The class should have started two minutes ago. You just want this over and done with.

  Finally, the doors open and a nightclub bouncer type calls everyone in. You file in with your fellow classmates. Neat rows of student desks and chairs fill the classroom and each desk is numbered. The instructor stands in front of a white board. He's a gaunt, stretched-looking man, completely unlike the muscle-bound apes he has helping him. To the instructor's right, there's an eight-foot high, vertically mounted roulette wheel, except it's numbered from one to a hundred opposed to zero to thirty-six. This is the queerest traffic school you've attended. You can't ignore the gooseflesh spreading over your body.