Lyrical Darkness: 11 dark fiction stories inspired by the music that rocks your soul

by Terri Reid

  “One,” Johnny said, taking another step up.

  The stranger opened the case.

  “Two.” Johnny took a second step up, almost putting him on eye level with the trespasser.

  The stranger turned the case toward Johnny, tilted it so the musician could see the contents full on.

  Instinctively, Johnny looked. His mind went blank; his fists uncurled. In the midst of black crushed velvet lay a golden fiddle. He glanced at the man then back to the fiddle where his gaze locked. A moment or two passed before his mind started functioning again then he managed, “My fiddle.” He bent forward a bit to be sure. “My golden fiddle.”

  “Your fiddle, Johnny-boy?” the Devil asked slyly then shoved the case and its valuable contents off his knees to the side. The case slid a few inches on the slick concrete then stalled near the iron railing. Johnny’s eyes followed its short journey and the Devil watched Johnny. Then, the Devil glanced at the discarded prize and asked, “The fiddle you sold for…?” He spread his hands, shrugged his shoulders. Of course he knew the answer but intentionally left the question hanging to give Johnny a chance to think about his past decision and what it had and hadn’t gotten him. After all, the Devil never wanted it said that he hadn’t been fair.

  “Nonea yo’ damn business is what I sold it for,” Johnny answered indignantly. His face again assumed frightening aspects, not unlike his father’s right before serving up a beating. “Where’d you get it?”

  The Devil shook his head again, let his head hang for a second before raising it and smiling all gator-like again. “Is that the question you should be asking, Johnny?”

  “You gonna quit saying my name like you know me and answer my damn question. Or, I’ma beat yo’ ass.”

  The Devil’s eyes flickered for a moment, then turned solid black—a deep, soulless black. He slowly rose to a height equal to Johnny’s, which was no slouch of a height. That height plus standing on the top step put Johnny’s head eye level to his chest, forcing Johnny to look up to him. His voice was frigid when he declared, “Still got that giant ego, don’t you, boy? That blinding pride?”

  Johnny never met a challenge he couldn’t rise to, never met a fight he didn’t like and in this moment, he felt more than capable of handling both. He stepped up, still on unequal footing with the stranger but that didn’t matter to Johnny. He could take him. His father had taught him well. He took another step. Two more steps would make them equal but Johnny didn’t plan to let it get that far. He met the stranger’s stare dead on and balled his hands into fists. Just then, something in the stranger’s eyes prompted a memory; one tucked layers deep, which began struggling to the surface of Johnny’s mind. That confused Johnny, making him think he ought to quit his anger and give the memory time to come into being. But Johnny wasn’t weak enough to let the unknown trip him up. He held fast to his anger and decided he’d given the stranger enough warning. Figuring a left punch to the kidney ought to be enough to let the stranger know he was through playing, Johnny tensed his body, preparing to swing…

  But the Devil in a deadpan voice said, “What you should be asking is what songs you should play on the number one rated morning talk show. You should be asking where’s the list of questions the reporter with Billboard is going to ask you. And of course…” The Devil leaned forward, his black eyes boring through Johnny, “…you should ask what’s my price for giving you your dreams.”

  Johnny stared, wide-eyed at the man with a host of questions weighing him down: Who is he? Have I met him before? How does he know my dreams? Did Chuck contact him? Where did he get my fiddle?

  “Exclusive gigs,” the Devil continued over the racket going on in Johnny’s head, “Crossover record deals. Cameo appearances in film and TV. A-list status.” He paused now to smile, a smile so big that Johnny saw in the midst of a crowd of perfect white teeth, one gold tooth. It sparkled as brightly as the golden fiddle lying near the stranger’s feet.

  That spark of gold caused Johnny to shift his gaze to the golden fiddle. It laid there, raising even more questions and confusion just by its presence and forcing Johnny to look back up at the man. He studied the stranger’s face, taking time now to see if he recognized him as family, friend or foe. He didn’t, but somehow that study prompted that memory. A memory that was still trying to surface, wanting to tell him something but was yet too far out of reach to be clear or helpful. The only memory Johnny could lay hold to was the one from earlier. That day at the stump where he’d won that fiddle of gold, where he’d gotten his start and his proof. But this man wasn’t the man he’d won the fiddle from. He had never seen that man again even though he’d looked for him in all the many circuits and venues he’d played. What had happened to that man? Johnny had often wondered. He’d been one hell of a fiddler. Just not as good as Johnny.

  As he always did when confused, fed up, tired or feeling like he was being played, Johnny resorted to type; his type—anger. Johnny tensed his body, furled his fists, warned one final time, “I don’t know…”

  “Name’s Abraham,” the Devil interrupted. He stepped down off his roost, putting him closer to Johnny. He held out a hand. “I’m your new manager.”

  Johnny ignored the man’s hand. “I got a manager.”

  “Hmmm…” the Devil shoved his hand into his pants pocket and began moving, down the steps, shouldering past Johnny. Not touching him, not looking at him.

  Johnny turned with him, keeping the man in sight.

  When he reached the turn between the first and second level of stairs, the Devil stopped. He looked back at Johnny and speared him with a deadly stare. “Today you’re going to get a call, booking you for a top rated show. Tomorrow, you’re going to get a call from a high-ranking official to a king, booking you for his anniversary ceremony. The third day a caller will request your presence at a meeting with a high profile musician who’ll want to collaborate with you. After that, I’ll be back.” The Devil smiled one more time, then turned, saying with a chuckle, “Johnny the Fiddler.” Shaking his head, he sauntered down the stairs, hands in pockets, whistling a tune that Johnny knew well. It was one of his own songs, a creation from his soul.

  *

  Even when he’d lived in his father’s house, Johnny had slept hard and heavy, and certainly so in his own house where peace filled every room. It was therefore by the grace of God that he happened to be up, but still more than half asleep, in the bathroom, when the phone rang. Johnny was no slave to electronic devices, phones included, so he finished his business at his leisure, stumbled back to bed, and was two ZZs from being comatose-sleep when the phone rang again. “Damn!” Johnny reached out and snatched up the receiver. “Yeah?” he grumbled, too tired still to work up a nastier tone than that.

  “You probably just got to bed, huh?” Chuck asked with humor in his voice.

  “Damn, right! What you want?” Johnny asked in false anger. He peeked through one eye and, registering the time on the clock, cussed in his head. He’d been sleep about three hours. He wasn’t ready for conversation, business or otherwise.

  “Some TV producer from New York called the office,” Chuck replied, all play out of his tone. It was all about business now. “They insisted on speaking to your booking agent. I took the call figuring you should tell the office staff first before the rest of the world hears we ain’t a team no more.”

  A shortage of sleep made his thinking slow so it took Johnny some time before he patched everything together, and when he did… Oh, shit! He had fired Chuck yesterday and that Abraham dude said he’d get a call today. The importance of Chuck’s words caused Johnny to tumble out of bed. He snatched up the cordless unit then plowed to the kitchen, listening as he made his way.

  “They want you in New York tomorrow morning as the featured musical guest. Two numbers plus some B-roll. I’ll have the travel information and all the other details for you within the hour. The band members ain’t gonna be happy. They tired as hell but I authorized a bonus. I figured that’d get
their asses out of bed. And I figured you wouldn’t mind since this is your big break.”

  Johnny heard every word out of Chuck’s mouth, but thundering over Chuck’s deep bass voice was the question in his head. He felt he knew the answer, but he had to hear it from Chuck. Chuck wouldn’t lie to him. “Did you arrange this?”

  “Wish I hada,” Chuck replied with some longing in his voice. He paused before continuing, “I called Daron to let him know you’d be rollin’ through and I didn’t care if he was cuttin’ Jesus’ long-ass hippie hair, he needed to move that man to the side and trim you up.”

  “Thanks, man,” Johnny said in sincerity, but mechanically too. His mind was on Abraham and his prophecy. A call today from a primetime show. A high profile gig to follow and a cross-genre project. If it really went down like that, Johnny knew he’d found his man. He smiled big thinking about all the goodness headed his way until that part of him he’d inherited from his father rose up and turned that smile the wrong way. His father would be skeptical, unbelieving and Johnny was too. Not about his talent or that he deserved success but about the man, Abraham. Yeah, the man had delivered on one promise thus far but twenty years he’d been in the business and he’d never heard of an Abraham. But then again, Chuck had handled the business end; Johnny, the creative. There were artists Johnny knew that Chuck didn’t and people Chuck knew that Johnny didn’t. That was how it worked with them and that being the case, Chuck might know. Of course, given their present situation, it wouldn’t be right to ask him, but hell, his and Chuck’s roots went deep. Chuck would want to give him this as a parting gift so Johnny asked, “You know a man named Abraham? …in the business?”

  Chuck didn’t waste words. His silence meant he was processing, going through that database mind of his in search of an Abraham. Johnny remained silent too, fiddling with the coffee maker while filtering again through his own memories for an Abraham. Finally, Johnny heard, “Naw, but I can do some checkin’. What’s the other name?”

  “Only got Abraham.”

  Chuck grunted in reply and in the background Johnny heard some papers being pushed around. If he knew Chuck, which he did, he was looking for a pen to write the name. Why, when his cousin had a mind like a vault, Johnny didn’t know. But it had always been Chuck’s way and no doubt would continue to be.

  Another empty second or two passed and then Chuck said, “Debbie’s on her way to the cleaners to pick up your suits. She’ll bring ’em to the office and I’ll be there soon.”

  “Fine,” Johnny said, and since all had been said that needed to be said, the men hung up.

  *

  On the Sunday following his whirlwind week, Johnny had not intended to open his front door to the Devil but when he opened the door to usher his female company out, there the man stood. The surprised look on Johnny’s face didn’t last long. He hurriedly kissed the woman goodbye, patted her on her backside as she slid by him then stood aside to let his visitor in.

  “I see you like ’em big-boned,” the Devil commented as he and Johnny watched the woman switch away.

  “I like ’em anyway I can get ’em,” Johnny said with an appreciative smile. Crooking his head toward the kitchen he offered, “Coffee?”

  “‘s long as you got sugar. I got a terrible sweet tooth.”

  Johnny led the man through the living and dining room but stopped in a nook that separated the dining room from the kitchen. There was nothing in that nook except a glass display case, five feet wide and six feet tall, and in that case rested the most precious tangible memories of Johnny’s career—a copy of each of his CDs, fliers from some of his shows, before and after photos of the Fiddler Music building, some fan letters, news clippings, photos of he and Chuck in various venues, and more. The most recent addition was the golden fiddle that Abraham had left on Johnny’s porch. He pointed to the fiddle and said, “You left her the other night.”

  A snake-oil-salesman smile curved Abraham’s lips. “Consider it a signing bonus once we finalize the deal.”

  Johnny started to smile at that but it happened again. That nagging memory. The one that had tapped at Johnny’s consciousness the morning he and Abraham had met. Several times now over the past few days, it had played peek-a-boo with Johnny, making him pause at whatever he’d been doing at the time and then grow frustrated when he hadn’t been able to latch on to it. Before he let it get to the frustration point this time, Johnny moved on into the kitchen, forcing a change of thought and action.

  “Cream?” he asked Abraham as he worked around the remains of breakfast to re-fill his mug.

  “Of course.”

  He partially filled Abraham’s mug then scooted it across the counter to him. While his visitor spooned in the additives, Johnny jumped right to business.

  “Chuck said you got a solid reputation. A whole stable of musicians, singers and actors. Most of ’em successful, many at the top of the pile.” Johnny felt excitement bubble to life in his belly at this second telling of fact. He’d had the same reaction when Chuck had told him initially. But he couldn’t let his excitement show. He had to maintain a neutral façade to avoid losing any advantage at the negotiations table. Although, Johnny thought, no real negotiations were needed. He was ready to ink a deal now given the man’s resumé and the golden fiddle as an incentive.

  “I can put you there too, Johnny.” The Devil glowed with assurance, his salesman smile still intact. “You got the talent. You got the desire. All you need is the connections, which I got.”

  Johnny humpfed. “You proved that, didn’t you?” Johnny leaned over his coffee mug, arms stretched wide, hands flat on the counter, thinking about the last four days. They’d been the busiest four days of his life. There’d been the flight to New York City, all the pre and post activity for the show, then a flight back home. Before he’d recovered from that Chuck had fielded a call from an ambassador. Seems the king of his country was a Johnny the Fiddler fan and couldn’t envision his anniversary celebration without his favorite musician. Out of the call had come a booking and a ream of paperwork, including security clearances for Johnny and his band members—all of which Chuck had generously handled. Finally, there’d been another hurried flight to New York City late Thursday night to meet with one of the biggest music producers in pop music. They’d spent Friday, the entire day together, kicking around some ideas, playing around in the studio. They’d gotten so caught up in the possibilities, Johnny had almost missed his red eye flight back to Atlanta. He’d walked into his house after four o’clock Saturday morning, exhausted and planning to sleep til Monday but before he made it to bed, the phone started ringing. Normally he would have ignored it except these were not normal days. He answered and who was on his line wanting a meeting? Curtis Barnes, Thomas King’s manager. Even though he and Chuck had put off the meeting to finalize their separation, even though he had not announced to his band members or staff that Chuck would be leaving Fiddler Music, it seemed Curtis already knew. Johnny thought that odd until he figured Chuck must have done him another solid by calling Curtis and giving him the lowdown. Needing time to speak with Chuck first, Johnny had put Curtis off until Monday with a promise to call then.

  “It’s just starting for you, Johnny.” The Devil’s siren-song voice reached Johnny, distracting him from his thoughts. “I got even bigger plans for you.”

  Johnny liked the sound of that—his big dreams linked to Abraham’s big plans and big connections—and it looked even better in his head—oversized marquees with his name in bold, tuxedoed men and slinky-dressed women clapping enthusiastically for him, his name and songs at the top of sales charts. Yeah, that combination sounded and looked mighty fine. This time, Johnny didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was hooked. His smile was as big as the sun.

  “Fame. Recognition. The world will be yours, Johnny. And the only thing you have to give in return…” The Devil’s eyes changed to a deep, abiding black and the pretense of being friendly and persuasive dropped, especially that smile.
“…is your soul.”

  Still caught up in the dream, still smiling big, Johnny nearly missed the Devil’s offer. With a lift of his brow and a shift of his smile, he repeated, “My soul?” Just to be sure he’d heard right.

  “It’s nothing in exchange for living all of your dreams and…” Its words were as cold and hooded as Its eyes. “…for finally silencing your father’s words.”

  The rest of Johnny’s smile disappeared. The good feelings too as the Devil’s final few words cycled in his head. Silencing your father’s words. Silencing your father’s words. The promise of fame was nice. As were the offers of manifested dreams and owning the world, but that which appealed to Johnny above all the others was silencing your father’s words. With his soul in Abraham’s care, he could finally overcome the hurtful words that had thrived in him, driven him during his career. With Abraham in charge of his soul, he could finally return to his father’s house and make him recant every dream-killing word, make him admit his son had made a name for himself, that Johnny was the best, always had been. The opportunity to break his father and expose him for the lying, dream-stealing, soulless, angry bastard he was won Johnny. It would be worth the sacrifice of his soul. In fact, if he had two souls to give he would gladly sign over both.

  The Devil looked at the vengeful smile on Johnny’s face. It noticed the wicked twinkle in the boy’s eyes and knew It had him. It was time to deal. In a low, dark voice It issued the final vow. “I give you your heart’s wishes. You give me your soul.” The Devil raised Its hand, ready to shake.

  Johnny lifted his right hand, looked down at it, looked at Abraham’s hand. Imagined the two joined as one and stalled. But why? he wondered. Abraham offered him everything he’d ever wanted in exchange for his soul which was nothing, an invisible substance that couldn’t even be… Johnny’s mind stopped. That haunting, nagging memory had returned and finally exposed itself fully. And turned out it wasn’t the memory after all for the memory was that day at the stump. Rather, it was the point the memory was trying to impress upon him. That being, what had happened to the musician from whom he’d won the golden fiddle? That musician had vanished into nothingness, and as great as he’d been, he should have enjoyed some level of success. Which led him straight to his father and the unfulfilled life he led in Mississippi. The chance—no matter how small—of being his father, of living life as his father did, of dissolving into nothingness like the other musician frightened Johnny to his core. In fact, it was his greatest fear. He hated to take on his father’s trait of questioning a gift instead of simply saying thank you, but he had to be sure. Because there was always a flip side to consider, right? There was always a chance of plans failing, of dreams laid fallow, of people lying, and before he made this pact, he had to be certain that chance was removed.