by Brian Keene
He raised his hand, fingers poised as if holding something, mimicking a long-forgotten moment. Harry closed his fingers to his palm and looked at his nails rather than me as he continued.
“Her polished nails looked so freshly done they appeared wet, and the color—the bright blood red I’d seen too much of in the war—it matched her lips, and all but jumped off in contrast to her pale skin. But those eyes. It was always those eyes I remembered. Of course, it was easier as an adult, and she seemed to come in more often for a while. And the dress helped. In 1938 San Francisco—when I was just a twelve-year-old kid scraping money for his family—a woman in a little black dress was nothing out of the ordinary. But in 1969, while the rest of the patrons’ closets ranged from hippie gear to thrift store military rags as some sort of protest or pride, she was a bit overdressed. And she remained so the next year when she stopped by twice, and then three more times before Elvis died. Looking back, I remembered all five visits from ’69 to ’75. Always in the same black dress with two straps across the back. Always on open mic night. Always one Gin Rickey and then gone until the next time.”
I tightened my brows without meaning to, my question appearing in my expression before it ever formed on my lips. Harry saw it. He smiled with the patience of a grandparent.
“Let me back up and break it down for you. You know who Brian Jones is—or rather, was, right?” He didn’t wait for me to nod as he held up an index finger to count to one. “He’s the first official member of what people call the 27 Club. Seems big musicians tend to die at the ripe old age of twenty-seven on a regular enough basis to make the masses twist it into superstition and urban legend, myth and a morbidly curious checklist. As if to say: you know you’ve made it, if you don’t make it to twenty-eight.”
“I’ve heard of this. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison . . . ”
“Sure you heard of their deaths, but what about their lives? Or rather, the moment that changed their lives . . . and secured their deaths.”
“I’m not sure I follow.” I was genuinely intrigued.
Having worked at The Shantyman for the past several years—as well as moonlighting as an occasional freelance reporter for the music section of the San Francisco Focus—music, musicians, and everything between was a big part of my everyday life.
Harry had retired from The Shantyman before I started bartending there, but he used to come in on open mic nights. He would quietly watch the bar, and the door, rather than the stage. I always thought it was strange—stranger still when he not only stopped coming in but called and asked me to come to him. I realized why as soon as he answered the door in the wheelchair. He brushed it off as an accident the previous winter and escorted me through the house to the back patio where lemonade was waiting at a small black wrought iron table.
“When Brian Jones was seventeen he got himself a guitar for a birthday present, and his love of music was cemented. He died ten years later.” He watched me, my reactions.
“It was accidental though, wasn’t it? An overdose or drowning or something?” I tried to remember the theories around the death of the Rolling Stones’ late guitarist.
“Something.” Harry looked at me and let the word hang out there by itself for a beat too long. “How he died, how any of them died, doesn’t matter. That’s just what the coroner writes down to make the fans and frenzy happy. It’s the why rather than the how. Sympathy for the Devil, indeed.”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table and cocking my head at him. I let my obvious intrigue silently urge him to continue.
“Do you know Hendrix used to carry an old broom around school and pretend it was a guitar? I thought it was that, or maybe the ukulele he found. But I’m fairly certain it was the replacement guitar he bought at seventeen for the one conveniently stolen from backstage. The new one came with a higher price—one not on the tag.”
He had two fingers up and tapped his opposite index finger on the third as he raised it and continued to count.
“Joplin wasn’t an instrument, just her voice. According to the rumors, she was singing on her way home one night, and that song was heard by the wrong ears. She was seventeen.” He held the three fingers up for me to see.
“Do you see it? The pattern? I could keep going. They all did something, bought something, found something, or otherwise had an important musical moment at seventeen, and then died ten years later. Ten years. The length of the contract.”
“Contract? I didn’t realize Joplin had a record deal so young.” I thought I knew my Janis Joplin trivia, and some bizarre tidbit could always come in handy on the next game night.
“No. No record deal. No recording label or studio in that paperwork. Nothing but the darkness and the blood inside it.”
I had been reaching for my lemonade but stopped, pulling my hand back to the safety of my lap. Had Harry lost his mind? What nonsense was he prattling on about? The darkness and its blood?
“It’s a demon, Gwen.” He spat it out and watched me react.
I raised both brows as my eyes widened at the atrocity of his statement. “I’m too old to believe in the boogeyman, Harry. And I would have thought you were, too.”
“This isn’t the boogeyman. This is a demon. An actual, honest-to-goodness demon. A crossroads demon. Marla.”
I opened my mouth, about to call him crazy, when I thought of every story or television show featuring one of the fabled soul collectors. Every tall tale or conspiracy theory centered on them. “Harry . . . ”
“Listen to me, Gwen. Just listen. Hear me out. Think me crazy when you leave here but hear me out.” He splayed his hands on the tabletop, as if bracing reality for the tale he was about to spin.
“I didn’t put it together until I had the internet. I was at the library and saw the computers. I asked the girl what it was all about and she showed me. She showed me how to search archives and find information. And when she walked away, I tried to find Marla. I’d been fascinated with her since I was a child. That black hair and white skin, red smeared across her lips and nails. She was a noir poster come to life, and only needed a cigarette in one of those old holders to finish the image.
“When I couldn’t find Marla, I tried to think of the dates she’d come in, to see if I could tie her to a passing band or something. And that was when it all fell into place. The dates—every single one of them—were right after a new member joined the 27 club.” He leaned forward, his wheelchair creaking as his weight shifted to the front of it. “Every. Single. One.”
“Coincidence, Harry. Plus, didn’t you say you saw her way back in 1938? It couldn’t have been her all those times.”
“You’re not listening, Gwen. She’s a demon. Demons don’t age. Maybe crossroads demons specifically keep their youth by taking it from those who make pacts with them. Every one of those musicians had something happen when they were seventeen, and then died at twenty-seven. Each of them.”
“Harry . . . ”
“Ten years. That’s what she gives them. Ten years to accomplish what they might. Morrison spent his senior year reading and reporting on a lot of old English books about demonology. He was seventeen. It makes me wonder just what he was looking for—the answer, or is that where he found the problem in the first place?”
“Okay, so if we believe this theory that some crossroads demon wiped out the great musicians of the 60s and 70s, then what? You said you didn’t want me to report on this? You don’t want this in the Focus?”
“No, it’s not just the 60s and 70s. Jones wasn’t the first. Robert Johnson knew of the crossroads.”
“The old blues singer?”
Harry nodded with exuberance, as if suddenly excited I was actually part of the conversation. “He sang of them. He tried to warn us. But he couldn’t hide, and no one was listening. I think he was the first. I think. And the latest won’t be the last. Not unless you help me.”
“The latest? Morrison? That was a while ago. Twenty-some years . . . ”
“
He wasn’t the last. After him was McKernan, and then Ham, and actually quite a few since. It didn’t stop when they quit burning their bras, she just targeted smaller stars.”
“Wait, help you? What do you need me to do? An expose, or maybe a book rather than a story?”
“No no, nothing of the sort. No one listens. They just turn it into fiction and myth. I need you to stop her.”
“Stop her?” I shook my head. “How? When? Harry . . . ”
“You see the news last night? That’s why I called you. Open mic night is tonight. She’ll take a bus or train down from Seattle. Always seems to be public transportation with her. It’ll take her twenty hours to get here. Time enough for me to get you here, to tell someone who can be there, who can stop her. I was there every open mic night for years waiting for her but never saw her. She’ll be there tonight. I promise you she will.”
“She? A demon? A demon who kills musicians for giggles?”
“Not for giggles, for contracts. For souls. And yes, she’ll be there.”
“Wait, last night . . . I didn’t see the news this morning before I got your call. What happened?”
“That grunge kid, with the dirty-blond shaggy hair. I can’t think of his name. She’ll be down to celebrate her contract with a drink. You need to serve it to her.”
“Serve what?”
“Her drink.” Harry pulled out a small bottle of gin. “Use this. Think of it as saving future musicians, rather than taking out a demon if it makes you feel better.”
I squinted at the little bottle as he put it on the table. I didn’t believe the bottom-shelf label for even a moment.
“What’s in that?”
“Holy water.” He watched my face. “Holy water and nothing more. Make her a drink with this instead of gin. If I’m wrong, you’ll have a customer complaining about weak drinks. If I’m right . . . ”
“Harry, I can’t do that.”
He pointed to his wheelchair, “I can’t. You won’t. There’s a difference.”
“But Harry. Even if I believed you—”
“If you didn’t believe me, you wouldn’t have picked up the bottle.”
I looked down and realized I was holding the tiny glass bottle claiming to be a single shot of cheap gin. “Holy water?”
“Holy water. Not even gin. I poured that out.”
“And if I drank this myself?”
His eyes widened, “Don’t do that. Please.” His expression bounced through several emotions and unspoken reactions before he calmly opened his mouth and settled on his words, “It took me some doing to get that in my condition. I’d hate to waste it.”
I pushed the chair back and stood, bottle still in my hand. I didn’t believe him, but I wanted to believe in him. He’d always been a good guy, with a great reputation at the bar. There was no harm in letting him think I was on his side.
“Okay, Harry. Okay.” I smiled weakly and dropped the bottle into my pocket. “If your demon comes in, I’ll make her a drink.”
“Marla. You remember her description?”
I nodded.
“Good luck, Gwen.”
He was so serious when I left. So solemn. As if he’d sent me on a holy mission from which I may not return, like a general sending soldiers to battle with a salute.
I thought about our conversation when I got to work. I thought about writing up a piece for the Focus on my own. It was an interesting theory. And one I forgot as soon as the crowd started coming in.
The grunge star’s death had people out mourning his life through his art, and open mic night was busier than usual. The standard smattering of truemusicians—trying to get heard by the right audience—were outnumbered by half-drunk lovers of the Seattle music scene. The tables near the stage were full, but the bar was abandoned except for the occasionally slurred drink order that then returned to their table. I heard a couple of his more popular songs a few times too many, as tone-deaf fans attempted to pay tribute. I even had to call the bouncer over to break up a fight about which Seattle band was better and who would take his place now that he was gone.
“Gin Rickey, please.” The smooth female voice caused me to freeze mid-motion, as I was head down washing the rail glasses.
I looked up into the deepest, darkest eyes. Eyes devoid of emotion. Black eyes that matched the hair framing the ghostly white face. Bright red, freshly manicured fingertips pushed a ten-dollar bill and a torn bus ticket receipt across the bar at me. As she spun to watch the stage, I noticed the little black dress had two straps across the back, almost making an inverted cross. I heard myself swallow.
I wondered if she did.
I looked at the gin on the rail, but my hand went to my pocket instead. Just holy water, I told myself as I poured it into a glass below the ledge, out of sight of patrons and staff alike. I grabbed a half lime from the garnish bin and squeezed it into the glass. A squirt of soda and the drink was ready. I starred at the highball glass and its innocent looking drink.
She nodded her head toward the muted television at the end of the bar. Police tape at the end of the driveway outside the rock star’s home provided the backdrop for a female reporter on the screen.
“You know he lived under a bridge after he was kicked out of his house at seventeen. Cold nights alone in the dark can lead to strange conversations with oneself and whoever may be listening . . . ”
Seventeen. I heard the age she said. I remembered Harry’s words.
I held my breath as she polished the drink off quickly, barely pausing between swallows.
Something swirled in the blackness of her eyes. Something that looked a lot like fear. She clutched her throat, coughed, and locked eyes with me.
I backed up, bumping into the counter and causing bottles to jostle and clank against each other.
Blood appeared at the corner of her red lips, in a dainty display of graceful macabre. She didn’t bother to wipe it away as her face twisted in pain and agony. Her eyes squinted shut as her body reacted—convulsing, shuddering, flesh rippling as if something moved beneath it.
She opened her mouth and I thought she was going to scream. She slammed both hands down to the glossy varnished wood of the bar, fingers splayed, red nails like drops of blood splattered across the surface. Her eyes widened, and she looked at me, beyond me. Fear, pain, rage, and acceptance all swirled in and out of her expression.
“Tell Harry,” her smooth voice had become a rough whisper, cracked and forced as she struggled to finish her sentence. “It wasn’t the strychnine, Gwen. The water . . . water was enough.”
I shook my head—barely, quickly, like a tapped bobble-head—unsure what to say. Not knowing how to react.
She knew my name.
She knew Harry.
And she knew what Harry and I had done.
Her mouth still open, I saw the blackness inside and realized it matched her eyes—the depths of absolute nothing, like the infinite darkness on a starless night. And then I watched it change, as fire came from her throat.
Flames shot out of her eyes, her nose. They burst from her in a spray of heat and anger, spitting like an over-stoked campfire, sending sparks and embers to skitter along the bar rail. Just as quickly, the flames were pulled back in—not to be doused, but to burn from within as they wormed along underneath her pale skin, traveling the length of her arms and up her neck as if her veins were on fire. Her flesh reddened and blistered. Then it darkened as it burned to a blackened crisp. The tiny sounds of her death—crackling and sizzling—filled my ears, even as her own soundless scream washed across her expression. A burst of flame and fire, of pain and death, and then it was done.
Her skin and hair, her red lips and black eyes, all turned from the dark burnt color of charcoal to a spent-match gray and crumbled. She was gone. Ash, where she’d been, fell to the floor to get lost in the dust and dirt there. Nothing but a ten-dollar bill and a bus ticket stub to prove she’d ever been there.
I looked around. All the other patrons se
emed to be mesmerized by the girl on stage singing a slowed-down version of Endless, Nameless. None of them saw anything. None of them seemed to care that a woman had just burst into flames and turned to dust.
“Hey, Gwen?” I turned and stared at the bouncer saying my name with a curt tone, suggesting it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.
I was locked inside a terror no one shared. My heart—trying to beat free of my chest—scared me as much as the insanity of what I’d just seen. What I’d just done.
“You okay? You look like shit.”
I shook my head and ran for the bathroom. How could no one have seen anything? I needed to ask Harry if any of the patrons had ever appeared to see her, to interact with her. Or was it just him. Just me.
Just the bartender she chose to show herself to?
When I stopped at Harry’s in the morning I found him dead. They said natural causes, but I know better. I saw the strange burn mark on his hand.
It’s been seventeen years since that night. I never wrote the article. I never told anyone what happened.
I still have the little empty bottle and bus ticket stub—tucked into the bottom of my jewelry box, hidden but not forgotten. I’ve thought about throwing them away on occasion, but I never seem to be able to get myself to do it. Like without the proof, it didn’t happen, and if it didn’t happen then I’m crazy.
I need to not be crazy.
I refilled the bottle this morning at St. Paul’s down the street on my way to work. It’s in my pocket. I realize now, Harry probably mixed holy water with strychnine, but Marla had screwed up by telling me I didn’t need the strychnine. The water was enough to stop her.
At least for seventeen years.
I don’t know if she’ll look the same, and I worry she’ll recognize me. But I have to try.