“Aww, Johnny, come on.” Camilla’s face was a glowing ball of gold now, her skin peeling and cracking like old paint, the façade slowly melting away. Short, gray nubs protruded through the openings in her skin, seeking the air, tasting it. “I thought we were in love?”
Johnny gripped the neck of his Fender and swung the guitar, striking Camilla across the face. The blow removed her mask in three large chunks of flesh. Golden light leaked out of the withered hole in her skull, illuminating the mass of worms crawling along the rim.
“Get out of here,” Johnny said.
A low, rumbling hiss erupted from the gaping hole in Camilla’s unmasked face. “It’s your turn, lover. Time to take off your mask and reconcile with the true king in yellow.”
My legs refused to move. I gaped in horror at the impossible creature standing before us.
“Go, goddammit!” Johnny shoved me off the stage. I landed hard on the floor, and the impact drove the air out of me. “Go be someone else’s pain in the ass!”
That’s the last thing Johnny ever said to me. As I struggled to take that next precious gasp of air, the thing that was Camilla Bierce descended upon my friend and tore out his throat.
Panicked, I sought my way along the mass of fallen bodies, sinking my hands into their exposed faces. I stayed as low as possible, as the smoke from the raging inferno had filled the room with a darkening haze. The last memory I have of that night is turning back to glimpse Camilla’s glowing figure kneeling before the statue of her faceless king.
“No mask?” Her scream echoed through the room, overpowering the roar and crackle of flames. “No mask!”
-TRACK 9-
TATTERS OF THE KING
The old rock star smoked his last cigarette down to the filter and slumped back in his seat. To Miles, he looked like an old worn-out doll, his days of bringing joy to children far behind him. Over the last few hours he’d watched life return to Aidan Cross’s eyes, only to fizzle and fade yet again as the old man recounted his band’s triumphs, failures, and untimely demise. Although he would never admit it to his crew, the story spooked Miles Hargrove to his core. He’d read the official police report from all those years ago, and he’d grown up hearing the rumors of ritual activity on the night of the final show, but to hear a first-hand account by someone who was there was soul-crushing.
“So what happened after that?” Miles asked.
Aidan Cross placed the smoldering cigarette filter into the ashtray with the others. He cleared his throat. “About what you’d expect, I guess. They found me on the curb outside the club, unconscious and nearly dead from smoke inhalation. The Hyades club burned to the ground. Last I heard, they’d built a fucking Starbucks in its place. So much for respect for the dead.”
Miles nodded. “You’re right, they did.” He scribbled something on his notepad. “And after?”
“Ah yes, after. There were police inquiries and lawyers and reporters like yourself. All of them wanted the scoop, to understand what had happened, and more importantly, why. They all wanted to know about what sort of drugs we were doing, what we’d been drinking, who Camilla was. That last point of interest was the most perplexing, you see. The most troubling.”
“How so?”
Aidan smirked. “You even have to ask? No one had ever heard of Camilla Bierce. That fancy loft apartment of hers, with all her occult shit, was registered in someone else’s name. Cassilda-something. Her mother, I think, but I could be wrong about that.”
“My notes do say Cassilda Pulver, but all I have is a name. Records say she was deceased long before the fire at the club.”
“Yeah, something like that. She’d been dead for years. Decades. The only person who could shed any light on who Camilla was, was Camilla herself.” Aidan folded his arms and stared at the table between them. “All of her secrets died with her.”
“And you never played guitar again?”
Aidan shook his head. “I tried for a while, but my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. After what I’d done to those poor souls with these things—” He held up his hands, wrinkled and knotted with arthritis. “—how could I even dream of picking up my Fender again?”
Miles offered a nod of sympathy. “Of course. You mentioned attorneys a moment ago. I believe your legal troubles following the incident were well-documented. If you’d prefer not to discuss—”
“No, no, that’s fine. Most of those vultures are dead by now anyway.” Aidan chuckled dryly, a raspy scoff that sounded like a choking dog. “Since I was the only remaining member of the band, all the families of everyone who died in the club—including Bobby’s and Hank’s parents—came after me. At the end of the day, I never saw another dime of royalties from sales of our EP. And the album, of course, was never released to the public, so . . . ” Aidan finished his sentence with a tired shrug. “I took up a few jobs here and there to make ends meet. I did that for some years until my accident.”
The producer shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d spent the last several hours avoiding the topic of Aidan’s facial scars, but now they were front and center. “Yes, I suppose I need to ask you about that unfortunate incident. We can keep this brief if you prefer.”
“I don’t mind,” said the old man. “To be honest, there isn’t much to tell. I believe the official report said ‘survivor’s guilt’, and I guess, in some ways, they aren’t wrong about that. It eats me up inside, knowing that what we did that night caused so much agony. Every time I close my eyes to sleep, I find myself back up on that stage, with Carcosa’s towers looming over us, and the red congregation chanting back at us in time to that damned music. The dream always goes on forever, to the point where Johnny chants for them to take off their masks, and I have to relive watching them mutilate themselves all over again. Almost every night I have this awful nightmare. You can ask the nurses.
“Anyway, one night a few years back, while in the throes of one of these night terrors, I decided I’d join the congregation and punish myself along with them. I was living with a roommate at the time—old Marcus Norton, God rest his soul—and I woke him up with my screaming. By the time Marcus was able to restrain me, I’d already done the worst of this.” Aidan fanned out his fingers and traced the tips along the deep ridges carved into his cheeks. Miles observed for the first time just how neat and trim the old rocker’s fingernails were. “That’s how I ended up in here, you know. They thought I was a suicide risk and committed me for observation. Apparently, I still cry out to Carcosa in my sleep. That led to more questions, which led to more observation, and then they decided to keep me for good. For my health, you see.”
A heavy silence fell between them, and for a few moments, Miles feared the old man had fallen asleep. The dark sunglasses on the old man’s face obscured his eyes a little too well. Miles caught Jody’s eye and shrugged. Finally, when Miles leaned forward to wake him, Aidan held up his hand in protest. “I’m still with you, Mr. Hargrove. Forgive me, my mind wanders sometimes.”
Miles smiled. “That’s quite all right. Penny for your thoughts?”
“I was just thinking about this.” Aidan reached into his pocket and extracted a coiled silver chain. Nested in the center was a dark onyx jewel. Miles recognized it from the old man’s story, following it with his eyes as the chain swayed to-and-fro like a pendulum. The years had not dulled the golden trim of the pendant’s insignia. Miles motioned for Jody to zoom in on the object, and the cameraman did so.
“Here.” The old rock star placed the onyx jewel on the table and slid it toward the interviewer. “For you. My last fan.”
Miles Hargrove’s eyes lit up with a ravenous delight, betraying the forced frown spreading across his face. He balked at the gesture, shaking his head. “Oh, no, Mr. Cross, I couldn’t possibly take—”
“Please, save me that horseshit. I’ve held on to it for far too long, and it’s the least I could do for letting me ramble on all these hours.” Aidan turned away and peered over his shoulder into the darkened c
orner of the room. He took off his shades. “Isn’t it about time for my meds, Diane?”
One of the nurses waiting near the door nodded to him. “Yes, Mr. Cross. You’ll be needing your medication soon.” Diane turned her attention to Mr. Hargrove. “Just a few more minutes, please.”
Miles rolled the onyx stone over his hands, running his thumb across the golden insignia. He felt impossibly giddy to be given such a gift, a true piece of rock and roll memorabilia. An actual pendant worn by one of the Yellow Kings on the night of their final show. It could be worth a fortune. No, better yet, it was priceless.
Nurse Diane cleared her throat. “Mr. Hargrove?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. Yes, we’ll wrap this up in just a few minutes.” He skimmed his notes and fell upon the scribbling of words he’d written an hour before. “I do have one more question, Mr. Cross.”
Aidan turned back in his seat and placed his hands on the table. “Shoot.”
“A little while ago you talked about Bobby asking Johnny what it all meant, and Johnny sort of brushed off the question. You said you’d pieced it together yourself but never got around to explaining it to them. Do you mind sharing that with us?”
Smiling, Aidan Cross leaned back and tilted his head up to the light. He squinted and took a deep breath.
“Actually, Mr. Hargrove, I think I do mind. That album was put together to drive men mad, to fill their heads with visions of something we aren’t meant to see. Knowledge of something we aren’t meant to know. David Reiflen, the owner of the record label, told me he’d personally see to the destruction of the album masters. Swore to me he’d burn them himself. No, Miles, I’d prefer we leave their scattered ashes alone.”
“But . . . ”
“I’ve made up my mind on that, sir. Please don’t badger me. I’m an old man and I don’t need the grief.”
“No,” Miles said, “that’s fine, I just . . . I’m surprised no one told you.”
The color drained from Aidan’s face. “Told me what?”
“Did you not understand why we came to you today? The record company hired us to interview you for the 30th anniversary of the recording. The album . . . ” Miles Hargrove’s throat clicked when he swallowed. “The album’s being released for the first time later this year.”
Aidan sank back in his chair. The air slipped out of the room, and for the longest of seconds, still silence took its place.
A moment later, the screaming started.
***
Miles Hargrove watched Jody pack up the camera equipment into the back of the van. After the doors slammed shut, Jody stepped back and scowled at the producer. “Fuck, man, why’d you have to set him off like that? Hasn’t he been through enough?”
“Hey, that wasn’t planned. Honest. I really thought he knew why we were there.”
Jody shook his head in disgust. “Whatever, man. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
Miles nodded, looking back at the sleek black limousine waiting in the facility parking lot. “Sure thing,” he whispered. As Jody drove away, Miles reached into his pocket and took out the black pendant the old man gave him. He lifted it before his face and stared transfixed at the curved golden insignia.
He was so entranced by its beauty that he didn’t hear the limousine’s back door open, or the clap of one high heel on the pavement.
“Whatcha got there, handsome?”
Miles turned back and smiled at the auburn-haired beauty leaning against the side of the limo. He approached her with the pendant stretched out before him, an offering to his goddess.
“A gift, my love.”
The woman smiled, illuminating her eyes, which were two different colors. One brown, one hazel, and sometimes gold. Her coquettish gaze lit upon the onyx jewel.
She smiled. “Have you found the Yellow Sign?”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The folks who know me best know I love music: Everything I write has a soundtrack. Hell, my first novel wouldn’t exist if not for the music of Nine Inch Nails. But that’s a different story, a different time, and a different genre. This story, however, wouldn’t exist without the support and encouragement of a few rock stars I’m blessed to know.
Many thanks to Joe Mynhardt at Crystal Lake for taking a chance on a weirdo like me. I’m grateful to say Joe’s more than just my publisher—he’s also a good friend and a fellow metal head.
A huge, heartfelt thanks goes to my editors, Amelia Bennett and Monique Snyman, for providing their surgical expertise and excising all the bad parts. They made the story better, with minimal scarring.
My dear friends Mercedes M. Yardley, Anthony J. Rapino, Eryk Pruitt, Nikki Nelson-Hicks, and Brian Kirk all offered much-needed feedback at various stages of this story’s development. They are excellent writers, and I urge you to check out their work. They’re my tribe and I love them dearly.
Special recognition is owed to my friends Michael Auchenbach and Chad Lutzke for providing technical assistance with various aspects of musicianship, from studio arrangement to recording terminology. If I got anything right, it’s because of them. Technical errors are mine alone.
A number of friends taught me everything I know about metal, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention them here: ‘Psycho’ Larry Hale, Josh Jones, Gvid Brown, David Rockey, Jason Brafford, John Brittain, Daniel Klein, and Mike Mollura. They introduced me to the work of Nine Inch Nails, Tool, A Perfect Circle, Opeth, Slayer, Pantera, Type O Negative, and countless others. I’m forever in their debt.
Above all, though, my love and gratitude to Erica and Gabe. Erica is my first reader and critic. She’s never been wrong about one of my stories, so I was nervous when I gave her this one. “It’s different,” I told her. “You may not like it.” She read it in one sitting and told me it’s her favorite. Thanks, love. I needed that.
And now we’ve come to the end, so before we lower the curtain, let’s all raise our lighters and throw up the devil horns. Thank you and goodnight!
Todd Keisling
Womelsdorf, Pennsylvania
8/19/14—1/11/17
THE END?
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The Final Reconciliation Page 10