by Rob Zombie
“Jesus, the door is stuck,” he said, turning toward where he thought Heidi must be. “I can’t get this open.”
He could see her still, though the room was dark enough now that she was more of a vague semihuman shape in the darkness—if he didn’t know already that it was Heidi he would have had a hard time identifying her. Again, she didn’t answer. She danced, turning slowly, and then suddenly stopped, fell to her knees.
“Heidi?” he said, and took a step forward.
And suddenly she collapsed in a heap on the floor. He moved forward and bent down to try to help her up, but when he grabbed her he realized it was not Heidi at all but just a tangled and twisted sheet.
Astonished, he lifted it up and looked at it. Where had she gone? He’d been sure he’d seen her—otherwise he wouldn’t have come in. Where was she?
He looked around the room now. His eyes were beginning to adjust further, the darkness not quite as total as it had been before. Here and there in the shadows, he began to see shapes. He began to think of one of them as human. He stepped forward, squinting, trying to get a better look. Yes, there was someone there, but someone hunched and deformed. He was sure it wasn’t Heidi.
“Hello?” he said. “Can you help me?”
He took another step forward, peered closer. Yes, someone was there, just in the corner, head down. Why wouldn’t they answer? He stepped again and looked closer. Was there something wrong with their skin? It seemed overly pale in some places, weirdly bruised in others. Mottled. The hair, too, seemed to have come out in clumps.
“Hey,” he said, and reached out and touched the person’s arm.
The arm was ice-cold, the shock of that so surprising that he yanked his hand back as if he’d been stung. As he did so, the head jerked up and he cried out in horror. The skin of the face had begun to decay, in some places had fallen off to reveal stretches of bone. The lips had fallen off or had been bitten off, revealing a length of jawbone and rotted teeth. The eyes, too, were gone, in their place only two deep black holes.
He stumbled back. Holy fuck, he thought. It’s a corpse. I must have knocked it or something to make its head come up like that.
But then, as he stared at it, he saw the head turn, the empty eyes staring right at him. Its arms stretched toward him and the remnants of its face tightened in a horrific grin.
He made a break for the door, tried to open it again. It wouldn’t come. He began to pound on it, shouting and crying out. After a moment, he made the mistake of looking behind him and saw that the creature had made it halfway across the room and toward him, moving slowly but inexorably forward. Not only that, but also there were more of them now, at least three, maybe four. He began to pound harder, shouting himself hoarse.
But the door held firm and nobody came to let him out. He felt something touch his shoulder and he shook it off and then something was on his arm, too. He turned and there were six or seven of them on him, all of them dead, clawing at him, their mouths hanging open. One of them managed to press its mouth against his arm and bite it hard enough to draw blood. He screamed and shook it away and struck out and shoved and kicked and managed somehow to break free and run to the other end of the apartment where there was a window.
He tried to open it but the latch had been painted over and it wouldn’t move. The sash had been painted into the frame, too—fuck, there was no way that thing was going to open—and the window was too small. He might be able to squeeze his way out of the opening if he could get the sash raised, but no way he was getting through by just breaking the glass and trying to squeeze through the frame.
Maybe there was a bigger window in the bedroom, he thought, and turned. There were now, he saw, nearly a dozen of them, as if somehow they were able to multiply when he didn’t look at them. They were nearly upon him. He tried to skirt his way around the edge of them and make it to the open bedroom door, but one of them got its skeletal hand on his shirt and slowed him down. He wrenched himself free, but got loose too quickly and too suddenly and went skidding down to the floor. He tried to get to his feet quickly but one was already wrapped around him before he was halfway up, and then another came, and another and another. He strained his way forward, groaning under their weight and pressure, feeling them scratch at his flesh, tear his skin away, trying, he knew, to make him one of them. He swayed and slammed into the door frame hard and one of their arms fell off, but even so it kept moving, taking hold of his ankle. He shook himself, and a few of them fell off, but more quickly took its place. There, just a few yards away, was the bedroom window. It was big enough. All he had to do was get to it and then he’d be safe.
One of them sunk its teeth into his neck, making him scream. Another took hold of his ear and tried to pull it off. Others were tearing into his stomach and back with their teeth and claws, gouging and ripping, harder than they had been before, as if they grew stronger as he grew weaker.
He stared down, willing his feet to move. The floor around him was slick with blood. It took him a moment to realize it was his own. Just a little more, he told himself.
He took a step forward and collapsed under the weight of them. He tried to push up with his arms and climb to his feet again, but there were too many of them. They sunk their teeth into his arms, and one of them tore his ear off. One of them bit him in the back of the skull, and then worked its fingers into the wound and began to peel his scalp away. He roared with pain and fear, tried again to get up but he was weaker already, all the little wounds adding up. One of them dragged his hand to the side and bit off one of his fingers. Another was slowly running its broken nails up and down his back in the same spot, gradually wearing its way down to bone. All the while they gave moans of pleasure.
He made little motions like he was crawling away, but he didn’t move at all. Slowly the pain grew, eventually becoming so great that he prayed for death. Yes, death would come, but it would come very slowly. When one of them tore out one of his eyes and then the other, it felt like a mercy. And a greater mercy still when he finally lapsed into unconsciousness. But even after that, and even long after he was dead, they kept at him, slowly reducing him to a bloody pulp, making him one of them.
Chapter Fifty-three
Herman stood in the alley outside the Salem Palladium. Fucked is what it was. It looked just as deserted as ever, definitely a fire hazard, and nothing had been done to fix the place up. The windows were even boarded over, and so were the entrances, except for one in which they’d pried the boards off and leaned them against the wall next to it. Nobody taking tickets either. He’d gone in, expecting to see some sort of creepy, horror-show setup, something that’d make the most of the deserted space, but there was nothing backstage. There was just a red curtain with nothing behind it. Real amateur hour. A lot of the theater seats were still in place but the inside was also full of piles of trash and rubble, needles scattered around from where junkies had broken in, the whole place stinking of piss. Herman sighed. It was going to be a long night.
For a while he paced back and forth, smoking a cigar. And where was Whitey? Goddamn, if his car had broken down again already, that was fucking it. Plus, no Whitey meant no Heidi, and there was no way in hell he was going to handle this bullshit alone.
He puffed on the cigar a few more times, paced a little. People were coming in, but just a few, not enough to make for much of a show. What was up with that? Plus, they were all chicks. Every fucking one. Probably not a surprise, considering the way that the Smash or Trash had gone with the Lords track, but it was still one more fucked thing about an already fucked scene.
He pulled out his cell, tried to call Heidi’s number. The phone rang and just kept on ringing. Maybe that meant she was on her way. He hung up and then dialed again.
“Hello,” said a voice. “WXKB. Station manager Chip MacDonald here.”
“Chip, what exactly is going on here?” asked Herman.
“What do you mean?” asked Chip. “Is this Herman?”
“Wha
t do you mean, what do I mean?” said Herman. “Well, for starters I just looked everywhere and there’s nothing. No band. No equipment. Nothing. And for another thing, what little crowd that’s in there is one hundred percent girls.”
“Are people getting upset?” said Chip. “Are we going to have a problem there?”
“No,” admitted Herman. “They’re pretty calm so far. But I can only assume that they’re going to get mighty restless waiting for a show to happen that I highly doubt is going to go on. Eventually it’ll get ugly. There’s no way I’m sticking around when it starts to turn bad.”
Chip began to natter on, trying to calm Herman down even as he got more and more nervous himself, but Herman didn’t want to be calmed down—he just wanted things to be done right. Was that too much to ask?
“And when are you going to get me some reliable help?” Herman finally said. He almost regretted saying it, felt a little guilty about throwing Whitey and Heidi under the bus, but his wife was right: he had to stand up for himself.
Chip was silent for a moment. “Reliable help,” he said slowly. “What do you mean?”
“Where’s Whitey?” said Herman. “Where’s Heidi? Why is it that Herman’s the only WXKB employee here?”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” said Chip. Even over the phone he sounded like he was pulling on his hair. “Hey, look, I wanted to fire Heidi,” he said. “I was all set to, and you, buddy, were the one who convinced me, against my own better judgment to…”
But Herman had stopped listening. Someone was coming down the alley and as they got closer and stepped into the light, he realized who it was.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “Heidi’s here after all. Got to go.”
He hung up the telephone with Chip still talking and pocketed it. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Heidi.
“Where the hell have you been?” asked Herman. “Where’s Whitey?”
“Whitey never showed so I walked,” said Heidi. She looked a little pale and dazed, maybe was on something, but he’d had it out with her once this week already. No point starting bad blood just before the show.
“Are you serious? Goddamn it, what is with that kid? I thought he said his car was fixed.” He looked at his watch. “Fuck, we should get inside. It’s almost showtime. Not that it matters since I can’t find anyone.”
“What are you so uptight about?” Heidi asked.
“I don’t know,” said Herman. “Something about this whole night is really getting under my skin. Something just isn’t right. Feels like a setup.”
“A setup for what?” asked Heidi.
Herman shook his head. “I wish I fucking knew.”
They made their way through the door and up the aisle, taking a seat toward the back of the venue where some of the chairs were still in pretty good shape. There was still no sign of the Lords. Most of the rest of the audience was up front, huddled together. And yeah, he’d been right. All women. Not a single man in the whole place except for him. If he told the warden that, she’d really give him hell.
He checked his watch again. “Looks like a whole lot of nothing is about to happen,” he said. Heidi next to him didn’t respond. She looked a little dazed, just stared straight ahead at the stage. “You okay?” he asked.
“Whitey never showed so I walked,” she said. She said it in a friendly but semi-pissed-off way, identical to the way she had said it outside, but this time her face remained motionless, expressionless.
“Yeah, you already told me,” he said. “I heard you the first time.”
“What are you so uptight about?” she replied. Again, same exact intonation as outside. But her face was still as dead and still as that of a corpse. God, she was freaking him out.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he asked. He was about to dress her down when the house lights suddenly went off. “Thank God,” he said. “I think the show might actually be starting.”
Chapter Fifty-four
Slowly, very slowly, the red velvet curtains began to draw apart in a grand and effortless sweeping motion, to reveal a stage empty except for a figure of a man made from sticks, a nearly life-size effigy. A small lantern burned within the figure’s belly. The lantern was the only thing lighting the stage.
The sound of a single drum began. A slow, regular pounding. A hush fell over the crowd as a robed figure entered the stage from somewhere out of the darkness behind. A mask covered the figure’s face: a rough burlap mask dyed black with a white death’s head painted on it. A primitive drum was slung around its neck and was being struck, over and over again, with what looked like a human thighbone.
“What the hell is this bullshit?” Herman whispered to Heidi. “Seems more like some weird religious ritual than a concert.”
“Whitey never showed so I walked,” mumbled Heidi.
What the fuck? wondered Herman. He grabbed her arm and shook her, but she didn’t look away from the stage.
The robed figure began to chant in rhythm with the beating on the drum, in some weird language that for all Herman knew might be nonsense. Lots of hard sounds, like German, but shitloads worse. Made his head ache even to listen to it. But next to him Heidi seemed totally transfixed.
A ring of fire erupted around the figure as the chant continued. The crowd began moving, swaying back and forth to the repetitive rhythm of the hypnotic drum, a few of them beginning to pick up the sounds of the chant as well, which gave it a weird watery emphasis as it shifted from a single voice to a voice with many other voices layered over it. The ring of fire grew taller, then taller still, until both the effigy and the hooded figure were nearly hidden within it. If you looked at it just right, you could almost believe they were on fire.
Beams of deep red smoke curled along and seeped through the stage as another figure appeared from the darkness behind. This one was similarly dressed, similarly masked, but the mask it wore had had holes burned through it, so bits of a pale white face were visible beneath. As it walked forward, the figure manipulated an instrument made of wood and animal skin. One hand cranked a small lever while the other pumped a rawhide bellows, creating a bizarre cluster of discordant notes. It was the sound, Herman thought, of someone screaming, but worse than that, too. It was much more disturbing than that.
The flames of the ring of fire dipped lower and the figure stepped through them and into the ring, continuing to play. The flames rose again, in one spurt and then another, until Herman couldn’t see anything through it. Shit, must be hot inside there, he thought. And how had they managed to do that? He would have sworn, when he walked the stage just a moment ago, that there was nothing there.
There was a screeching sound, the scrape of an out-of-tune violin being played deliberately off-key. Another robed figure appeared out of the darkness of the wings, wearing the same burlap mask as the others. Instead of a bow, it played with a bone that looked like a humerus. It made the strings shriek and quiver. The figure didn’t wait for the flames to die down, but calmly strode through them and was momentarily aflame.
“Holy shit,” said Herman.
The flames fell low enough that everyone could be seen clearly. The robe of the figure playing the violin was smoking but didn’t stay lit. The drum was playing louder and faster now, and so was that strange other instrument, whatever it was. With the violin added in, the noise was extremely loud and discordant, enough to make the hall shake and bring little bits of plaster down from the ceiling.
Herman looked up a little nervously, then turned to Heidi. “I have to admit,” he said, “this is pretty wild stuff.” Yeah, they were getting to him. They were definitely showmen. He had to give them that. But, he thought, looking up at the ceiling again, there was no fucking way this was going to end well.
They played, the music dipping and falling but always staying repetitive and ritualistic and discordant and very intense. They weren’t playing songs exactly, or rather it was like they were playing one single song that just kept going and goi
ng. It was fucked-up.
In front, down near the stage, several of the audience members began stripping off their clothes and walking toward the stage. They seemed like zombies, moving stiffly and awkwardly. Must be plants in the audience who work for the band, thought Herman. All part of the show. But then if that was the case, there wasn’t much of an audience at all. He watched them ascend a small set of stairs at the base of the stage, gathering around the edge of the ring of fire, bowing before the hooded figures.
Beside him Heidi was mumbling. God, if she repeated again that Whitey never showed so she walked, it’d really freak him out. Anything she said, he told himself, had to be better than that.
Turned out he was wrong. What she said was: “Unholy Father, make your presence known this night. I am but your humble servant in this land of misery.”
What the living hell? Was she in on it, too? Was this some kind of elaborate joke that the station was playing on him to fuck with him? Or was Heidi just messing around, playing along to get under his skin? He hoped so, because whatever the alternative was to those possibilities he had the feeling he didn’t want to know what it was.
“What was that?” Herman said. “Come again?”
“Help me breed this new world with your blessed spawn of glory.”
She stood and left her seat, moving into the aisle.
“Where the hell are you going?” asked Herman. But suddenly she was lost from sight as a powerful gust of wind whipped through the room, sending thick clouds of black smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. Herman coughed and choked, his eyes watering, waving his hands to clear the air in front of his face. When he caught sight of Heidi again, she was nearly to the end of the aisle. She had shed her coat and dropped it on the floor, was taking her sweater off over her head. By the time she was at the bottom of the stairs leading to the stage, she was wearing only her shift: a sheer white dress, see-through and short. On it was emblazoned a symbol that Herman recognized. It was the same as the symbol that had been on the Lords album.
