Mr Hands

by Gary A Braunbeck

  “How do you know this?”

  He grinned. “Because I called him up by accident one night. I’d just finished the first leg of my solo tour, and I was bored out of my skull at the hotel at three in the morning, so I started fiddling with the riff, and I increased its tempo and…there he was.” He set aside his guitar and opened his shirt. The middle of chest was a mass of scar tissue.

  “Fucker tried to take a piece out of me, Sam. That’s why the police found all the blood and that section of my flesh in the hotel room. The Mudman demanded a sacrifice from me, and I wasn’t ready to make it.” He buttoned up his shirt and picked up his guitar once again.

  “I’ve been running away from him ever since. But I’m too sick now. I can’t run anymore.”

  I scratched at my dead ear. “So why are…why are the others out there looking for you?”

  “Because they’ve been kissed by him. He devoured all their creative energies, then chewed up what was left. That’s how he works, Sam. He finds someone who’s really creative, and he feeds on their energy, all the while giving them too many temptations, access to too many excesses, because that way, their energies will be spent faster. He gorges himself on their energy, then eats them for the dessert. What you’ve got out there, those are the ulcerations that remain, the aftertastes, the memories of the legends.”

  “The icons, not the people.”

  He nodded. “You might buy the farm, but your legend never does…and as long as the legend remains, even if it’s just in the mind of one person, then you’re tied to him and his desires. It sucks. If you’re born with any kind of creative talent, you’re on his hit list from the beginning. They’re all here because I dug their music. I’m one of the ulcerations that keeps them alive.”

  “So why not…why not just not play the notes?”

  “You think it’s just as simple as that? Dude, it doesn’t have to be me who plays them. The notes, they’re out there. They’re everywhere. A bird, the sound of the wind, a car backfiring…the notes are all over the place. And every so often, enough of them come together in the same place, at the same, and in the right tempo, that the doorway opens and he comes shambling in. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do to stop it.”

  There was a knock on the door and I rose to see who it was.

  “It’s me,” said the Reverend.

  I let him in. He took one look at Knight, sniffed the air, and said, “Hawaiian seedless?”

  “A man of the cloth who knows his weed,” replied Knight. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “Not anytime soon, from the looks of things.”

  Knight stared at him. “Please don’t tell me Elvis just showed up.”

  “I think he’d feel a little out of place with this crowd.”

  “Is Billie Holiday really there?”

  “She is.”

  Knight shook his head. “Damn. I finally rate Billie. Wow.”

  The Reverend closed the door. “Is it always the same bunch?”

  “Some of them change. Depends on who I’ve been thinking about or listening to before the Mudman finds me.”

  The Reverend did not ask who or what the Mudman was. One look at him, and I knew that he knew. Don’t ask me how, but the Reverend…knows things. Most of the time it’s pretty cool, but sometimes…sometimes it’s just creepy.

  “What are we supposed to do?” he asked Knight.

  “Damned if I know, but if I had to guess, I don’t think it’s up to you to do anything. Whatever’s gonna happen…it’s my call.” He rose from the cot, finished his brandy, and patted down his hair. “And what I’m gonna do, if it’s all right with you, is play in front of an audience one more time.”

  The Reverend considered this for moment. “I think that would be wonderful.”

  And Byron Knight smiled the last genuine smile of his life.

  8

  Everyone gathered around the center of the room as Knight situated himself on a stool.

  Even Morrison and the others looked on him with a sad kind of respect.

  “Any requests?” asked Knight.

  It was Grant McCullers who spoke up. “I’ve always been partial to Bach’s ‘Sheep May Safely Graze.’ It’s kind of a Christmas tune, don’t you think?”

  “I do.”

  And Knight began to play it, smoothly, hauntingly. It was majestic and sad and melancholy and glorious, and yet there was something hesitant about the way Knight played the song; the notes brushed you once, softly, like a cattail or a ghost, then fell shyly toward the ground in some inner contemplation too sad to be touched by a tender thought or the delicate brush of another’s care.

  It was perhaps the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

  And then someone screamed from the basement.

  Timmy was the first to respond, snapping his head in the direction of the scream and muttering, “Terrible, just terrible,” as he ran across the room and down the stairs. Linus hopped up on his cart and made a beeline across the floor, then pushed himself off and took the stairs with his hands as Beth, Lump, and the still-damp Kyle followed after him.

  That’s when I realized that it had been the little girl, Missy, who’d screamed.

  I reached the top of the stairs just as Timmy came around the corner, carrying Missy in his arms, her small, shuddering body wrapped in a towel.

  He was pale and shaking. “Terrible, just terrible.”

  He sounded horrified.

  A few moments later Lump gave out with a snarl and a bark, then came charging up the stairs, Beth and Kyle right behind him.

  “I saw the Bumble,” cried Missy. “He w-w-was…he was in the wall!”

  Beth took Missy from Timmy’s arm and began stroking the back of her daughter’s head. “Shhh, hon, there-there, c’mon, it’s all right…c’mon, you just got a fright, that’s all. The Bumble scares you and you just imagined it.”

  She might have just imagined it, but Lump had seen or sensed something that was making him crazy; his legs were locked in place, his lips curled back, eyes unblinking as he stared at the bottom of the steps and growled.

  “Where’s Linus?” asked the Reverend, coming up beside me.

  “He’s still down there.”

  Ted Jackson joined us. He’d unstrapped the top of his holster and was touching the butt of his gun, ready to pull it. “Jesus Christ in a Chrysler, I about jumped out of my shorts.”

  “Probably nothing,” said the Reverend. “The little girl got spooked, that’s all.”

  I could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe it any more than I did.

  Knight was standing now, holding his guitar like a child, his eyes closed, his face almost peaceful.

  Morrison and the others were gone.

  And from somewhere in the basement, something moved.

  Something big.

  “What the hell?” said Jackson, gripping his gun but not pulling it from the holster.

  Timmy came up to the reverend and grabbed his arm, saying, “Terrible, just terrible,” over and over, getting louder and more excited.

  “Timmy,” said the Reverend, gripping both of Timmy’s arms, “I need you to calm down, c’mon. There you go, deep breaths, all right. Good. Now…did you see something down there?”

  Timmy nodded.

  “Are you sure you actually saw something that was there, or was it—”

  Timmy pointed at his eyes and shook his head: no, it wasn’t one of his visual hallucinations, he knew the difference, thank you very much. “Terrible…terrible…just terrible.”

  Beth was rocking Missy back and forth, whispering comfort in her ear, kissing her cheek, while Kyle sat on the floor beside them, holding his little sister’s hand.

  Whatever was in the basement moved again, and this time with enough force to shake the foundation of the building.

  A few second later, Linus came barreling out on his hands, covered in sweat and shaking, his face even paler than Timmy’s had been.

  �
��You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” he said as he took the stairs two at a time, “but I just saw goddamned Godzilla down there!” He hopped onto his cart and sped over to Missy, Beth, and Kyle.

  Lump still stood at the top of the stairs, ready to attack.

  “Okay, that’s it,” said Jackson, removing his weapon and clicking off the safety. “I’m going down there.”

  “Not alone, you’re not,” said the Reverend.

  Grant McCullers joined us. He was holding a wooden rolling pin. “Hey, it’s the most dangerous thing I could find in that kitchen.”

  “Hang on,” said the Reverend, running back to his office.

  He was gone maybe thirty seconds, just long enough for the whole building to shake once more. The chandelier began to swing, rattling.

  Everyone was gathering in the farthest corner of the room, watching that chandelier.

  Then the lights flickered once, twice, and went out.

  The emergency generator kicked in a few seconds later, and the Reverend was standing next to me, handing out weapons.

  “Goddammit,” said Jackson. “Do you have permits for these things?”

  “Bet your ass I do.”

  He handed Grant a pump-action shotgun, then stuck a .22 in my hands.

  The Reverend had opted for a 9mm.

  “Look at us,” said Grant. “The poor man’s Wild Bunch.”

  The Reverend almost smiled at that. “Let’s go.”

  And we started down the stairs.

  9

  When I was eleven years old, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. She went fast, lasting just over one year, but it was an agonizing year. My dad, who never was worth much of anything, put her to bed and left her there, leaving it up to me to make sure she got her medicine on time, to change her sheets, and to clean her up when she didn’t make it to the bathroom on time.

  Toward the end, I became so angry with him, with his cowardice and drunkenness, that I actually made the mistake of hitting him one night.

  He beat the shit out of me, then threw me out the back door into the yard. It had snowed a lot that week, and there was about a foot of snow and ice on the ground.

  I remember landing on my side, half my face buried in the snow.

  I remember that I couldn’t move because it hurt so much.

  And I remember thinking how cold my ear was getting.

  I regained consciousness about five hours later. A neighbor had come home and seen me laying in the yard. They took me to the hospital where I stayed for almost two weeks. I had pneumonia and frostbite. They had to remove my ear, which was okay because I was deaf on that side, anyway.

  Somewhere in there Dad took off and just left Mom alone. The whole time I was in the hospital, I was so scared because she had no one there to take care of her (one of our neighbors was keeping an eye on her, but I didn’t know that).

  By the time I was released, Mom was all but dead. She lasted just two days after I got home.

  There was no money to cover the hospital bills, so the house was sold, and I was put into the care of the county.

  I remember that as I sat there in the courthouse, waiting for someone from Children’s Services to come and collect me, that I had never felt so alone and afraid in my life. I hated myself for not being there for Mom, and I hated Dad for being such a worthless coward, and I hated looking like a freak with one ear, and I hated everything.

  But mostly, I hated feeling that afraid.

  And I promised myself that I would never, ever, ever feel that afraid again, no matter what.

  A promise that I had kept to myself until the moment the Reverend, Grant, Sheriff Jackson, and I hit the bottom of those stairs and turned in the hallway.

  And I came face to face with the Mudman.

  10

  The east wall had almost completely collapsed, spewing out wood beams, bricks, and mud.

  So much mud.

  And it was moving.

  “Holy Mother of God,” whispered Grant.

  A demon with three bulging red eyes and a four-fanged grin rose up from the muck before us. It was draped in corpse skin and riding a huge black bear. It carried an axe in one hand and a skullcap of blood in the other…and from every side of its form, faces peered out, faces made of black mud, their dark lips working to form words.

  I saw them all; Hendrix, Morrison, Garcia, Ms. Holiday, Cobain, all of them.

  And I felt the buzz in the center of my head as their words began to come clear.

  I Am, I Am, I AM the darkness…I AM, I AM, I AM darkness’s empty belly, the pit at the end of your days…

  It rose up to its fullest height, cracking the ceiling with its back, and lumbered forward, blood spilling from the skullcap, snot and foam dripping from the bear’s snout and mouth, smashing holes into the wall with every swing of its axe.

  Its eyes glowed brighter with every step.

  The Reverend was the first to fire. The bullet slammed into the muck with a loud splat! that did no damage at all. No sooner was the hole made than it oozed closed, healing.

  And with every step, the thing grew larger, the singer’s words louder.

  I AM, I AM, I AM Kichar admi, I AM, I AM, I AM the source of all the songs you sing…

  Grant McCullers pumped four rounds into it but it would not stop coming.

  I AM, I AM, I AM the song the darkness sings, in the pit of my starving belly…

  We continued backing up, all of us firing into its center, none of the bullets having any effect.

  The mud dripped and oozed, clumping into the face of a beggar woman, the body of a dead child.

  The singers continued:

  I AM, I AM, I AM what you made me, what you wanted me to be, I AM, I AM, I AM only my song and nothing more…

  The lights flickered again, and the building shuddered.

  I ran out of bullets, as did everyone else.

  And then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I turned and saw Byron Knight beside me. His face was a mask of peace and acceptance.

  I had to watch his lips, because I could no longer hear anything; the roar of the gunfire was still screaming through my head.

  “I’ve had this appointment for a long time,” he said. “Just…let me go.”

  Cradling his guitar, he pushed past us and walked forward.

  The Mudman stopped moving.

  The singers fell silent.

  And the bear rose up on its hind legs.

  The axe swung down swiftly and surely, deeply burying itself in Knight’s chest. The demon threw back its head and howled with laughter, then pulled Knight from the floor, his legs dangling as blood from his wound pumped down in heavy rivulets, splattering across the floor.

  The demon opened its mouth, its jaws dislodging, dropping down, growing wider, until its face was nothing more than slick, dark maw, big enough to swallow a man whole.

  Which is what it did.

  Then spat out Knight’s guitar, that hit the floor and shattered into half a dozen pieces, the snapping strings a final death groan that echoed against the walls.

  The demon turned around and walked toward the collapsed wall, then crouched down and began to move into the mounds of dirt, sludge, and muck, becoming less and less solid until it became what it had been; just mud.

  I closed my eyes and began to cry. The Reverend came over and put his arms around me.

  It didn’t help much.

  11

  We don’t talk about that night. Oh, every once in a while, when the four of get together to play cards, Grant McCullers will call us “The Wild Bunch” and everyone will get this look on their faces, but that’s as close as we come to discussing it.

  One night Ted Jackson told us a story about something he’d seen after a recent labor riot that made me cringe, and Grant told us what had really happened at the Hangman.

  We listened, and we all believed, but we don’t talk about it.

  Like the Reverend says, this is Cedar Hill. Weird shit happens
here.

  Grant gave Beth and her kids five hundred dollars and put them on the bus to Indiana himself. Lump even got a seat, but he had to ride in a carrier, which didn’t please him too much from all reports. Beth and the kids promised to write and call Grant as much as they could, but if they’ve ever been in touch with him, he hasn’t said.

  The basement was finally repaired after the Reverend got really pushy with a couple of local contractors. So far, it’s holding up fine.

  Linus is touring with another carnival, once again as Thalidomide Man. He sends us postcards all the time.

  I’d almost managed to learn how to live with what I saw, until one afternoon a couple of weeks ago when I was waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change.

  A bird chirped.

  A car backfired.

  A child laughed somewhere.

  The wind whistled.

  And those four notes, in succession, in the right tempo, began that tune, and I remembered Knight’s words: The notes, they’re out there. They’re everywhere. A bird, the sound of the wind, a car backfiring…the notes are all over the place. And every so often, enough of them come together in the same place, at the same, and in the right tempo, that the doorway opens and he comes shambling in. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do to stop it.

  I can’t listen to music anymore. Oh, I hear it, but I’ve trained myself to think of it as background noise, nothing to pay attention to.

  It has to be this way, because I have been made aware of the sequence of notes that, if heard, recognized, and acknowledged, will bring something terrible into the world.

  Of all the things I have lost in this life, it is music that I miss the most.

  Ethel, God love her, has noticed that I don’t seem as “chipper” as I used to be. I smile, shrug, and tell her not to worry, that I’m fine, still seeing the doctor, still taking my medications.

  “You need to stay cheerful, Sam,” she says. “It’s a sad world, and you got to fight it or else it’ll eat you alive.”