Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  Can't Find My Way Home

  A huge, detached, brick home seated in the lush countryside fills my view. So much has changed since I was last on Earth I can't be certain where I am. The house sits in an exclusive area on a road called St. Marks. These hills reek of cash.

  Have I made it? I'm pretty certain that girl's accent was American, so I had to go all the way across the pond. Is traveling really this easy? With a little focus, I find myself inside the house, standing in an office where that same smarminess that always filled my gut with sick whenever Stoddard entered the room looms in the air.

  Behind an intimidating, wood desk hang gold records awarded to Benjamin Stoddard. The entire room is lined in riches—riches that he undoubtedly stole. Some type of camera is mounted in one corner. If I'm visible to whoever is on the other side of that thing, I'll soon know.

  While I circle the room, my picture on one of the awards stops me dead in my tracks. It's a platinum certification of something called, Love Machine—The Complete Masters, awarded to Benjamin Stoddard. Platinum? I never knew of this album, and I've certainly never heard of a platinum designation.

  A little silver disk has been placed inside where the album should be. My, records have gotten small. Where are the grooves? The date of the award says two thousand nine.

  Two thousand nine? We were still selling in two thousand nine? What in the bloody hell year is this?

  I dart to the desk in search of a calendar but only find a few gadgets. Have people done away with paper? All that is here are some plastic whatsits. One of them reminds me of the futuristic phones that were coming out in the sixties, but the thing is minuscule and has no handset or cord. A big, flat rectangle with wires coming out of it is propped up on a stand. A little device resembling a flat plastic orb sits next to some kind of typewriter without a place to put the paper. It reminds me of part of the consoles that accompany those big tape machine computers in the movies. Where has my bum landed?

  The orb has the feeling of wet plaster as my hand drags through it and the desk it sits on. The same thing happens when I try to touch the rectangle on a stand. A fizz comes from it, and the box pops to life like a telly. Where are the knobs? Why can't I find a bloody calendar?

  The knobless telly again fizzes and a calendar appears. Across the top it says, "April 2014."

  Twenty-fourteen? I've been dead over forty years! Is that bastard Stoddard really still alive? Just how old would that geezer be now?

  A pen sits on the desk. Now there is something I recognize. If I can transport my body I should be able to move other things. Mentally I attempt to lift the pen. Nothing happens. I try again while envisioning a zapping force sprouting from my brain. The faintest of movements occurs, though it's ever so slight that it may only be my imagination.

  The doorknob flicks. Strolling into the room is an old guy who's nearly bald and the sparse hair that's left is gray. Although lines crinkle around his eyes and he moves a little slower than before there's no mistaking that this is the guy who ruined everything for me.

  Stoddard heads straight for his desk, passing right through me. So it's April, two thousand and fourteen. I'm finally with Stoddard, and I can't do anything but barely rattle the pen on his desk. This is bloody ridiculous.

  Anger pulses through me so heatedly that I perceive the room filling with steam. My hands grip around Stoddard's neck with the intent to strangle him, but they don't take hold. I'm all the more enraged. He loosens his shirt collar and clears his throat, all the while playing with the little plastic orb.

  How dare he not feel my anger? That platinum record belongs to me. I'm the one who wrote the songs. I'm the one who slaved in the studio. All he did was steal my money. My hand goes through the record as I try to rip it off the wall. "You filthy bastard!"

  Stoddard looks around the room. His back does a little shimmy before he resumes his work.

  That's the best I can do? Slightly disturb this guy? I've got to find a better way.

  With my mind I try to fling the record at him, but all it does is tip off center. Stoddard looks at it questioningly before strolling towards it and snickering, "Peter Lane, you are still a thorn in my side."

  "No, Stoddard, I've only begun to cause you problems. Mark my words; somehow I will get you where it hurts most."

  I can't stand to look at the bastard anymore so I storm for the door. I have no problems passing through the barrier. I've got to find Jane. Somehow I need to let her know I'm sorry for all the bad things that happened. Focusing on Stoddard brought me here, so focusing on Jane has to take me to her.

  The memory of Jane's beautiful, blue eyes cools my anger. The tenderness of her touch. The softness of her voice. They are all so heavenly and all retained in my soul. How does she look now? Has time gotten to her like it did Stoddard, or is she still lovely? I bet my heavenly creature is still as glorious as a fragrant rose.

  Calm swirls through me, and I feel transported to a brighter place. When my eyes open I'm back in the home of the Rosalyn girl. Bloody hell!

  When I died the place we lived in was on fire. Did it get fixed and Jane stayed? I focus on the flat while remembering all of its little details before internalizing the emotions of my life with her. I open my eyes and find myself standing before it. At least I think I am. It looks completely different, yet I am certain this is the right place. Inside the home children laugh and a lady prepares a meal. Nowhere can I find an indicator Jane was ever here.

  I shut my eyes and focus deeper on her beauty. I miss her touch, her scent—everything about her. When my eyes spring open I'm back at Rosalyn's.

  I'm too late. I must be too late. Why else would I return to this room that contains a shop full of albums, some furniture, a fireplace, and … and its mantle crowed with pictures.

  My hair flips back as I stride toward the mantle. The snaps show Rosalyn and the girl who came into the room before I left along with other smiling faces. None of those faces belong to Jane or anyone I know to be related to her.

  Wait. What is this?

  A faded snap grabs my attention. It's of a couple I know all too well—my old friend Vincent Marsden and his wife. How the hell is Marsden tied in with all of this? I need to keep exploring this house.

  Bless The Wings (That Bring You Back)

  Being freaked out by summoning Peter continues to unsettle me as I try to find a comfortable spot on the mattress. The whole thing plays in my mind like the scene in The Brady Bunch where Marcia gets it in the nose with a football, over and over again.

  In the darkness I yank open the nightstand drawer and reach for the nearest battery-operated boyfriend. What will it be? A loving romance, a one night stand, or shall I turn into a shameless groupie whore? In light of my agitation level the whore route sounds best.

  My hand slinks down my leg and slides up my silky nightgown. The boy toy touches me in that oh-so-perfect spot that makes my very core gasp with delight. Yes, the groupie whore is what I need. It's nineteen eighty-four. He's got long, over-sprayed black hair, tight black pants, and hazel eyes. As the tip of the vibrator reaches its destination a liquid ache begins. It's time to turn the knob and—

  "What do you know about Jane?"

  Peter's voice sends my body jerking and flailing as my heart tries to smack itself out of my body. I try to mute my shriek so I don't freak out Jacqueline. "What the hell are you doing here? Jesus!"

  Peter stands at my desk, staring out the window and toward the heavens. "I can't find her. I need to know what happened." His voice is so distant and lost his pain radiates into my throat.

  So that's his unfinished business. Maybe I should stay across the room because I have no idea what this man is like and he may hard-core flip out when he hears what happened. Oddly I do have a natural inclination to be close and offer comfort. Somehow I know that I am safer with him here than I've been in years. My hand slips through his body as I attempt to touch his shoulder, yet it makes direct contact with a vibration of despair. His pain m
akes my inner fangirl cave way to the woman with a broken heart.

  "You don't need to say it. If she's not here she must be over there." His voice is soft and broken. "She was too young to die. I was too. My twin brother was younger still. I spent my days trying to enjoy life to the fullest because of his loss. It's unnatural to die young. You hold the answers as to what happened with Jane, don't you?"

  "Maybe." I sit at my desk and open my laptop. Peter bends down with his head next to mine. His radiating sorrow reminds me of my own. The comfort of an understanding soul fills part of a void that has resided inside since I can first remember. My eyes get misty while feeling as if I've finally come face-to-face with the brick wall of reality.

  Through my burning, blurry eyes, I type in the name Jane MacFadden Lane. Each image causes tears to form as if I've lost another person who's dear to me. Peter is undeniably right. No one should die as young as he did, let alone those we lost that barely got started.

  On Peter's Wikipedia page sits all of the information; news of Jane's car going off the road and soaring down a hill, her death being ruled a suicide, and the conspiracy theory that after the crash somebody set the car ablaze. A witness said two men, covered in blood, were seen running away from the wreckage. "There is no way that Jane killed herself," Peter mutters through sniffles. "She was stronger than that. So, so much stronger."

  "How do we find the truth?"

  "I don't have to. I know she was meant to die in that fire with me because of my big mouth. Everything started coming together to shut me up while they made their plans to take us out. If we looked happy and perfect, people would focus on that instead of questioning why our lives had fallen apart. That's why they finally gave me some of the money I deserved. Keep suspicion low, and keep Peter Lane's trap shut. I'm certain that was the mantra."

  "Your death wasn't an accident?"

  His eyes press shut. "No," he whispers, firmly.

  I can't look any longer. Though I have missed seeing her lovely face, thinking about the pain I caused Jane is unbearable.

  The glow of the dastardly thing lights up numerous sketches of people and places tacked to the wall behind the desk. All of them are in black-and-white except for one of a young man with hope-filled eyes who sits in a café and plays with something on a colorfully streaked table. It strangely deepens my hurt. I continue looking for a new diversion and find another sparing use of color that sends my head spiraling—a portrait of me I thought long gone. How does she have that drawing? "Where did you get that?" That sketch is the reason I keep winding up here.

  "I drew it," she tells rather nonchalantly.

  My head snaps in her direction. "You did? When?"

  "The night I first tried to reach you. I couldn't sleep, so I did that."

  "What picture did you take it from? Did you find it on that computer thing?"

  Her cheeks go a tad red. I seem to be embarrassing her. "It just came to me."

  I take a closer look at the sketch and shrug off my outward excitement while inwardly acknowledging that if I weren't dead I'd fear a heart attack. "I guess I'm just surprised at the pose. Why did you put me in a garden at sunset?"

  "I don't know. I just sort of had an image in my head and followed it."

  My chest tightens as I recall the moment. "So you drew me and the flowers from memory?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  And what a memory she has! The emotions galloping through me tell it is possible for a dead man to feel as if he has seen a ghost, because I am looking at one.

  I've found her!

  I've found Jane!

  Freak of the Week

  I'm in utter disbelief. We are reincarnated in groups that continuously travel in the same circle of friends and family, time and again. Thus, while it would make perfect sense to find Jane in a future life, I never expected to see her now.

  Is this why a picture of my old friend, Vince Marsden, sits on the mantle downstairs? But Jane only met him briefly. Maybe it's me being brought back to him. If some of the people in my circle have already returned, who else might pop in for tea?

  Peter's eyes keep scanning the room then returning to the drawing as if it is the apparition. God, I wish he'd stop looking at it. My hands are totally fidgeting because I'm mortified he even knows I drew him. I must come off as some kind of pre-teeny-bopper who does nothing but lie on her bed and dream of teen idols. Peter's loss for words suits me because his staring makes me want to crawl under a rock. How can I get him to stop looking at the humiliating thing? "Peter, it's five in the morning. Even though it's Sunday, and I don't have to work today, I should probably get some sleep."

  "I'm sorry. I must have woken you. That was rather rude of me. You know, whenever life got overwhelming Jane had trouble sleeping. I wrote a song to lull her off. Shall we give it a go?"

  I crawl into bed and snuggle up to my pillow as Peter kneels beside me. He attempts a caress as if smoothing hair away from my face. Everything about him seems warm and adoring. It's as if we've loved each other for years. His lullaby soothes. My lids turn heavy as my mind slips into that sweet space between consciousness and sleep where your muscles seem to disappear. By the end of his serenade I'm drifting off on a cloud of bliss.

  The brightness of the sun's rays stirs me awake while I'm enrobed in warmth beyond that of the sheets. My mind goes to Niles before I notice Peter wrapped around me like the wings of a guardian angel. It's really weird. The invitation to stay was never extended; however, I don't mind Peter's presence in the absolute least.

  A sweet smile crosses his face. It matches mine. "Good morning," he says. "Sleep well?"

  "Amazingly."

  Jacqueline knocks on my door. She sticks her head in almost before I can say, "Come in." Her aura of happiness holds, but her brow scrunches quizzically. Oh, crap. Can she see Peter now?

  "I thought I heard you on the phone. Were you talking to yourself?"

  Whew.

  Hold up. Is it really good only I see Peter? "I make the best company. No offense."

  "None taken. Look what was just delivered to me," she sings while revealing a bouquet of red roses from behind her back.

  "Who are those from?"

  Her eyes twinkle as she plays with a petal. "Remember I told you about that cute guy who moved in up the street?"

  Oh, this is going to be bad, but I play the game anyway. "You mean the guy with the business card with a fancy title and the even fancier address?"

  "Yes!" she says, beaming. "The one with the gorgeous green eyes and a smile that damn near killed me."

  "Nope. I don't remember him at all. Clearly you have regressed to when you were eleven and are dreaming up imaginary boyfriends again."

  "Well, my imaginary lover just sent me flowers before asking me out. You know what that means."

  "Trou-ble!" we chime in unison.

  "Yep." Jacqueline sighs while setting the bouquet on my dresser. "I can't trust him with the dishes let alone my heart."

  "Sorry. That really sucks. I can't believe how some guys will wrap themselves in a red flag."

  "He's totally telling me to wear my best underwear." Jacqueline bounces on the bed and scoots herself up so she is now lying on top of Peter. She stacks some pillows behind her and tries to settle in, then wiggles in an attempt to get comfortable and doesn't understand why she can't. Peter laughs and slides his hand up her leg, causing Jacqueline to quiver. "Geez, just thinking about it gives me the willies."

  I bite the inside of my mouth to conceal my laughter at Peter's silly expression that shows he wants to lick Jacqueline over every bit of her body. A twinge sneaks its way into my heart as if saying, "Hey, what about me?"

  "What's the matter, luv?" he asks. "A tad jealous?"

  Peter straddles over me, drops to my other side, and nuzzles into my neck. My tingling spine makes him difficult to ignore.

  "You know," Jacqueline says mischievously. "Maybe I'm misjudging Tom. I mean, there are nice guys out there, right? Niles brings
you flowers and acts like a gentleman, yet he hasn't tried anything inappropriate, has he?" Jacqueline leers at me.

  "Oh, please! I would've told you if he had."

  "Is that the guy in the other drawing?" Peter asks.

  "What's the matter, luv? A tad jealous?" I ask Peter. Unfortunately Jacqueline is clueless of the fact that my words are aimed elsewhere.

  "You know it." Jacqueline stares off into space. She's got the look she gets when she doesn't want to give up but senses she should know better. "Rox, do you think I could be misjudging Tom? I mean, in all honesty, I kind of have a bad vibe about the whole thing, but I don't want to get so jaded that I always assume the worst in people."

  I really feel for Jacqueline. She has a problem most girls would kill for, and it depresses the hell out of her. She's gorgeous. I don't mean pretty, or attractive, or even beautiful. She is, hands down, one of the most gorgeous women you will ever see. Every good looking guy who thinks he is only worthy of the prettiest bimbo hits on her mercilessly while the good ones assume she is out of their league. Several times I have watched her approach men only to have them think she's either a high-class prostitute trying to turn a trick or that their buddies put her up to it. As a result, her quest to find Mr. Right makes people think she's a finicky serial dater. The truth is she's lonely as hell.

  "What does your gut say?"

  She sighs. "Not to go, but my heart tells me I have the head of a bull. Want to double up? Safety in numbers, just like in horror movies."

  I hate to tell her no, but I don't want to screw up with Niles either. "I don't know. Niles might think it's weird. We're still in that friend/getting-to-know-each-other phase."

  "Still no kiss beyond the cheek?"