by Rob Zombie
“Are you all right?” he asked. But she didn’t answer. Instead, she closed the bloody scissors, took a firm grip on the handle, and went back into the bedroom.
It’s fucked-up, thought Whitey. Sure, there were always disagreements over whether something should be smashed or trashed, particularly when they did local music and the bands tried to get their friends to call in and support them, but it never was as wide a range as this. People either loved the shit out of this track or they hated it and wanted to crucify the Lords. No middle ground.
And it was still going, still a line of people queuing on the phones, wanting their opinions to be heard.
He took the next call. “Smash or…,” he started, but then let his voice trail off.
The woman on the other end was weeping. Shit, he thought, some psycho, and reached to disconnect her.
“Please play it again…,” she managed to say before he cut her off. “I need to hear it again.”
Shit, he thought, her voice, the longing in it. She’d heard the song only once but it was like she was already addicted to it. Was she crying out of disappointment that the song had ended or out of joy that she’d been lucky enough to hear it? It was like all the crazies were coming out tonight.
“The chicks love it,” Whitey said. Yeah, that was right. Every woman who called in loved it. That was weird. Every man who called in seemed to hate it. That was weird, too.
“I guess it’s a girlie smash,” said Heidi. Girlie smash, he thought. That was a good one. He’d have to file it away and use it sometime himself.
“What can I say?” said Herman. “It’s obviously the new ‘Sexual Healing.’ ”
Little different sound, though, thought Whitey. A lot more aggravated—hardly a good track for bedroom fun, unless you happened to be Jack the Ripper.
He reached out and connected another line. Let it be a woman who hates it, he said. Break the pattern. It was a woman all right, but she didn’t hate it. As usual, being a woman, she loved it, thought it was a smash. Messed up, he thought, and a little creepy, and then he went on to the next call.
He’d turned over, was lying on his side now. He was still naked but he was covertly checking his phone, something she hated him to do after sex. Look up! she silently begged. See what’s happened to me, and then run.
But he didn’t. He kept checking his phone as she came slowly in and clambered into the bed and spooned him from behind.
“Mmm,” he said. “Back for more?”
She didn’t say anything. Her body started kissing him on the shoulder, the neck, leaving bloody mouth prints with each kiss.
“Feels great,” he said. He arched his back a little, rubbed his shoulder blades against her breasts. She felt the symbol carved on her chest tear a little, the wounds bleeding more freely. But her body pushed back, acting as though nothing was wrong.
“Are you wet?” he asked. “Splash yourself with water or something?”
She didn’t answer, just reached around him and put her hand on his cock, began to rub her thumb up and down its shaft. That distracted him a little, made him worry less. He tried to turn around and get where he could kiss her, but she kept holding on, tightening her hand around his cock and squeezing. Shhh, the beast said through her. The whisper sounded a little weird, but not so weird that he noticed.
“Okay, okay,” he said, giving up. “We’ll do it the way you want to do it. But honestly, I don’t know if I have another go in me quite yet. But sure, why not, we can play around.”
She kept rubbing his cock, rubbing her body up and down his back, tearing her wounds open. Everything was getting bloody. Everything was growing wet with blood. The beast inside her took a deep breath through her nose, enjoying the smell of her blood.
“Why are you sticky?” Jarrett asked. “Did you get something on your chest? Honey or something? Is this part of the game?”
“Sure,” the beast said. He stiffened a little. He knew her voice, knew something was off with her, something was wrong. Now he’d turn around and see what she’d done to herself and realize what danger he was in.
“Why are you talking like that?” he asked. “It really isn’t funny.”
Run, Jarrett! she was screaming inside. Run! Her hand, though, had left his cock and was groping through the bedsheets, looking for the scissors. She felt her fingers brush by them and tried to will them to keep moving, to not stop. Jarrett was trying to turn and she had let go of him enough that he mostly could. But instead of looking at her body, he saw only her head.
“What the fuck have you done to your hair?” he asked, drawing back.
Her hands found the scissors again and closed around them, and then swiftly she drew her arm back and brought them down hard and sharp into his neck.
He cried out once and tried to rear up, the scissors having cut through his flesh to lodge in his windpipe. Blood was coming in a kind of spray out through the wound, and the throat, too, was hissing from the hole, air escaping. He struggled and tried to turn around, and struck out and hit her hard on the side of the head. The beast inside of her laughed. Jarrett tried to sit up, made it partway, but then fell back, the color already drained from his face. He groped weakly at the scissors in his neck and managed to close his hands around them and tug at them. They came partway free and then his hand stopped moving and his eyes slowly glazed over. Slowly the hand released them and the scissors slid out on their own. Maisie’s hand was there to catch them.
She stared at them in her palm. Inside her head she was huddled, weeping, but unable also to stop herself from looking out. But the beast made her look. The beast showed her the scissors, turned them in her hands, watched the light glint off them.
Put them down, she told herself. Put them down and call the police.
The beast used her mouth to smile. And then her body began stabbing Jarrett’s corpse, over and over and over again.
Slowly the sheets grew sodden with blood. Inside of her the beast roared, swelled. She cowered, covered her head. No, she didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to have anything to do with what had just happened, nor anything else like that. She’d prefer dying to having to watch someone she cared for being killed.
The beast seemed to hear her thoughts. In some sort of space within her head it came over and crouched beside her, sniffed her. You’re no fun, it said. And then, So be it. I can have more fun without you. It stood straight and placed a red, clawed foot on her imaginary head, but still she felt it somehow in her real head. It began to press its weight down. She felt the pressure build, and then, all at once her skull cracked and the scaly heel made a mess of her brains.
Outside, she stiffened and collapsed. For a moment she was like that, seemingly lifeless and then she stretched and stood and gave a terrible laugh.
And then for a long time there was nobody left inside of her except for the beast, who began licking her lips and set her hands to carving up the body beside her. He started with the face, flaying the skin back and then cutting the muscles away to get down to the bone of the skull. He lopped a few of the fingers off, almost at random, and then started onto the elbow joint.
Once he left his residence in the body, there was nobody left inside her at all. Her body lay there, eyes wide, unable to move, no longer Maisie, no longer the demon, unaware that she had once been human, no longer really anybody at all. Then the injured woman within her skull began to slowly gather herself, pushing her brains back into her imaginary skull, slowly regaining consciousness, slowly coming to realize what she’d done.
Chapter Twenty-five
All the way home he couldn’t help but think about it. The Lords of Salem. He took the note out of his pocket, looked at it again. Yes, the handwriting had characteristics that made it representative of a style of script common in the late seventeenth century in the New England colonies. But so what? The paper was handmade but not old. It was obviously just someone having fun. Why had he taken the note? Did he really want to compare it to samples of hand
writing that he had? Whose? Margaret Morgan’s? That was crazy, exactly the kind of thinking that he’d discouraged that young woman from. What was her name? Heidi? He looked at the note. Adelheid Elizabeth Hawthorne. John Hawthorne had had a daughter named Elizabeth, if he remembered correctly, and another named Adelheid. With a name like that, she had to be a descendant of his.
When he reached home and climbed the stairs, he found Alice standing by the open apartment door, arms crossed, waiting for him. Seeing her was enough to bring him back to the present. Inwardly, he groaned, thinking of what a disaster the radio show had been. He took off his coat, hung it on the hook while she watched him with a concerned look.
“Did you listen?” he asked. “How was it?”
“Did I listen?” she asked. “Of course I listened, Francis. You were wonderful.” She was lying; he could tell. She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward and gave him a kiss. It was bad, he knew, anything but wonderful, but she was trying to protect his feelings. He let her lead him to the couch.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“Don’t bullshit me,” he said. “Seriously, tell me the truth. How was I?”
“You were completely… fine,” she suggested.
Fine, he thought. Well, he hadn’t even been that, to be honest. “Fine?” he said. “What does fine even mean? Can we back things up? What happened to wonderful?”
Alice’s smile was a little strained now. “How can I put this?” she said. She looked away from him, her eyes focusing on the radio. “Well, you got a little weird with that girl when she asked you about real witches.”
“Was it that obvious?” said Francis. “I hate that question. And she kept asking it, no matter how many times I said no.”
“But you recovered,” said Alice. “I taped it so you could listen back. It’ll make you feel better.”
God no, he thought. Last thing he wanted was to live through that again. “No thanks,” he said. “I can’t stand the sound of my voice.”
Alice patted him on the knee. “Think how I must feel,” she said, and smiled. Her smile was genuine again.
“Very funny,” he said. “But no, I don’t think I want to listen to it again. I had to live through it, remember?” He grabbed his head with his hands. “What a disaster.”
She put her arm around him. “There, there, dear,” she said, her voice soothing. “It’s not as bad as you think. You don’t have to listen to it now, but it’ll be waiting whenever you’re ready.”
He just shook his head. She’d let go of him and was standing up when he thought of something. “Was it just me you recorded?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “I had to record the people who were asking you questions, too.”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his hands in frustration. “That’s not what I mean. Did you happen to record the music they played afterward?”
“Ugh, yes,” she said. “I didn’t know if you were done or were going to come back on again, so that’s there, too. I can’t believe the awful noise that masquerades as music these days. What was up with those girls?”
“Girls?” he asked.
“They kept calling in, saying how much they loved the music, almost weeping over it. One after another after another.”
“I don’t know,” he said absently. “I was gone by then.” I’ve got to hear it again, he was thinking. Something about that music really bothers me. Especially what she called it…“The Lords of Salem,” he said, softly.
“What, dear?” asked Alice.
“What?” he said. “Oh…” and then shook his head.
She waited for him to go on, and then when he didn’t she shrugged. “Also,” she said, “you got the tickets, right?”
“What?” he said. “No.”
“No?” she said, her voice rising.
“Well, yes. They said I could pick some up on the way out. I just forgot. I’ll go back for them tomorrow.”
She patted him on the arm. “That’s fine then. You hungry?” she asked. “I can reheat the leftover pasta.”
“Huh?” he said, already lost in his thoughts again, eager to turn on the tape and take a closer listen to what was there. He felt his pocket, made sure the note was still there. “Sure,” he said. “Pasta’s fine.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The parking lot was largely empty, the pavement cracked and the air frosty. A cold wind whistled, rattling the handicapped parking sign and rippling the awning, and a handful of fallen leaves skittered their way over the asphalt. They stayed together, all in a bunch, whirling around one another, around and about, but not separating. They scuttled back and forth across the parking lot, almost as if waiting for someone.
Then the station door opened and all at once they scattered, blowing every direction. Heidi, Herman, and Whitey came out all at once, talking and laughing. They walked over to Herman’s car, gathered there a moment, shivering but not yet ready for the evening to end.
“All right, children,” Herman finally said. “I will see you tomorrow.” He turned to Heidi. “And you get some sleep, would you? I’m sick and tired of worrying about you. You look exhausted.”
“Thanks a lot,” she said sarcastically.
“You know what I mean,” he said. And from the way he searched her face, she knew he was nervous that she was up to something stupid. Like using again. But he didn’t keep it up long, and Heidi didn’t mind—she wasn’t using and it was kind of good to think that he was still watching out for her.
He turned to Whitey. “You ready to go?” he asked.
Whitey nodded, opened the passenger-side door. Herman moved around to his own door.
“You get some sleep now, hear?” he said to Heidi.
“Fear not,” said Heidi with false bravado. “I have a plan. I’m going to implement the red wine method tonight. Never fails to bring sleep.”
“Sounds vaguely similar to my scotch on the rocks plan, if I can sneak it past the warden. You want a lift?”
“No, thanks,” said Heidi. “I need the exercise.”
“Fuck exercise,” said Herman. “It’s cold. And we’re all gonna die someday.”
“Nice philosophy,” said Heidi. “But no thanks. I should walk. It’ll help me sleep.”
She walked through the streets. Salem was a little creepy at night, all the old houses that looked fine during the day starting to seem sinister. There was hardly any crime here, so she was pretty safe, but still it freaked her out just a little, probably because of the town’s history. Maybe she should have taken the offer of a ride from Herman.
But she had to walk a little, had to calm herself down. She’d had a terrible sleep and that Lords track had done something to her. Whoa. It had given her a headache to listen to it again. And she couldn’t understand why it had played backward in her apartment the night before but played normal at the station. The music seemed different, too. Had she really been drunk enough last night that she hadn’t had a clear idea of what was going on? She might’ve thought Whitey was playing a joke on her, but he was hardly the type to let it go on for this long. No, he was a good egg. He’d have told her. Something was weird. And that, with the darkness and her lack of sleep, had jangled her nerves. Better to get a good walk and calm down a little. Maybe that would help her sleep.
It was cold, though. Herman was right: this time of year was hell. You could never tell if it was going to be cold or warm and no matter how you dressed it was usually wrong. Her faux fur coat was helpful, but she was still cold. She’d be chilled by the time she got home.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her earbuds, put them in, then plugged the cord into her iPod. When she pressed PLAY it random-shuffled her to a How to Learn French album that she didn’t even know she had on her iPod and she thought, Why not? Here I am, walking through the streets of Salem, learning how to speak French, improving myself, taking control of my life. What could make for a better evening?
“How much do I owe you?” a
Frenchman asked her. “Combien est-ce que je vous dois?”
“Combien est-ce que je vous dois?” Heidi repeated absently, her mind already starting to wander.
“Could you speak more slowly?” asked the Frenchman, and for a moment she had the impression that the tape was speaking directly to her. Then he continued: “Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement?”
“Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement?” she repeated.
And then she suddenly realized where the album was from, that Griff had downloaded it to her computer a few years back. The idea had been that they’d get clean, listen to it, learn French, then go to Europe together, a good vacation, just the two of them. But when it came down to it, neither of them ever had any money, and they’d never gotten around to listening to the album. Griff talked about it for a while, and then he stopped, and then he was dead. Leaving only her. She was lucky to be alive, she knew, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty.
She shivered and skipped to the next track, which turned out to be a Tom Waits song about Suffolk’s red barn murder. Better. It didn’t have any memories associated with it.
It was fucking cold, her fingers and wrists aching, her breath clouding up in front of her. She was about halfway home, maybe a bit more, and was just passing the big red double doors of Saint Peter’s church. They had been left slightly ajar, a light shining inside. Surely the priest wouldn’t mind if she just went inside for a moment to warm up.
She slipped quickly in. The light that was on was just inside the doors, the main light for the vestibule. The rest of the church, though, seemed dark. She could see the vague outlines of the pews and the aisle, the ghost of the lectern and altar at the front, but very little else. Probably the door had been left open by accident and nobody was meant to be there. That was okay; she wouldn’t stay long. She’d just warm up for a few minutes and then she’d be on her way.
She slipped out her earbuds—it seemed disrespectful to be listening to a song about a murder while standing in a church—and began to chafe her hands. They were already feeling a little better. Combien est-ce que je vous dois, she thought. How much do I owe you? And felt again a little stab of guilt.
