by Brian Keene
“It was the man in the mask. The one who killed all those people.”
“The man in the mask scared you?”
“Yes, he scared me. Because it was him that night. That night at the Shantyman.”
My mouth hangs open but I can’t summon the strength to close it. “That’s quite the implication. Are you saying a man who played a costumed killer in a movie took to killing in real life?”
“No, not the actor. His name was Harold and he died of overdose before the film was released. I am talking about the killer himself. You see, he stepped out of the screen, so to speak, and into our world.”
It’s a long time before either of us speaks. The apartment is no longer charming. While there aren’t any pentagrams etched into the floor, the man before me has gone from eccentric to unstable in seconds. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“You think I’m crazy.”
I shake my head. “Of course not. I’d like to continue the interview if you don’t mind. I’ll only need a few moments.”
“It’s down the hall and to the right.”
I stand too quickly and follow his directions. The hallway is littered with Harpie posters, all of them placed in expensive-looking frames. For someone who wants to forget the past, he’s doing a poor job. I locate the bathroom, across from what appears to be the bedroom. The door is partially open and I see a bedside table. The journalist in me wants to investigate but fight-or-flight wins out. I close the bathroom door and throw cold water onto my face. This is the biggest story of my career. The money could be life changing. I make a promise to my reflection. Finish the interview and get the hell out of Soho.
I flush the toilet, try to compose myself, step back into the hallway.
Vincenzo is still sitting at the table. “You think I’m crazy,” he repeats without turning around. “I don’t care if you believe me or not. It isn’t my concern.”
I sit back down and ask him to go on.
“I am sure during your research you heard about . . . certain activities Harpie was involved in.”
“You mean occult activities.”
“Yes. Those.”
“I assumed they were just rumors.”
“They for the most part were. But all rumors are a bit true, aren’t they?”
“I suppose so.”
“The Shantyman has a long history of strange happenings. You are aware of this, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” If given more time for this assignment, I would go into detail about San Francisco’s Shantyman. Harpie’s last show (and only North American appearance) is far from the only unexplained phenomenon within the club’s walls. There has been a slew of unsolved murders throughout the years but I’m drawn to Vincenzo’s story. To my knowledge, his case boasts the highest body count. That’s no easy feat considering the venue’s history.
Vincenzo pulls out a silver case of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”
“It’s your home.”
He lights one, breathes for an eternity, exhales. “I’ve been clean for many years. No drugs or drink. Just these. They will end up killing me.” He points to his chest. “The doctor begs me to stop. My lungs sound tired. Much like me.” He looks out the window, perhaps at the Dunkin Donuts or antiques shop, perhaps at something I can’t see. For the rest of the interview, I remain quiet. You’ll understand why.
“I was the outsider of the band. I had a wife and a child—before they left me—and I did not wish to fall into bad habits. Drugs were one thing. Black magic another. Lorenzo was the first to dabble. Between our third and fourth albums, he went on holiday for three months. I do not know where. He changed his story all the time. One day Transylvania, the next Norway. All that I know is he came back a changed man. He had lost weight and looked like the skeletons on our album covers.
“Our music was different from then on. Darker. Being the rhythm guitarist and the family man of the band, my involvement was less as time went on. The guys wrote the songs and I played them. When we got the Wolf gig, I didn’t like what they were writing. It didn’t sound like music at all. It sounded . . . like pain. Like the soundtrack to not a movie but hell itself.”
He stubs his cigarette and immediately lights another.
“The guys had a hard time writing the score. Nothing fit. There were plenty of bloody pictures in Italy but Wolf—it got under your skin. One night during recording, I left the studio early but I forget my house keys. When I went back, the lights were off and there were candles lit. I saw too many people in the control room. The producer and engineer had stepped out. There should’ve been only four. But I saw five. The fifth was not in the band. He was the man in the mask, you see. The man who killed at our last show.
“I don’t know what they said or did. All I know is that I saw the killer with the black mask next to them while they hummed something under their breath. It would become the melody to the title track.
“After that, I started coming around less. When it came time to tour for Wolf, I was not a happy man. My daughter, Violet, was just learning to walk and I missed a lot of moments. When I returned, I was different. Not like Lorenzo but different just the same. What I saw that night at the Shantyman—it took a toll on me. Anger and drinking took over and my family took off. They were smart to do so. But I digress.
“Despite everything, I was still excited to play the Shantyman. It is the dream of every musician. Think of a band that is important—timeless—and they have played there. Like I said before, about the club’s history—it adds a certain, shall we say, morbid charm. The night of our last show, I tried to stay away from the dressing room. Had a bad feeling. Call it a hunch. I stood outside the door before show time, waiting, as they guys hummed that same melody. They whispered too. I heard a voice that I did not recognize above the others. When the door opened, I pretended to pace, blamed it on nerves. They said nothing as we went to the stage. Nothing else that night or ever.
“We played three older songs before Wolf came up on the set list. The house lights dimmed. The audience cheered. I waited for the guys to count me in.
“And when the lights came back on, I saw him.”
Saw who? I want to ask but I already know the answer.
“He was different from the movies. Trench coat more ragged and ripped. His mask wasn’t how I remembered. It seemed too dark, like it was not a mask at all but flesh. He held something in his hands and I knew what it was by the time he raised the knife and cut the girl standing next to him. She screamed but the music was too loud.
“I screamed too—and tried to stop playing. Except I couldn’t. My fingers—they worked against my wishes. I turned toward Lorenzo and he winked at me. I knew then. Whatever he learned in whatever place he visited—it was worse than I thought. He smiled as my hands played on their own.
“The crowd did the same. They stood still, watching instead of fleeing, many of them dying while frozen. The man with the mask took his time, cherishing each swing of the blade. The blood covered the floor like a flooded basement. He made his way to the stage and I watched him kill my band mates. My friends, no matter how far apart we’d grown. He took Harpie out one by one. Until he got to me.”
I finally speak up. “Why didn’t he kill you?”
“Because he told me something. A secret.”
“What secret?”
He opens his mouth and for a moment, I think This is it, the big reveal, what I’ve been waiting for. But he shuts it quickly and reconsiders his next words.
“I am afraid I cannot say. For that would mean passing it on to you.”
“Passing what on?”
“The curse—if that’s what it is. Whatever Lorenzo brought back. Some knowledge we are not meant to know. As long as I do not speak it aloud, we will both live. At least I think that’s how it works. I am no expert.”
It sounds like a veiled threat or perhaps I’m just paranoid. Either way, I decide to end the interview. When you’re a journalist, you follow your gut. Sometimes it te
lls you to charge forward. Other times, like this, it tells you to run away as fast as you can. I heed my gut’s advice and thank Vincenzo for his time.
He sees me out and asks one last question.
“The interview. Please do not make me sound crazy. I have been holding on to this for very long. I do not have my band or my family. I have nothing but my name.”
“Of course.” I wonder how to write this story while maintaining his credibility, decide to worry about it later, and jog down the stairs.
At home I take a long shower until the water runs frigid. It doesn’t wash away the fear like I’d hoped. Every few moments, I’m certain I hear my back door creak open. Just nerves, I tell myself.
After, I open my laptop, write some notes, drink a glass of wine, watch a romantic comedy on Netflix, eat leftover Chinese, and complete countless other arbitrary tasks that will delay the inevitable process of writing the article.
Finally, I sit back at my desk, another full glass of wine in hand. The drink has gone to my head. It calms me some, creates the illusion that everything is as it should be.
I write three or four paragraphs before my mind wanders. It’s too hard to concentrate, so I decide to listen to our interview. The sound quality isn’t great. I’ve been promising myself a new recorder, something that comes across as halfway professional, but journalism isn’t the world’s highest paying profession.
I sip the wine and file my nails while listening, about to shut it off when we arrive at the moment where I excused myself to the bathroom. My face grows cold but not because I recall the faucet water.
Vincenzo goes on speaking; to whom, I’m not sure.
His apartment seemed empty. I heard no one else. From my research, he appears to live alone. As he mentioned, his family left long ago. I think back to the bedroom, how the door wasn’t quite closed, wonder if anyone was in there. Waiting. But for what?
His words aren’t in any language I’ve ever heard. You’d think it was just gibberish except there’s a certain cadence to the syllables, order within the chaos.
The cold spreads from my face to my body as a theory creeps into my mind.
What was it Vincenzo had said?
As long as I do not speak it aloud, we will both live.
But he had spoken it aloud while I was out of the room. And now, whatever curse he mentioned—it’s here with me. I’m sure of it. As sure as I am of the shadow that appears on my desk before me. The computer screen fades to black, going to sleep, and I’m in the club—in the Shantyman, where the house lights have dimmed and everyone is waiting for their favorite Italian prog rock band to play their favorite horror movie theme.
Except unlike the house lights, the screen stays black. Black enough so that I can see the reflection of the figure standing directly behind me. As unnatural at it seems, and as scared as I am, I’m not the least bit surprised at the trench coat and the fedora and the mask. All of them black, of course. Blacker than anything I’ve ever known.
I clutch the nail filer like a knife and spin around, ready to stab the thing, the man, whatever it is, with my makeshift weapon.
But there’s nothing there.
I’m alone again, though it feels like the opposite is true.
I grab my jacket and hail a cab to Soho, stop on the sidewalk between the Dunkin Donuts and abandoned antiques store. It’s a long time before I can convince myself there’s no one staring from inside the shop. Or maybe there is. The windows seem dingier now.
Across the street, the apartment building is mostly dark. The city may never sleep but it does rest every once in a while. Aside from the distant sound of traffic and chatter, New York is preternaturally quiet.
There is a sole light on across the way. And in that bright square, an old Italian man watches me. He is statue still, as if he’s been waiting. I suppose he has.
He nods to me as if we’ve entered some secret agreement.
It’s my curse now, mine to pass on to the next unfortunate owner.
Assuming I find someone in time.
From behind, I hear the antiques store’s front door unlock, hear it open, hear footsteps draw near.
I break into a sprint.
The night isn’t over just yet. The bars are still open and there must be someone starved for a good story. I’m a journalist, after all. It’s what I do.
I’d love to tell them about a man named Vincenzo.
PILGRIMAGE
Bryan Smith
A tour bus pulled into an almost empty parking lot early in the afternoon on the sixth day of August in the year 2019. Adjacent to the lot was a single one-story building. The only other vehicle in the lot was an unoccupied 1970s-era Chevelle. The old muscle car was in pristine condition, with new paint, new tires, and a set of fancy new rims that gleamed in the brilliant glare of the San Francisco sunshine. Of the eye-catching ride’s owner, there was no sign, but Jason Dobbs knew one thing for sure—whoever the owner was, he or she was rolling in cash. That or in hock up to their eyeballs, because a top-notch restoration job on a car of that vintage couldn’t be done cheaply.
He nudged the person in the seat next to him, then pointed out the window. “Hey, George. Check out the sweet wheels.”
George Sanderson took a break from making out with Karla Donahue, his girlfriend, and craned his head around to look in the indicated direction. “Oh, wow. Nice old school transpo.”
Jason nodded. “Hell, yeah. Can’t you just see yourself rolling down the strip back home in that thing in, like, 1976 or whatever?”
George grinned, warming to the idea. “Sure can. Bunch of hot girls in the back. Bell-bottom jeans and tube tops. Awesome tunes cranking on the 8-track player while a fat blunt gets passed around.”
Karla leaned over the guys for a look at the subject of conversation. She did so at an angle that allowed Jason to see straight down the front of her top. The view was pretty breathtaking. She had incredible breasts. His face flushed hot as he stared down the valley between them. He was pretty sure she’d done this on purpose. It was not the first time she’d blatantly taunted him with her sexuality. As always, he felt a mixture of titillation and shame. This was his best friend’s girl. He felt he should do something to discourage the behavior, but how he might go about doing that without making things awkward or even hostile between the three of them, he did not know.
She had choppy dyed-black hair that wasn’t quite shoulder length and was dressed in the manner of rock and rollers from a bygone era. The outfit included a studded black leather biker jacket, a studded dog collar around her throat, a tight, low-cut red top that left very little to the imagination, black-and-white striped pants, and Doc Martens. Rings adorned nearly every finger. Some were plain bands of various colors, but the selection included multiple skull rings. Dramatic black eye makeup rounded out a look Jason figured was best summarized as “rock and roll wet dream.”
She pulled back from the window, returning to her seat on the other side of George. “I don’t think they had that term back in the 70s. Blunts. That came out of hip hop. I think.”
Jason turned his face toward the window, hoping the others wouldn’t see the bright red tinge to his cheeks.
George, at least, seemed oblivious to his embarrassment, regarding his girlfriend with a frown as he said, “Okay, enlighten me. What was the preferred vernacular of the time?”
She grunted. “Doobies, I think.”
George snorted. “Doobies? Like the fucking Doobie Brothers or some shit?”
“Yeah. Where do you think those guys got their name? They were a bunch of pot-smoking hippies.”
George laughed. “You sound pretty knowledgeable on the subject. Name one song by the fucking Doobie Brothers.”
“Shut up. That’s not the point.”
George laughed again and nudged Jason. “You listening to this shit, man?”
“Yeah, Jason,” Karla said, her tone playful but with a subtle undercurrent of mockery. “We need your opinion on this all-imp
ortant matter. You’re the authority on all things retro.”
Enough of the heat had faded from Jason’s cheeks that he felt comfortable turning away from the window. “Actually, I don’t—”
An abrasive burst of loud static from the overhead speakers made him grimace and fall silent. The abrupt sound elicited startled gasps of displeasure from several other people on the bus. All heads turned to the front, where a tall, abundantly bearded fat man stood with a radio handset gripped in one of his massive paws. He coughed and thumbed a button on the side of the handset. “Sorry, folks. Was having some technical issues. Anyway, I’m sure at least a few of you recognize the very famous building off to our right. It’s been featured in several documentaries and a great number of the most iconic photos in the history of rock and roll were taken inside this storied edifice.”
Some drunken-sounding individual from the back of the bus let out an obnoxiously loud whoop. “David Bowie! Woo!”
The fat tour guide smiled in an indulgent way. “You are correct, sir. Woo, indeed. David Bowie was one of the many legends to play a show on these hallowed grounds. Others you might have heard of include Led Zeppelin in their infancy, the Doors, Humble Pie, Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead, Van Halen when they were starting out, and many more. Lot of the biggest and most influential punk bands of the 70s played here, too.”
The same drunk from the back let out another whoop. “Sid Vicious! Sex Pistols! Woo!”
Karla snorted laughter and raised her voice in a whoop of her own. “Woo! Rock and roll! Woo!”
The drunk in the back laughed so hard Jason worried the force of it might result in a seizure. On the bright side, at least it would shut him up.
The tour guide’s smile looked strained now. He cleared his throat and again thumbed the button on the side of the handset. “The Shantyman has always been more than just a legendary place to see live music performed. It is a destination. It is living history. The venue has played host to a dizzyingly diverse range of artists, including some who later became figures of myth in their own right. And it is a place where the ghosts of the past never seem far away, where guitar chords struck at the end of legendary performances decades earlier seem to linger in the air still, at least for those attuned to the right mental frequencies. For those with a deep love for music, there is something almost sacred about the Shantyman. Little wonder, then, that so many are willing to travel from so far away to experience the special vibe of the place firsthand.”