The Demon Senders

by T Patrick Phelps

  He knew a roving hatred was like watered down whiskey: It had the right ingredients to deliver a result but was rendered weak by the additional pour. He had to target his hatred or the object of his fear would return to help him boil things down a bit more.

  Henry? No. Henry was not a smart target for hatred. On the other side, Henry was certainly someone deserving of hatred but here, in the foggy, damp and strange realm, Henry was needed.

  His torturers? Phillip could not replace even an ounce of the fear he felt for them to smuggle in some hatred. And he had no proof the tearing and drowning pain he had endured for three “rounds,” as Henry called them, were delivered by anyone.

  Then on whom or where could he place his hatred?

  As he felt the damp air around him begin to cool and shift in unpredictable currents, Phillip understood his delay had cost him. There would be another round. Another burning. He felt no hands on his body but could feel an already too familiar pulling of his skin. As if whatever was outside of him needed to stretch skin to work its way inside where it (they?) called their work office. A thought raced through Phillip’s mind, offering the briefest of reprieve. “These sons of bitches are talented at their job. Better than I ever was at anything.”

  It was then he knew. As the fog grew to within a single degree away from being pure, drowning water and the pain began to erupt, Phillip’s hatred found its mark.

  The sound which was always in the background became the only sound he could hear. When he first woke on this side, the sound was nothing but a single instrument in a massive orchestra. It was unidentifiable and impossible to distinguish as being at all unique from the myriad of other sounds. But as he lay, his torturers pulling away and leaving their completed work alone, that one sound revealed itself.

  Phillip pulled himself up and stood on legs so weak he feared they would collapse and send him crashing to the unforgiving ground. Thankful for their hold, he rubbed his thighs and brushed off the decay and muck that had gathered on them. He then stood and listened to the screaming laughter. It was so distant and came from no specific direction. Its echoes gone, he understood there was not an orchestra of sounds but just this one. Laughter or something driven by a different emotion, Phillip was unsure. But whatever it was and whoever was causing it was all he could hear.

  He imagined the sound to be either the twisted laughter of a man whose mind had long since departed from sanity or the horrible screams of a soul too familiar with terrifying pain. He chose to believe the sound was laughter as believing it to be anything else was too horrific for Phillip to consider.

  He risked movement and found that his strength had fully returned, allowing him to step as quickly and as confidently as he had on the other side. And though most steps ended with the pain of a foot banging against a rock or finding their landing covered with broken pieces from long since dead thorny branches, Phillip moved towards a somehow known destination.

  He slowed his pace, not to reward himself a less painful trek but only to reserve his strength. It would be needed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It took me a few days before things started to make sense. I tried to forget about the old man, the feather and it’s magical ways of relocating itself. Things were going well for me and I wanted to get back to doing what I could to keep my streak of good luck chugging along. I chalked the whole incident up to either a freakish reality or a drug induced hallucination. Not that I ever had problems at Shorty’s, but I figured it was just as reasonable to believe some asshole slipped something into my beer as it was to believe that what happened, really had happened.

  By the middle of the week, I forced myself to burn the feather, bury the ashes and to get on getting on. As soon as the feather was gone, I started hitting local bars and taverns, looking for paying gigs. My success at Shorty’s gave me a whole lot of inspiration and me worrying about some strange old man —who probably wasn’t even real—was nothing more than me wasting that inspiration.

  But the feather was real. I couldn’t deny or explain that away too easily. It was real when I saw it sitting on the seat in my van next to me and it was real when I put a flame to it. I figured if I was drugged at Shorty’s, I could have forgotten having picked up the feather someplace and, again in a drug induced stupor, convinced myself I had left it in the van and didn’t carry it with me into my apartment that night. Hell, I figured I saw the feather on the ground, thought Al would love to play with the damn thing, and brought it home to him as a present.

  I was feeling pretty good about my explanation until I got to the fourth bar during my gig finding tour.

  During the day, most bars are either filled up with lunch crowds, sales people avoiding making business calls, or are pretty much empty. That’s how things were at the first three bars I stopped in that day: Empty except for a few old men working hard at doing nothing but chasing a buzz.

  When I walked into the fourth bar, things looked pretty much the same: A few people scattered around the bar, sitting as far away from one another as possible, their eyes lovingly caressing the glass of pain-reducing liquid in front of them. I walked up to the barkeep, extended my hand and went right into my well rehearsed pitch.

  “Trevor Mac, local musician. I’ve played at a few area bars and want to drop off my demo CD for you to take a listen to. I know you have live music here a few days a week, and would like to talk with the owner about setting up a gig.”

  “I’m the owner,” the barkeep said, his face glued to my business card. The fact he didn’t look up gave me pause. The card I handed him was one I designed and printed myself. There wasn’t anything special about it, except it was my card. I guess that made it special to me. “What kind of music do you play and how much you looking to get for a gig?”

  I was stoked. Most of the time, a bar owner would take my demo CD and my card, tell me they’d take a listen and call me if they liked what they heard. But this guy, this owner, was already asking about my fees.

  “Depends on how many hours you need me to play,” I said.

  “I never said I need you to play. Just asked what kind of music you played and how much you charge to play it.”

  “I like to get four hundred dollars for four hours of playing. As for my type of music, I like to call it American nostalgia.” I know I didn’t come up with that term but, damn, I liked it. Kind of got people thinking, and people thinking about what kind of music American nostalgia was meant they’d either pay me to play or come out and listen to me play.

  “I have no idea what the hell American nostalgia is and I won’t pay more than two hundred dollars for someone I never heard of. So tell me again; what kind of music do you play?” The owner finally lifted his gaze and met my eyes with an intensity I wasn’t expecting.

  “Anything from country to modern pop. I throw in a few of my originals as well. They seem to go over pretty well.”

  “You have your own equipment or do you need to rent mine?” the owner said, the intensity never wavering.

  “I have my own gear. I do all the set up and break down myself. I’ll get here an hour early and won’t leave till an hour after my final set.”

  “Suppose you expect me to feed you and keep you hydrated as well?”

  “That would be nice but if it’s an issue…”

  “You bringing the feather along with you, Mac?” a voice mumbled from the darkest corner of the bar. “That feather is a good luck charm, I imagine. Will keep you light as . . . as light as a feather, I suppose.”

  The owner glanced over towards the patron, then back to me. “Friend of yours?”

  I blew my chance at landing the gig right then and there. I ignored the owner and walked slowly towards the man who asked me about the feather that no one could have possibly known about. I half expected to come face to face with the old man I nearly killed a few days earlier coming back from Shorty’s. But it wasn’t him and this man wasn’t old.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, my voice kept low and stern.<
br />
  “Doesn’t matter who I am, Trevor. Let’s just agree to leave each other alone. You go about your business and I’ll go about mine. But this is my hang out, not yours. Don’t go peddling your bullshit around here.”

  “How do you know about the feather? That old weirdo I picked up on the side of the road the other day a friend of yours?”

  “Still haven’t figured things out yet, huh Trevor?” the man said. “No, he ain’t no friend of mine and he sure ain’t no friend of yours.” Though the man was sitting in the darkest part of the bar, it was still light enough that I should have been able to get a clear view of his face. I could tell he was young, no more than thirty, but there seemed to be almost a haze that clouded his features. Almost like it would be impossible to give a description of him.

  He had dark hair that seemed well kept but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you if is eyes were blue or polka dot. “Why don’t you enlighten me about what I haven’t figured out yet, then I’ll go about my business and let you go about yours?”

  The man smiled (I think), picked up his beer, toasted me with a head nod, then proceeded to drain the beer into his gut. He stood up, put his hand on me and said, “I don’t work with fucks like you. Go ahead and keep playing your pathetic American nostalgia crap music and leave me to my work. You’ll figure it out soon enough and then we’ll have more time to get to know each other.” I tried to jerk away from him but his grip was ridiculously strong. “I’ll bring you down just like I brought the others down, you pathetic fuck. That’s a promise I intend to keep.”

  Hazy Face got up real close to me, his breath steaming against my eyes.

  He let go of his grip then banged his shoulder into mine as he headed towards the door. I didn’t want to give the impression I couldn’t handle myself in a skirmish, but him knocking into me set me spinning around, losing my balance and crashing into the bar. If I remember correctly, I had a bruise across my lower back that lasted well over a week.

  I’m not what most would call an imposing figure. I stand around five-foot eight and can’t remember the scale ever exceeding a hundred and fifty pounds. In my earlier days, I took exception to the names other kids would call me. Small fry was the one that pissed me off the most. Don’t get the idea that I liked to fight or I was self conscious about my diminutive size. It’s just some people who feel the need to make themselves feel better by putting other people down need their asses kicked.

  And kicked hard.

  If I were to estimate, I’d say I got into around fifteen scrapes during my life and probably lost fourteen of them. My dad used to tell me getting my butt kicked wouldn’t hurt as much as would having my pride squashed if I let bullies and assholes walk all over me. This hazy-faced a-hole had six-inches and fifty pounds on me, but I wasn’t about to let him knock me around the bar without at least some comeback from my end.

  “Asshole,” I mumbled after I was sure he was far enough away to not hear. But of course he heard me. He stopped halfway through the exit door. He turned towards me, his back holding the door open, and pointed towards the other end of the bar. “I believe your partner wants to catch you up to speed, Mr. Nostalgia.” He grinned, spun around and left.

  Now, I’ve played gigs with some other musicians before, but never enough times with any one of them to say I had a partner. The closest person I’d say I was a partner with was this other musician named Tom. I’ve already told you about my stature so when I tell you the name we were planning on gigging under was “Big and Mac,” you may be able to guess that Tom was a pretty big dude. Hadn’t seen the big part of our act in quite some time. Kind of wished Tom was around to help me teach Hazy Face a lesson. And while I did okay with the ladies, I sure wasn’t in the position of saying I had a partner when it came to the relationship world. But that hazy-faced dude was pretty clear when he said my partner wanted to fill me in, so I turned away from the door (after standing back upright and straightening the three bar stools I knocked over) and looked towards where Hazy Face had pointed.

  She was sitting clear across the other side of the bar, not looking up at me but just sitting there shaking her head slowly back and forth.

  “I think I’ll pass on the gig thing,” the bar owner said, calling me out of my daze. “Take your CD back. I’m not in the mood for American nostalgia.”

  “Missed that gig,” I thought to myself, surprised I even cared.

  I walked over to the woman Hazy Face called my partner. It was a little weird walking the length of the bar. Like I said, there weren’t a lot of people sitting and drinking but not one of them even acknowledged me or the fact I was just sent spinning and crashing into the bar by a dude whose face was as clear as two hundred-year-old glass.

  “You know that asshole?” I asked the owner, who was standing behind the bar, braced by both arms, his sights fixed on me.

  “Nope,” he said. “And ain’t interested in getting to know him. I’ve seen him a few times before but as long as he pays his tab, I don’t give a shit who he is.”

  When I got within ten feet of the woman Hazy Face suggested to be my partner, she stood up, dropped a hand full of cash onto the bar and headed out towards the rear exit.

  I guessed I was supposed to follow her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “You gonna slow down so I can at least talk with you?” I said when I got outside. Weird thing about walking out of a bar in the middle of the day: Doesn’t matter if you had no drinks or twenty, the sun always seems to be three times brighter.

  “We shouldn’t talk here,” she said, not turning back to face me. “Either hop in my car or follow me. I know where we can go.”

  Though I did a pretty good job of denying the whole “weird old guy in my Astro van” event, I wasn’t comfortable getting into her car. Didn’t want another ride with anyone connected to the whole twisted scene. “I’ll follow in my van,” I called back to her. I intended to sound authoritative but the squeaky voice that eventually carried my intention revealed my fear more than my feigned strength. “White van, parked in front.”

  “I know what you drive, Mac. I’ll pull around front.”

  I followed her black Honda Civic for at least forty-five minutes before she pulled into an apartment complex. As we weaved our way through the mostly empty parking lot, I saw her extend an arm out through her window as she pointed towards a sign that read “Visitor Parking Only: All Others Will Be Towed at Owner’s Expense.”

  “Guess she wants me to park here,” I said to myself.

  Whoever she was, she wasn’t much for waiting. By the time I shut down the Astro and hopped out of the van, she was already approaching the front door of apartment building six. I thought if I hurried my pace it would make her think she was in charge of this whole rendezvous, so I took my time, making double sure my van was locked up tight.

  I remember thinking I had absolutely no idea who this woman was, why the heck I followed her out of the bar and why in the world I was about to walk into, what I assumed to be, her apartment. With all those doubts and questions running through my mind, my legs seemed to slow down even more, like my worry was weighing them down.

  “Any day now,” she said. “You’ve been spotted twice already. It’s not a smart idea to be so casual about your exposure.”

  I picked up my pace.

  We walked up two flights of stairs without a word being said between us. She just kept on walking down a short hallway and I just kept on following. I did have the presence of mind to notice her body as I followed her down the hall, and damn, it was worth the notice. Her blondish hair almost glimmered though the hallway lighting was poor at best and she had one of the best sets of legs I’ve seen in a long while. And those legs climbed up and made a terrific ass out of themselves. My partner was hot!

  She stopped in front of an apartment door, unlocked it and held it open for me. Since I was already in the “checking her out” stage, I took a moment to compare her front side to her back. “Coming or going,” I th
ought to myself as I made my way past her and into the apartment.

  “Not going to happen,” she said as I walked past her, “so get the idea of an afternoon delight out of your mind. We’re here to work, not to fool around.”

  “Wasn’t thinking about anything like that,” I lied. Funny thing about me, though I did okay with the ladies (at least in my estimation), I was always looking for another chance. Guess that makes me like ninety-nine percent of every other guy in the world.

  “What do you drink?” she asked.

  “Orange juice, if you have any,” I replied.

  “This isn’t a conversation you want to have over juice. I’ll give you orange juice but it won’t be all alone in the glass.”

  “Vodka and some ice,” I said. “So, you know that guy back at the bar?”

  “You mean the guy that brushed you and sent you flying into the bar stools? No, not by name, at least. But I do know what he is and what his job is.” She gently placed a pint sized glass of diluted orange juice on the coffee table in front of her couch. “Sit down, please. We have a lot to cover.”

  “You know my name but I don’t know yours,” I said as I sat.

  “Rachel,” she said before drawing deeply on the screwdriver she’d made for herself. “Sorry about this whole thing, Trevor, but you’re a sender and I need to make sure you don’t get yourself killed before you even start your work.”

  “I’m a what?” I asked, still admiring her body and face and still wishing my attraction towards her would leave me alone. “A sender? What the hell is a ‘sender?’ Shit, I’m a musician and a part-time substitute teacher.”