The day passed in a kind of fuzzy blur, sometimes dragging, other times seeming to fly by. I couldn’t sleep. The idea of putting a record, any record, on the turntable was almost a physical thing. I avoided it by going out driving.
I found myself on the backroads, realizing I was looking for the house where I’d bought the Victrola. I tried Jason a few times but it always went straight to voicemail. A little tickle began in my belly and I knew if I didn’t get in touch with Jason, it would blossom into fear. I thought about my hangover and how there were only a few empties back home. I didn’t find the yard sale house, and went home to get ready for my date with Angie.
I picked her up early in the evening and we went to a steak house for dinner. There was a great Italian place in town, but it would never live up to her mother’s cooking. Things started out slow but we fell back into our groove after a while and laughed a lot. We went to the movies, some chick flick that I barely stayed awake for, then back to my place.
As soon as we entered the apartment, she saw the Victrola. “Wow, Mark, where did you get this?” She ran her hands around the lip of the horn. I shivered.
“Picked it up at a yard sale,” I said as I fetched us a couple of beers from the fridge.
“Does it work?”
I stopped halfway back to the living room, almost dropping the beers. Sweat broke out on my forehead. What is wrong with me? “Yeah, Jason and I had it working last night.”
Angie didn’t get along with Jason. In fact, she couldn’t stand him. It was part of the reason we fought a lot. I knew better than to even mention his name, and by the look on Angie’s face, I probably just sent the date into a tailspin.
“Can we play a record?”
I handed her a beer, happy to have avoided the subject of Jason. “Sure, pick something out.” I said it casually despite my dry mouth and beating-way-too-fast heart.
She handed me Stranger in Town, one of my favorites. Maybe the night was salvageable after all. I set it on the turntable and dropped the tone arm. I wound the crank and let go of the turntable. The hiss of static lasted just a few seconds before the familiar opening of “Hollywood Nights” blasted from the horn.
I took a long draw from my beer, almost coughing it up when Angie’s hand slid up my thigh. Her eyes were full of mischief and longing. I leaned in and kissed her. I wanted nothing more than to get lost in her body...but something was distracting me. The lights in the room dimmed and I got a sudden chill. But that wasn’t the problem; it was the whispers. Just like last night, I heard something between the words and music of the song. Or maybe behind it.
“What’s wrong, Mark?”
I heard Angie speak but her voice was miles away. And so meaningless. All that mattered was the other voice. It spoke softly but it knew. It had all the truths and it promised to share them with me. The voice’s name was Julian Black. He had so much to teach me. Angie’s voice faded as Julian whispered to me.
* * *
Sunday morning was like Groundhog’s Day of Saturday. The sun was too bright, my tongue felt like a giant wad of cotton, and my head throbbed to the beat of my heart. “What the fuck.” I was on the couch, Angie was gone, and so was my memory of anything that happened after “Hollywood Nights.” Saturday, I was annoyed. Sunday, I was scared.
Julian Black. The name exploded in my head. It did nothing to assuage my fear. Fragments of memories, of conversations, teased me from behind a thick blanket of haze. Did I speak to someone last night? I fumbled around for my cell and called Angie. Straight to voicemail. Same for Jason. My fear was taking steroids, pumping itself up to terror. I took a ragged deep breath and tried to calm myself down.
My eyes found the Victrola and any sense of calm abandoned me. There was still a record on the turntable. I knew it would be Seger before I got there to see it. Side one. Whatever happened, happened fast. I reached for the disk, but my hand ended up on the crank. I started to turn it, then yanked my hand away.
I ran out to my car and peeled out of the driveway. I knew if I got away from that...thing, Julian couldn’t reach me. At least, I hoped so. I drove aimlessly, trying to clear my mind. It was hard with the radio off, but I was too afraid that I’d start to hear him, or it. I had to find a way to stop this, whatever this was. Maybe you’re going crazy. Of course, the thought had occurred to me, but I dismissed it, there was too much pointing at something else going on. Isn’t that what all the crazies say? I shook my head. “No, there’s definitely—” I stopped myself, trying to focus on a rational plan.
“I have to find the house, talk to the people I bought the Victrola from.” I nodded my head. “Shit.” The self-talk had to end. I thought back to last weekend; what was I doing before I stumbled on the yard sale? I had volunteered at the library book sale, then grabbed a bagel and a large coffee, and started driving. The day was warm and sunny, I had the windows down and the music on. “Raven’s Point!” I looked around to get my bearings, then headed toward West Drumlin.
There had been a lot of down time at the library book sale. One of the books I flipped through to pass the time was a New England points of interest guide. There was a “hidden gem” section – most of the places weren’t that hidden and weren’t really gems – but Raven’s Point caught my attention. The article said it was the highest point in West Drumlin with “breathtaking views” and “abundant wildlife.” What really grabbed me was the waterfall - “just a short hike from the trailhead.”
I had been trying to find the trailhead when I ran into the roadblock and stopped at the yard sale. After that, I’d completely forgotten about Raven’s Point. Even though I’d been lost, at least I’d be able to put myself in the general area. I had an unusually good memory for roads and knew I could find my way back to the house. Whether I’d get any answers there was another story. The old couple was creepy and seemed scared. They knew. They knew about Julian Black and sold me that fucking thing anyway.
My thoughts were clearer the farther away from home I traveled. You mean the farther away from that thing. I’d considered just trashing the Victrola, driving somewhere and tossing it off a cliff, but my gut told me it wouldn’t work. Whatever was going on, whatever Julian Black was, I didn’t think he’d let me destroy the Victrola. I surprised myself by thinking logically about something so illogical. It’s not that I didn’t believe in certain supernatural phenomenon, it’s just that I really needed to see something to truly believe: I’d seen enough. As soon as I found the house and got whatever I could from the old guy that sold me that haunted piece of shit, I was going to track down Jay and Angie and make sure they were okay. The alternative threatened to cripple me with despair.
I cranked up the oldies station, fuck Julian Black, and watched the landscape fly by. I smiled when I saw the sign for the Raven’s Point trailhead. If I had found the sign that day, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Joe Cocker was singing about friends and I thought of Jay and wondered just how much of a mess I was in. A few minutes later, I passed an old farmhouse that had an old grain silo that was so tilted it defied gravity. I flashed back to that day – the day I bought the Victrola was now officially that day – and remembered thinking it looked like the leaning tower of Pisa. I’m close.
A few turns later, I knew I was on the right road. I slowed the car and stared at the trees on the right side, knowing there would be a hairpin turn up ahead, then the old cape-style house. I took the turn, my stomach suddenly tight, and slowed the car to a crawl. The break in the trees was just ahead, but when I reached it, something was wrong.
The house was there…but different. What had been a tired but livable old house was now a decrepit ruin. The front yard was a tangled mess of overgrown weeds. The bushes closest to the house threatened to swallow the structure, looming hungrily around it. I pulled into the driveway and switched off the ignition. My stomach felt like someone held it in their fist and was slowly squeezing. I got out of the car and walked along the road, staring into the woods, searching for evidence of the
fallen tree that had blocked the road. I reached the spot where I thought it should be and crashed through the undergrowth. It took a few minutes and cost me a few nasty scratches from some thorn bushes, but I found it. I wished I hadn’t.
The tree trunk was there, but there was no way the tree had fallen just a week earlier. There was no sign of any damage to the bushes and smaller trees that would have been crushed when the big tree fell. What remained of the stump was worn by time and elements. New shoots of whatever kind of tree it was had sprouted and they were taller than me, their trunks as thick as my wrist. The grip on my stomach tightened and an inescapable feeling of dread attached to me. With a sigh, I turned back and made my way back to the road.
I approached the house slowly, as if it were a dog I wasn’t sure was friendly. The closer I got, the more I had the sense I was being watched. There was no breeze. In fact, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the day and I was in a vacuum. There were no cars on the road and none of the usual sounds of insects or birds. The quiet was preternatural. The urge to run to my car was overwhelming, but where would I go? Back to the Victrola?
I stood at the foot of the porch steps looking up at the house. How could it have only been a week ago I stood in this spot talking to an old woman about a record player? I remembered her hand moving like she was going to bless herself and telling me it wasn’t for sale. Then the screen door had opened…. I looked at the door now, hanging from one rusty hinge, the screen in tatters. It wasn’t possible.
My hands were clenched as I moved toward the porch. The stairs were rotted, I was careful to step on the stringers on my way to the door. I pulled the handle and the remaining hinge gave way with an ugly screech. The door crashed to the porch next to me. I twisted the knob of the interior door and pushed. The door resisted, swollen in place, then exploded inward with a groan. The reek of stale air hit me like a warm fetid blanket and I gagged. The expulsion hinted of something worse than decay, it felt wrong. Evil. I hesitated, licking my lips and breathing hard. I wanted to turn and run back to my car but I knew the Victrola and Julian Black waited for me at home.
I stepped inside and was struck by a sense of grief that made tears pool in my eyes. There was no cause for it, it was just there. The sorrow was crippling but I felt compelled to go on. I made my way through the ruins of the house, tears streaming down my face, looking for something. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was there and I was meant to find it.
Random images flooded my mind, a slideshow of misery. A young woman crying by the side of an empty crib. An old man standing in the rain as a coffin is lowered into the ground. A middle-aged man kneeling by the body of a lifeless child, the boy’s bicycle a tangled mess in the grill of the man’s car. The visions threatened to break me, to drive me insane with their burden, but I continued deeper into the house.
I reached what must have been the living room. The shag carpet stunk of mold and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls in skin-like strips. But it was the fireplace that drew me. I stood in front of it, trying to ignore the hateful pictures flashing through my head. I reached out and pulled on one of the bricks, then another. On the fifth try, I felt the brick move at my touch. I wiggled it a few times and pulled it out, letting it drop to the floor with a muffled thud. I reached in, knowing this was why I was here. I pulled the thick leather-bound book from its hiding spot, and ran from the house as fast as I could make my trembling legs move.
As soon as I was outside, the visions disappeared. I fell to my knees, the residual sadness finally weighing me down. I cried for all the people, real or not, that had invaded my consciousness while I was in that house. I felt gutted, but eventually the tears dried up and I returned to my car.
I drove in a daze, my eyes constantly moving to the journal. I waffled between thinking it was my way out of the mess I was in, and thinking it was going to seal my fate. It hit me that if I went home, I just might put the book down and play a record. The thought jarred me and I pulled into the first parking lot I saw, ironically it was a boarded-up Strawberries record store. A bad omen, I thought.
I reached for the journal with shaky hands. It’s just a book. It felt hot in my hands and I told myself it was just from being in the car. Sure, and the thing at home is just an old record player. The first entry, in ink so faded it was barely visible, was from June of 1929. It was written by my newly-made acquaintance, Julian Black. He described his life in somewhat mundane terms and I skimmed ahead. In the early 1930s, Black fell ill and his entries became hard to read, not only due to the trembling hand he must have written them with, but because of their content.
Black spoke of his sudden, though given his condition not unexpected, interest in life-after-death and earth-bound spirits. His entries went from the pseudo-scientific to fever-induced madness. My throat tightened when he mentioned the Victrola. He described insane experiments and his mood went from manic when he perceived things going well, to near-suicidal when another of his lunatic ideas failed. His final entry was dated June 21, 1934: “I’ve done it.”
I swallowed hard and licked my lips with a dry tongue. I flipped ahead a few pages and was shocked to see more writing. The dates were in the 1940s. I looked closer, noticing a difference in the writing. Could he have recovered? Then I saw the signature. Someone else had continued the journal, not Julian Black.
These entries were signed by Frederick Gainsborough. He picked up the Victrola at an estate auction, and almost immediately began experiencing what he called “fugues.” Gainsborough spoke of entire nights that he had no memory of, and the disappearance of friends and family members. I gulped in shallow breaths as I read on. In Gainsborough’s last entry, he outlined a plan to seduce a woman he’d had his eye on. His method? A nice bottle of wine and some soft music on the Victrola.
I turned the pages of the journal, sweat dripping from my brow. The names changed over the years, but the story was always the same. The last completed pages of the journal were dated October of 2007. The author was Francine Jacobs. Her entries were filled with the same pattern: amnesia, missing friends, and the damned Victrola. Francine’s last entry was different than the others – her husband was going to try to make her sell the thing.
I closed the journal and leaned my head on the steering wheel. I knew if I researched Francine Jacobs, her last address would be the house I just came from. I also knew that she killed her husband then committed suicide on the day I bought the Victrola at their yard sale. What I didn’t know was when that happened. For me, it was last weekend, but the date in the journal was ten years ago, and the house certainly looked like it had been vacant for a long time.
I flipped back through the journal and found the same gaps in time between each of the previous owners. It didn’t explain anything, but it fit a pattern. A crippling sense of resignation overtook me. Twenty bucks was what I sold my life for? My soul? I started the car and headed home.
I arrived forty-five minutes later to find a police car parked in front of my house. A cop was walking toward the cruiser from my front door. I grabbed the journal, feeling its heat, and stepped out of the car. My shirt was soaked with sweat and I felt like the word “guilty” was stamped on my forehead. But guilty of what? Images of Jay and Angie flickered in my mind. “Can I help you, Officer?”
He looked up, then back at his notes. “I’m Officer Tobin. Are you Mark Armstrong?”
“Yes, I live here. Is something wrong?” Of course, something’s wrong, two people you know are missing.
He looked at his notes again. “Do you know a Jason Schmidt?”
I always wondered why cops always added the “a” before the name they were asking about. I smiled, but it didn’t feel right. “I’ve known Jay forever. Is he in trouble?”
The cop stared at me for a long minute before answering. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Fucking Colombo. “Tell you what? If he’s in trouble?” The cop stared and I wondered if this tactic ever worked. Did criminals
just wilt under a cop’s gaze and confess everything? This time my smile was real and the cop frowned at me.
“Mr. Armstrong, when was the last time you saw Jason Schmidt?”
“Last weekend. We hung out here listening to music and having a few beers.” The idea of inviting the cop in and putting on a record was hard to resist. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him all week. Listen, do you want to come in and tell me what’s going on?” I motioned toward the house. What are you doing?
“I think that would be best.” He stepped back and let me go first.
I entered the house and immediately my eyes locked on the Victrola. Whatever shit I was in, this wasn’t going to get me out of it. I put the journal on the coffee table and motioned to the couch. “Have a seat, if you like. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you. I just have a few questions… Hey, does that thing work?”
I felt my lips curl into a smile. “As a matter of fact, it does.” Tobin had stepped over to the Victrola and was looking it over. His glance moved to the record collection.
“Would you mind putting something on? My grandparents had one just like this. I never thought I’d see one again, never mind hear one.”
I pulled out “Agents of Fortune” by Blue Oyster Cult. The opening of “This Ain’t The Summer of Love” sounded like shit coming out of the horn, tinny and scratchy. But it wasn’t the music I was hearing, it was the whispering behind the music. Julian Black had all the answers. His master’s voice.
Later that night, I sat on the couch and began writing in the journal.
Ghost Maker
Emma J. Gibbon
Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers Page 17