Lords of Salem

by Rob Zombie

  Heidi rubbed her face with her hands. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I, um… I gotta go.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you need someone to talk to? God is always open and ready to listen.”

  Hearing the same words as in her dream, she recoiled and pushed his hand away. He hovered there at the end of the pew, confused. “No,” she said. “I’m just fine.” Quickly she gathered herself together, pushed past the priest, and fled the church.

  Steve had managed to get himself tangled and could hardly move. How long had she been asleep in there? Fuck, she was going to be late for work if she wasn’t careful. It never seemed to stop. Hands shaking, she untangled Steve and the two of them started quickly off and away.

  She couldn’t stop herself from casting a glance back over her shoulder. She expected to see the priest standing by the open doors, but he wasn’t there. Instead, there were the two old nuns just standing motionless, watching her.

  It’s like the whole world is out to get me, thought Heidi, and then, No, that’s just the joint making me paranoid.

  But it was more than that. It had to be. Those dreams started before she had smoked the joint and everything had seemed weird before that. No, the world was fucked-up. Something was very wrong. It wasn’t just her.

  She crossed the bridge over the pond and started up the stairs. She was still rattled, jittery enough that it was hard to walk. She stopped a few steps up and sat down, then begged a cigarette and a light off a passerby. Another gateway drug, another return to old habits. Her hands were shaking so hard that the man had to take it back from her to get it lit.

  She took a deep puff, tried to calm down. Maybe the cigarette would do it. And if that didn’t work, there were always anxiety pills. And if those didn’t work, she could get drunk again. And if that didn’t work? Well, she didn’t want to think about that.

  She tried to relax, letting her eyes wander. The pond was placid, the light just mellow enough that the reflections of the trees and hills in the water seemed almost more real than the actual trees and hills.

  There were shouts and she turned her head to see, perhaps one hundred meters away, children wearing flowing white ghost costumes running around some of the graves, an older grouping of them, with cracked and dilapidated headstones. She watched the costumed children run, laughing at one another, playing tag or something.

  And then suddenly, in unison, they stopped. Slowly, they began to turn until they were all facing her. What the fuck? she wondered. Steve began to whine. The children in ghost costumes stood there motionless, watching her, waiting.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  He’d waited at the curb, and then honked a few times, but the only thing that had happened was that that bitch who was her landlord came out and gave him the evil eye. Or maybe she was just checking him out. Hell, he was dressed nice, as usual, and he knew that even old chicks dug guys in fine-ass threads. She could look, but she couldn’t touch—Herman knew the warden wouldn’t tolerate that.

  So he sat in the car a bit and then he got out and went up to the porch and rang Heidi’s bell about ten times but there was no answer and no sounds of anything stirring inside. He took out a cigar and rolled it between his fingers a bit, thinking that she’d come out right as soon as he started to smoke it. But even after he clipped off the ends and started puffing on it, there was no sign of her. He smoked it about halfway to ash. When one of the other tenants came out, he left it balanced precariously on the railing of the porch and grabbed the door before it could close and clomped his way down the hall and up the stairs to her door. Pound, pound, pound. Still no answer. And no whining or barking from Steve either, which meant that she probably was just out with her dog and had forgotten the time.

  Still, he couldn’t stop himself from turning the door handle just to make sure. It wasn’t locked, and he couldn’t resist going in. Just to see, he told himself. Just to make sure.

  But what he saw didn’t reassure him. An empty container of prescription pills rattling around in the sink of the bathroom. Not even in her name, but from someone named Griffin Lawe. He read the label on it—naproxen sodium, 500 mg. Not anything he’d ever heard of. Could be a painkiller or a sleeping pill but could also be an acne medication or something relatively harmless. Don’t judge in advance, he told himself. You shouldn’t even be in here. Records out and scattered all over the floor in the living room, some of them broken. The fainting couch had been turned over and was lying on its side, and several of the drawers of her dresser had been pulled out and dumped on the bed. Not nearly as bad as the time when he’d had to rescue her, admittedly, but something was wrong. She wasn’t keeping her shit together. Was she using again? There wasn’t anything besides the empty pill bottle in the sink to suggest that she was, and even that didn’t really prove anything, but still. He couldn’t help but be worried.

  He went back outside, easing the door shut as he left. On his way toward the stairs he realized that the door to the apartment at the end of the hallway was open. Probably whoever lived there hadn’t pulled it quite shut when they left and his opening Heidi’s door had made that door come open, too. He was momentarily tempted to go down and pull it shut, do someone a good turn, but then thought, Not my fucking problem. No, he had to get over the idea that he was put on this earth to look out for other people, particularly if it was true that Heidi was using again. Last fucking thing he wanted was to get caught back up in that shit again.

  Once back outside, he had to relight the cigar. He puffed on it patiently, feeling the impatience grow inside of him. Cigar gone, he ground it out and waited around outside a few more minutes, as long as he possibly could without being late. When she still hadn’t shown up, he just shook his head and climbed into the car.

  He sighed. Maybe she’d already gone to the station and he’d meet her there. Maybe he’d been worried for nothing.

  But no, he thought as he pulled a U-turn and started toward the station. She has Steve. She’d have to come home first.

  Still, by the time he got to the station, he’d convinced himself that she might have brought Steve to work with her, that she’d be there waiting for him. But the only person in the break room was Whitey.

  “Yo,” said Herman.

  “Yo,” said Whitey back. He was holding a cup of coffee that was already mostly empty. Whitey had been there for a while. Which meant it must be later than Herman thought.

  “Where you been?” asked Whitey. “You’re never late.”

  Instead of answering, Herman turned to the refrigerator. He opened the door and looked inside, shuffled around a few items. At first it had been just to avoid answering Whitey, but when he realized what was missing, he began to get seriously pissed. But he wasn’t sure if it was real anger or just redirected shit over Heidi’s absence.

  “Goddamn it! Who the fuck is stealing my Slim-Shakes?”

  Whitey shrugged. “Not me,” he said. He patted his belly. “I’m trying to gain some weight. Got to be one of the overnights. Ambler maybe. He’s looking pretty fit these days.”

  Herman just shook his head, closed the fridge. He pulled out a mug, poured himself some coffee. “Where’s girlie at?” he asked.

  “Heidi? She didn’t take them. She’s not even here yet.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Herman glanced at his watch. Shit, they’d be on any minute. “What the hell, man? I knew it. I could see something in her eyes the other night. She better not be fucking up again. I laid my balls on the line to get her back on the air.”

  “Chill, man,” said Whitey. “It’s all good.”

  “It’s all good? You call this all good?”

  “Mellow,” said Whitey. “She’s just late, is all. It’s no big thing.”

  “I swear I’ll jam my size thirteens up her butthole if she repays me by throwing my ass under the bus.”

  Whitey didn’t bother to answer. After a minute Herman sat down at the table and started drinking his coffee.

 
They were like that, listening to the sound of the news announcer playing low on the station speakers in the background, waiting for Heidi to make an appearance, for a minute or two. Finally Herman heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall and thought, She’s finally here and began to relax. But it wasn’t Heidi who came in the break room door. It was Chip.

  He was carrying a large wooden box and seemed to be out of breath. He set it down on the table between them with a loud thud.

  “There you go, boys,” he said. “All yours.”

  “What’s this?” asked Herman.

  Chip smiled. “Free money.”

  He pulled the top off the box. Inside were stacks of identical records, all of them in a simple black sleeve with that creepy-ass Lords symbol on it: a kind of weird, fucked-up Neanderthal face or whatever.

  “Lords promos,” said Chip.

  “What for?” said Whitey.

  Chip turned to him, gave him a disgusted look. “What for? Are you sure you work in radio? For promotion, obviously. It seems this bunch of musical geniuses is coming to town and we’re the presenting station.”

  “We’re standing behind that shit?” asked Herman. “Seriously?”

  “Like my impending triple bypass,” said Chip. “So, in other words, the Lords of Salem are now off-limits to your wisecracks. No more jokes about this garbage. You play that record in heavy—and I do mean heavy—rotation and keep your snarky comments to yourself. And give all but one of these records away,” he said. He reached back into the box and pulled out a sheaf of tickets, shook them at Whitey. “And make sure these are all gone by Saturday.”

  Whitey gave him a confused look. “What’s Saturday?” he asked.

  Chip rolled his eyes. “Again, are you sure you work in radio? What do you think? The concert.”

  Whitey, Herman realized, was getting ready to ask What concert? To head off Chip’s imminent explosion, he held out his hand and said, “Hand them over.” When he did and Herman looked at them, he did a double take.

  “Um, there’s a mistake here,” he said.

  “What do you mean, a mistake?” said Chip.

  Herman pointed to the venue listed on the ticket. “The Salem Palladium? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think there’s been a show at that dump since around 1983. Isn’t it abandoned?”

  “Was last time I checked,” said Whitey.

  Chip shrugged. “Technically, yes, but who am I to argue? If they want to have a show in a rat-infested hellhole, well then, God bless.”

  “You sure it’s not just a mistake?” said Herman. “Where did these come from anyway? What did the rep say about them?”

  “No rep,” said Chip.

  “No rep? How’d you get them then?”

  “They just showed up,” said Chip. “Were waiting for me when I got in this morning.”

  “Who’s the contact?” said Whitey. “Let’s check with him about the venue.”

  Chip ruffled through some of the promotional papers. “No name or number,” he said. “Not very professional.”

  “Someone’s taking you for a ride,” said Herman. “It’s a joke.”

  Chip shook his head. “No,” he said. “They already paid. Envelope of cash was included with the promos.”

  “Doesn’t that seem fucked-up to you, Chip?” asked Herman.

  But Chip was ignoring him. He was shuffling his way deeper into the papers. “Palladium, Palladium, Palladium,” he said. “If it’s a mistake, then they’ve made the same mistake the whole way across the board. It’s not our fault. We run with it.”

  “That place is huge,” said White Herman. “You’re telling me this band is gonna sell enough tickets to fill it up?”

  Chip turned toward him, a look of irritation immediately on his face. “I’m not telling you anything except get rid of these tickets,” he said. “These comps are the only tickets.”

  “Weird,” said Whitey, looking at the stack. “That’s not nearly enough to fill the place. It’s going to be super-sparse. Even empty.”

  “What the hell do I care?” asked Chip. “If they want to play to an empty hall, then let them.”

  “A classic underplay,” said Herman. “Sounds like a big money loser to me.”

  Chip pulled a small poster out of the box and unrolled it, showed it to Herman. On it was the same symbol as on the record, but it looked like it had been carved into the flesh between a woman’s breasts, the wound brimming with blood and beginning to drip. Below, it read, in a gothic script, THE LORDS ARE COMING.

  “Not a money loser for us,” he said. “We’re being paid just to push it. And money loser or not, the Lords are coming and it’s our job to spread the word.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Herman still was thinking about Heidi with half his mind, wondering if she was okay, wondering if she’d get there. But so far no Heidi. Whitey looked like he wanted to say something or ask about her, but Herman put that don’t-mess-with-me look on his face and Whitey read it loud and clear and swallowed his words. Even when it was time for them to go on the air neither of them said anything about her absence, just gathered their things and went into the studio.

  Just as they were getting ready to start, Chip came in. “Where’s the final member of Big H’s holy trinity?” he asked.

  Herman thought for a second about what he should say. He could say that he didn’t know, which would just make Chip anxious. Or he could say that she was fucking up again, which would get Chip angry not only at her but also at him. Or he could lie and just pretend like things were okay and then later let the chips fall where they would. The warden would be pissed at him about that last one—she was always telling him that he needed to look out for number one first—but he was built how he was built, and he was going to do what he was going to do.

  “She called,” he said. “Said she’s going to be a few minutes late.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Chip. “Is anything wrong?”

  “We got it covered,” said Herman. “No worries.”

  “If you need me—” Chip started.

  “We got it covered,” Herman said, more firmly this time than he felt. It was enough for Chip, who nodded and went out.

  Which left him and Whitey alone to get their things together as the commercials wound down.

  “I didn’t know she called,” Whitey said.

  “Shut the fuck up,” said Herman. “You’re putting me in a bad mood.”

  Whitey was silent for about four seconds. “Could have told me she called,” he said.

  “She didn’t call,” said Herman. And when Whitey opened his mouth to speak again, he lifted a finger, stopped him. “Focus,” he said. “Show’s starting.”

  They stumbled through it for ten or fifteen minutes or so, both of them worried in their own way, but just trying to go forward with the show. And then they relaxed into it and it was okay. As per usual, Whitey offered up one of his various family dramas, fucked-up things from his childhood that were probably all made up but that the listeners seemed to like to hear. Was there a grain of truth in them? Hell if Herman knew. He’d stopped wondering about that about a hundred stories back. It was his job, he knew, to seem incredulous, and then let Whitey make the story wilder and wilder. And then, cut to a commercial or a song.

  “I’m sorry, man,” he said, after Whitey had finished his first rendition of the story, “but I don’t believe it. That story sounds like complete b.s.”

  “What’s so hard to believe?” asked Whitey. “I’m on a cruise ship with my grandparents, and my grammy gets seasick. So she leans over the side to puke… and pukes out her dentures right into the ocean. No joke.”

  “Disgusting,” said Herman.

  “Oh, it gets worse,” said Whitey. “Later that night, I walk in on a butt-naked, toothless grammy giving Grandpa a blow job.”

  “Butt-naked, eh?” said Herman. “That’s the last thing you want to see.”

  “Well, not quite naked. Actually she had a sombrero
with the words ‘Aye, Chihuahua’ embroidered on it.”

  “Excuse me?” said Herman.

  “What, did I forget to mention it was a Mexican cruise?”

  Herman just shook his head. They were definitely skirting the edge of what Chip would see as appropriate. Any moment he might pop up at the studio window and give them the signal to tone it down. But still, he couldn’t resist saying, “I guess Grandpa didn’t have to worry about teeth that night.”

  “Are you calling my grammy a whore?” asked Whitey. He made sure the listeners could hear the smile in his voice so they’d know he was joking. “Don’t talk about my grandparents like that.”

  There was movement in front of the glass of the booth and he thought, Chip, right on schedule. But when he glanced up it was to see Heidi. Very quietly she eased the door open and then slipped in. She made it to her chair, a little unsteady on her feet and slid in behind her microphone.

  She didn’t look good. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She was a walking disaster. Goddamn, why had he covered for her?

  “Well, look who’s ready to join the party,” he said, his voice indignant.

  When she spoke into the microphone it was with a mellow, throaty voice. Yeah, he had to admit, she had a great radio voice. You could hear sex dripping off it. “Did I miss anything?” she asked.

  “Another nonsensical Whitey childhood memory,” said Herman.

  “Nonsensical?” protested Whitey. He put his hand over his heart. “Every word of it was true. If I do say so myself, it was a fascinating tale of my slutty grandma and some missing teeth.”

  Herman bit back the impulse to scold Heidi on air. “Anyway, since you’re here, I guess we can make our big announcement. Fanfare, please, Igor.”

  Whitey hit a switch on the board and played a flourish of off-key trumpets and kazoos.

  “That the best we can do?” asked Herman.

  Whitey shrugged. “I can play it again if you want,” he said, and did so. Heidi, meanwhile, was resting her chin against her hand, eyes half closed, about to nod off. Herman gave her a dirty look, but she was too out of it to even notice.