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

by Diane Rinella

  He stands to approach me, but his fabricated sensitivity has no place around my Joseph. I grab the blanket and lock it into my arms as I nearly growl at Niles. "Stay away from me!"

  Jacqueline runs in. Upon seeing the contents of the opened box she screams, "What the hell have you done?"

  My resolve falters, and an avalanche of horror crashes on top of me. I double over in a flurry of tears as my mind takes me back to the funeral, tossed over a sweet little gift from God in a casket while people try to restrain me, strung out on relaxants and sleeping pills that didn't work, crying, screaming, and wondering where the hell love and support were. Again I've been betrayed to suffer my hysteria alone. "How dare you invade my baby's privacy? You've killed him all over again!"

  I curl into a fetal position as memories flood; that sweet smile Joseph had that filled me with love, the way he would curl his head into me when I held him, the big, trusting, brown eyes that stole my heart. That love can't be replaced. Not with anything in the heavens.

  "Rosalyn, I'm sorry. I really only meant to help."

  Jacqueline yanks Niles and pushes him toward the door. "Get out! Don't ever come back! Ever!"

  Niles stops outside of the threshold. I can't face him—not now and maybe never again. "Rox, I swear I only wanted to help."

  "Out!" Jacqueline screams, nearly shoving him down the stairs.

  Peter wraps his arms around me, creating a halo of love. "I've got you, darling. Yell, punch, scream, and cry. Do all you need. I'll never abandon you." A sense of truth fills me. No other comfort has offered the right kind of love. The kind only someone who knows and loves you unconditionally on all levels can provide. "I can't make it better, but I can listen and be here for you."

  Through the sobs I breathe slowly and smear away the tears. Peter tries to lend aid as I force myself to my feet. "Thanks, Jacqueline."

  "I'll be right back," she says, "just as soon as I'm sure that ass is gone!"

  Peter's comfort surrounds me as I lie on the bed. It's time to start facing everything in my life no matter how strange it may be. "Do you know what it's like for Joseph now? Is he okay?"

  "I'm not allowed access over there anymore, but the other side is a wonderful place where everyone is happy, just like I will make you, Rosalyn. I promise."

  Peter is a gift from God. He isn't a mere sign but absolute proof there is more beyond this plane than I will ever know while in this incarnation. Through this dead man I am finding life.

  For the first time since Joseph's passing my thoughts of him are laced with hope. If Peter can return to Jane, I know someday in a world beyond my current one, Joseph will return to me.

  Revenge

  Well, asshole, this time you really did it.

  The car's engine, whose roar Rosalyn loves so much, whimpers on her behalf. Please, Lord, have someone come out and stop me. My eyes float back to the front door and beg for it to open.

  Stillness.

  With the release of the parking brake the car meanders down the street. My attention is on the rearview mirror. I watch Rosalyn's walkway fade while praying for a miracle.

  No one appears.

  Finally my foot finds the gas pedal.

  Niles, how stupid can you possibly be? You're supposedly so intelligent, yet you can't talk to a person with respect. What the hell is wrong with you? No more "it's not my fault" lies. No more placing the blame on psychobabble from the doctors. Accept the failure.

  My phone vibrates in my pants pocket. Rosalyn? Please, Lord, let it be Rosalyn.

  My hand fumbles behind me to grab the phone, only to I drop it between the seat and the console. I stretch my hand and slide it deep into the crack while swerving down the dark highway. Finally I retrieve it and check the caller ID.

  Damn. A client.

  The phone gets tossed onto the passenger seat. I'm pathetic.

  Agh! I can't take how wretched this sod looks anymore. It's time for sense to be knocked into him. I pop into his passenger's seat. "Are you done being a wallowing idiot and finally ready to listen?"

  At the jitter of Niles's hand the car gives a swerve into the next lane and back. I twitch in fear, which is daft since I'm already dead.

  "Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! Peter, what the hell! Do you want my blood on your hands, too?"

  My, the boy is touchy. Do I really want him on my side? "You're useless to me should you perish. However, I'm sorry to say that your current state of desolation may be to my benefit. You're looking at this completely the wrong way. Stoddard goes down: we rise up. With your smarts and my generous heart, think of the team we'd make. Maybe you'll even get my talent and can cash in."

  "I'm doing quite well on my own, thank you."

  "I'd say tonight proves you are failing miserably." Seriously, how is it he could possibly think he still has the upper hand?

  "You're forgetting something, Peter. I don't have a selfish bone in my body. You hoarded that one and screwed yourself, buddy."

  Oh, yeah. That's how. "You just need a bit of perspective. Do you realize if you lose Rosalyn, you will continue to be alone for the rest of your life?"

  "Maybe Rosalyn's just not the one."

  I'm certain he got the memo on this, but did someone tape it to his back? "Remember, Rosalyn is Jane, and Jane is our soul mate. So, you either help me now and win her back, or you're going to be miserable until you and I reunite in the afterlife. Or maybe we won't. Maybe I'll decide to stay split apart and track Stoddard down five lives from now. Enjoy the next thousand years of suffering."

  Geez, as if I wasn't depressed enough when I got in this car. If Peter's correct … "I don't believe in that stuff."

  "Yes, and I'm guessing a few weeks ago you didn't believe in ghosts either."

  He has a point. As crazy as it is to think ghosts exist one sits beside me now. Since I know he's had a past life why wouldn't I believe he has a future one? Still …"I'm not doing it. There's a better way."

  "And what might that be, oh great, super genius?"

  Man, this guy is a bastard. Time to put on the old lawyer hat. "If we're split souls, won't we reunite when I die? If I off myself, all is solved."

  Peter tugs on his brocade jacket and looks rather ill at ease. He'd make a terrible lawyer, let alone poker player. "Umm … There would definitely be a little problem in that."

  Why am I not surprised? "Of course there is. I can't wait to hear how this one is botched."

  "Not only would you be dead, and Rosalyn left alone, but if I don't settle all of this now, you and I are ever parted." Peter explains his "little dilemma" as he so delicately calls it. It sinks in on a deep level to where the core of my gut knows he speaks the truth. I don't have to be screwed for eternity—yet I am.

  "So I help you kill someone, have a great life now, and then rot in Hell, or I go on this way forever?" This is nonsensical. "What was the exact agreement?"

  Peter slinks back in his seat and let's his limbs loosen. He's forcing himself to believe what he is about to say is no big deal. "To get him to confess even if I have to hold a gun to his head. He needs to make some kind of irrevocable confession that can be made public." His voice is shaky. This is the behavior people exhibit when they know the goal they are driven towards is immoral, thus dividing them between the forces of love and hate.

  "Do you have to be the one to make it public?"

  "No, in fact I was given very strict orders to leave it for his wife."

  "So the word kill was never used."

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Peter is now rapping on the dash and wildly bouncing his foot. "No, but if he writes out a confession, and there is no blood splattered on that paper, what's to stop him from saying it's forged?" His voice speeds through the words. Peter fears he is on the verge of losing, which means I have him over a barrel. It's moments like this I wish I could kiss my old counselor for teaching me this stuff.

  "And what exactly happens once we accomplish this?"

  "Per the agreement your body will act l
ike a vacuum and suck me in as if I'm lint."

  Given the beliefs expressed in most religious doctrines, Peter is being tested and is about to fail. In doing that he will hurt Jane who will in turn want nothing to do with him. "Okay, Peter. Our deal goes down on my terms. Since your only job is to deal out karma, nobody dies."

  Peter jerks toward me, his hands going for my throat. While he is physically incapable of squeezing his radiating anger has me gagging. Slamming on the brakes brings us to a screeching halt. Is this how my anger would be if I were him, or is it amplified by the fact our emotions have been chopped and divided like slop in a soup kitchen?

  "No!" he exclaims through gritted teeth. "We take the bastard down. We can't chance you being wrong."

  Interesting. I thought I got all of the fear. I guess that five percent he kept for himself has him by the balls now that he realizes he may lose Jane forever. Perfect. When passion takes over mistakes are made.

  "No deal." I calmly prepare to pull the car back out as if I'm completely unfazed by the life-threatening event. Now I could kiss my acting coach, except he's kind of big and gross.

  Again Peter goes for my throat. This time I'm ready for him, my foot never having left the brake.

  "My terms or not at all. The offer won't get any better."

  Peter releases his grip.

  Well, well, well. I've won the battle after all. Mr. B.S. is going down, but I won't risk Niles being wrong about not needing to finish him off. "All right, Niles. You drive a hard bargain." I extend my hand. Just as sure as when he goes for the grip there's nothing there to grab, his smirk shows he doesn't believe a word I say.

  "Yeah, Peter, you're not really buying into this. Well, I've got you there, buddy, because we're both aware if Stoddard gets harmed, Rosalyn's going to know exactly who did it. Thus, I am sure you see this was the best deal you could've made."

  Bollocks.

  After The Fall

  My bedroom door flies open. Jacqueline marches in like I'm in deep trouble. "Out!" She points to the door while I flip the covers over my head. My precious, beautiful, little angel died, and his father, who I trusted implicitly, betrayed us both. Yesterday, another person whom I gave trust reminded me of that horror in a heartless way. My head is back in the nursery, holding a cold, wet baby, and losing him all over again. Trust is a game for fools.

  The covers come flying off of me. "Up and out," Jacqueline commands, thrusting her thumb to Heaven. "No moping!"

  I bring the covers back with a defiant yank. We have learned when I get into a funk over Joseph, Jacqueline needs to play Drill Sargent else I'm in bed for days. Usually I groan and agree. Today I hardly whimper as the tears return.

  Jacqueline sits on the edge of the bed and slides down the sheet enough to expose my face. "You okay, Rox?" she asks softly. I shake my head. It hurts more this time. The pain of losing Joseph coupled with all I know about Niles and the need to never see him again dig too deeply. I had hope for my future. I even spoke to my parents again. Now all my gains are lost.

  Dawn was barely breaking when I bolted into the office today. I'm usually not one for determination. I do things because, well, usually I have nothing better to pull me away from work. However, today my nervous system races on a non-caffeine induced, caffeine-type high. Once I slipped on my lawyer hat last night, it became glued to my scalp. If there is a way to pull this stunt off, I'm finding it.

  Doris waltzes up to her desk—like actually dancing—and plops down her purse with flair. She continues her dance into my office. This is one of the many reasons I hired her—that and the fact she's willing to come in on her day off because her boss is on a mad quest. She would have even done it if I hadn't offered three paid days off in exchange. "To what do I owe the honor of the very sweet and polite, surprise text I got on this beautiful Sunday morning?"

  "I need you to pull everything you can possibly get your hands on regarding Benjamin Stoddard. He's a record producer out of England. He's also a crooked bastard who's attached to the mob, so don't trigger anything."

  "Okay." Her hands clasp together with enthusiasm. "Just what exactly am I looking for?"

  My nose stays to the grindstone. "You're looking for anything, and I mean absolutely anything, that can be held against him. Scratch that. I want all details no matter how small. If you find his shoe size, I want it."

  Doris doesn't nod and leave as expected. Instead she stands before me and waits for me to finish typing. My eyes rise to find hers on the picture of Rosalyn. "You okay? You may be in full lawyer mode, but this is no ordinary case, is it?"

  How is it she knows these things? Doris's understanding of people seems to make her actually experience life with them. Peter's right, I need to know what that's like. "No, Doris, I've never been okay, but some way, somehow, I am going to fix that."

  Doris leaves the room while I resume my research of digging up everything I possibly can on Peter Lane and his wife, Jane.

  Shop bells chime as I enter through the door of my safe haven. Just inside I pause. God it is loud in here today. The lights are blinding, and the whole place reeks.

  "Hey," Shane utters with a bop of his head. Nothing seems right here today. Nothing seems right anywhere.

  Shane stops his reading, then actually bothers to put down his ancient issue of Cream Magazine and rights himself from slouching over the counter. I hoped coming here would help. It doesn't. Nothing does. Instead, tears beg for release as I brave facing the world.

  "Where's your traveling sideshow?" Shane asks.

  God, already? That's the cue to start flipping through the nearest bin facing away from Shane while I swallow the urge to break down. "Get anything good in over the last couple of days?" My voice cracks as I say it.

  "Yeah, some geezer must've conked. There's a butt load of vinyl in the corner no one wants to sort. It's got a ton of old crap you'd probably like."

  "Sure way to make a sale." The grumble in my voice is reminiscent of tires on gravel. A Runaways album grabs my attention. Niles loves these girls. I shake my head at the wording of my thought. How should I say it?Niles enjoys them? The tears start to trail their way down my face.

  "Hey, are you okay?" Shane asks while on the approach. "You seem to have the symptoms of a bad breakup."

  "Epically. I'm sorry. I never should've come in here." My feet make for the door. If I cry here then nothing is sacred.

  Shane touches my shoulders. His eyes narrow, and a little huff of concern tells me the feelings I've shown for Niles must have been obvious. "Stick around a while. Help me sort those albums. You know that era way better than I do." He goes behind the counter and returns with a tissue he nearly smacks into my hand with a squeeze. "Don't tell Rob, and you can have your choice of one out of each box as a salary for helping. If you take two, I'll suddenly forget how to count, okay? You need it."

  He's right. I need to get past my association of Niles with my love of music. I can't let my passion get soiled. "You do know I'm totally gonna bogart the most expensive ones, right?" I say with a forced smile.

  "I expect nothing less."

  As we head off for the boxes I catch a glimpse of Peter watching from across the room. He shakes his head before hanging it and disappearing.

  Long after the store has closed the listening booth blasts a treasure from a dead man's stash. Shane and I sit surrounded by records, beer bottles, and takeout boxes. The flipping from album to album and allowing myself to feel the beat of one happy song after another has the despair in my gut dissipating. I'm even nibbling on food. The real shocker though is Shane has me smiling. He was right. I needed a night of music with a comrade. "Why was I born so late? I have the same taste as a teenager, circa nineteen sixty-seven. Hell, even my two favorite books, The Outsiders and Valley of the Dolls are from that era. Why couldn't I have existed then and loved the times for all they were worth?"

  "There was a ton of crap on the radio back then, too. Now you get to hone in by artists and genre on the Internet i
nstead of being stuck with what the deejay plays."

  I grab another stack of albums to sort by sub-genre and stare at a copy of The Chocolate Watchband's The Inner Mystique. The multitude of images and implication of a brain exploding reflect how I envision myself. "Yeah, but remember when you were a kid and how excited you were to hear a new single? It's completely different from coming into a store and exploring. I missed out by being a walking freak show." The album gets moved to the garage rock stack, and I find a familiar image underneath where it once was. "Peter Lane," I utter. My being Jane would explain so much about who I am and what I love. He's right. I am her—which means I'm a living ghost who is married to a dead one.

  God, my life is a train wreck!

  "Dude." Shane's tone implies a warning. "Don't say that name around me. I'm still in trouble for that mishap."

  "Huh?"

  "That signed album you bought. Apparently my habit of tapping on the note pad bit me in my skinny ass. I accidentally popped in a decimal point and screwed the store out of five hundred and ninety-four bucks. I'm an idiot for not knowing better, but if it's not my genre I kinda don't give a rat's ass who they are. If I didn't have an investment in this place, I'd have gotten the axe up my butt."

  And I would never have bought it. Meaning I never would have met Peter. Fate is a freaky dance partner. "Investment? You part own this place?"

  "Yeah," he says, shrugging. "Smartest decision I ever made was living off of unemployment while working in exchange for a stake in the place. Anywho, I'm done dealing with this for tonight. I was serious about helping yourself to some albums."