Standing in the hotel lobby, I asked him, “Do you have a place to stay?”
Camilla answered for him. “I have a place he can stay. It’s quiet.”
“Johnny,” I said, frowning. “Take off those goddamn glasses and look at me.” He did so. He looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was on something. Heroin, maybe, or some other kind of opiate, but if I knew anything about my friend it’s that he didn’t touch any of that shit. That’s one thing the media got wrong about us after what happened. Drugs had nothing to do with it. I want to set that record straight here and now.
“You’re sure about this? I mean, really sure? Things have been kind of weird lately, and—”
“Aidan,” he said. “I’m good. Just tired from the road. You guys go on ahead. I’ll be fine. By the time you get back, I’ll be ready to work. Promise.”
I didn’t say anything. All I could do was nod. Camilla walked up behind him and wrapped an arm around his chest. She planted her chin on his shoulder and smiled at me. The fucking bitch even winked. It was the same look she’d given Reggie the day before, and I received that message loud and clear: This one’s mine. This one belongs to me.
***
Going back home after being on the road for months was weird. We’d left our hometown without any fanfare at the start of the tour, something we expected but were no less disappointed by. I mean, how often do four kids from southeastern Kentucky actually get signed by a record label and embark on a nationwide tour? Probably not often, but our little hometown didn’t care. We were nobodies growing up there, we were nobodies when we left, and we were not at all surprised to find that we were still nobodies when we went back. Such is life in southeastern Kentucky. She doesn’t give a shit.
The whole flight home, I wanted to say something to Hank and Bobby about the previous night. Not only about what had happened, but about what Camilla’s presence was doing to the band, and yet I found myself filled with a sense of trepidation any time I tried to speak. Even now I don’t know why I didn’t speak up, but given all that had happened up to that point, I wouldn’t be surprised if Camilla had cast some sort of spell over us. I suspect Hank and Bobby felt the same way, their tongues held in place by the fear of what might happen if they spoke up.
Before we went our separate ways, the three of us promised to regroup in a couple of weeks. Sooner if Johnny called for us, which he did, but I’ll come back to that. I think we would’ve left early even if he hadn’t called for us. After traveling across the country and seeing what else was out there waiting for us, our hometown seemed smaller than before, if that makes sense. Or maybe we were bigger? Older, I mean. Wiser. Something like that.
In any case, everything was where we’d left it. Our folks were still pissed at us for leaving, the local government was still corrupt, the cops were still assholes, and the only real thing that had changed was the town drunk had been struck and killed by a couple of kids out joyriding one night.
Hank’s folks owned the junkyard just outside of town. He was expected to take up the family business after high school, but his heart was in the band, and the night he told them he wanted to make music led to an argument of biblical proportions. Having actually gone out into the world and found some modicum of success in pursuing his passion didn’t mean much to his folks. He’d abandoned them, after all. When we got back together a week later, all he said was his old man was still an asshole. Wouldn’t say much more than that, but the bruise on his jaw said everything it needed to.
Out of the four of us, Bobby was the one who came from any semblance of wealth. Well, as close to wealth as you can get in a town like that. Lower middle-class, based on the rest of the country, but in that part of the world, his family lived like royalty. I admit that when we were auditioning for drummers, Bobby wasn’t our first pick, but he could also play keys, and he was the only one we knew whose parents could afford to buy him a Kurzweil for his birthday. Their problem with him wasn’t that he’d left town to pursue his passion, but that he’d done so with the likes of us.
As for me, my parents were somewhat more forgiving of my choice of occupation, but they still weren’t pleased with my decision to abandon college in favor of going on tour. They were happy to see me when I returned home, welcoming me with open arms and treating me to dinner, but under the pretense that I’d gotten this ‘rock star’ thing out of my system. They were less than thrilled to learn I had no intention of going back to school. Music was my passion, and we had a good thing going for us. They didn’t understand that once it’s in your blood, it’s there for life. Passion is passion. Besides, there were darker tides pulling me back west, even if I wouldn’t admit it to myself.
The argument that ensued with my folks led to me booking a hotel for the rest of my stay. I wasn’t welcome in their home anymore because I refused to pursue the future they’d planned for me, and after that first night back home I didn’t speak to them again until after our final show.
We were in town for a grand total of five days when Johnny called me. I think I speak for all of us when I say we were more than a little relieved.
***
“Aidan?”
I looked at the hotel alarm clock, trying to decipher the time. I was still thinking on West Coast terms, and couldn’t understand why the blocky red numbers read 3:00 AM.
“Yeah,” I grumbled, rolling over and reaching for the lamp. “Johnny? That you, man?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” I said. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter. What’s up, man? You okay?”
“Okay?” He giggled like a child. “I’m great. Never better. How’s the hometown?”
“What do you think?” I reclined back against the headboard and closed my eyes. “Same old shithole. My folks threw me out. Haven’t talked to Bobby or Hank, but I suppose they’re not doing much better.”
The phone fell silent for a moment, so long that I checked the screen to make sure we were still connected. We were. Johnny cleared his throat. “Did, uh, did you happen to swing by Ma’s place?”
My stomach dropped. I hadn’t. “Uh, no, man. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“No sweat, brother. I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either.”
That was a lie. If Johnny had come with us, he would’ve spent all of his time at his mother’s side in the psychiatric facility. Norma Leifthauser had spent most of Johnny’s childhood in and out of various institutions. There was a point during high school where it seemed like her doctors had found the right combination of meds to keep her balanced, but the night we graduated she slit her wrists. Johnny found her in the bathtub. That’s what our song ‘Holes in the Fabric’ was really about. I guess we can put years of online speculation to rest on that one.
Anyway, in one of Norma’s final lucid moments, she told Johnny to go chase his dreams. And he did. If not for Camilla, he would’ve flown back with us, and chances are if he had, that would’ve been the end of The Yellow Kings. No final show, no final album. We would’ve gone our separate ways, or more likely me, Hank, and Bobby would’ve struck out on our own. I often wonder what would’ve happened if things had gone that way instead. I guess I just like torturing myself.
The truth was, I’d forgotten all about Johnny’s mother. Now that he’d brought it up, a sour warmth filled my gut, and I felt horrible.
“Seriously, Johnny, I’m sorry. I—”
“Aidan, it’s no sweat. Honest. That’s not why I called you.”
His words didn’t make me feel any better. That sour feeling in my stomach tightened, forming a leaden weight of guilt that anchored me to the bed.
“Okay.” I frowned. “So what’s up?”
“I need you guys to fly back here to Carcosa.”
Carcosa. That was Camilla’s word. Hearing it glide across his tongue left me unsettled. The name just sounded wrong in his voice.
“Did something happen? Is everything all right?”
“Eve
rything is . . . perfect,” Johnny said. The lilt in his voice, a rising octave with that last syllable, betrayed any steadiness in his voice. Johnny had this way of measuring his words and emotions, trying to appear as flat as possible in all manner of interactions, but sometimes he slipped. Whatever it was, he was excited. I hadn’t heard him this excited since the night we signed with Reggie to manage us.
“Define ‘perfect’ for me, Johnny.”
“Perfect is lyrics and riffs, Aidan. They’re coming faster than I can write ‘em down, man. I need my band. Whatever spark is there, we need to capture it while it’s popping, and I can’t do it without you.”
I sat up in bed and wiped the fatigue from my eyes. For the first time in weeks, I felt a genuine jolt of excitement myself. Johnny’s moods were infectious like that.
“No shit? Read some of them to me?”
Then he did, and I knew we had something special. An hour later I was rallying the troops, and by breakfast, me and Hank and Bobby were on our way back to the airport. The next time I visited my hometown, I’d be the lone survivor of that horrible show. The last of The Yellow Kings.
Reggie, Hank, Bobby, and Johnny would be dead.
***
Five days. We were gone five days, and in that time, Camilla Bierce had furthered her influence over our friend. The gypsy had worked her dark magic, commanding Johnny with a spell that the rest of us had only glimpsed that night in the hotel. I never should’ve left him alone with her.
Camilla’s place was a loft apartment in downtown Los Angeles. Far as I could tell, she was the only occupant (besides Johnny), which made me wonder how the hell she could afford such a place. In the weeks we were together on the road, not once had she mentioned a job or a trust fund. Hell, I would’ve accepted lottery winnings as a valid excuse, but ultimately I didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer an explanation. I will say this, though: the girl had expensive tastes, and for a self-proclaimed gypsy, she knew how to live like a queen.
The whole apartment was decorated in lavish art, with full-sized stone sculptures of humanoid creatures adorning the far corners, and original canvas paintings depicting various scenes of debauchery. One painting portrayed a man held upside down while two mischievous devils sawed him in half, starting with his testicles. That painting hung above the toilet.
Scenes of mutilated animals, ritualistic torture, and bizarre sex acts decorated her apartment in such a way that no matter where you turned, there was always something unsettling staring back at you. And the centerpiece of her macabre collection was found in the area she’d designated as her living room. The space was walled off with two floor-to-ceiling bookcases; the sofa was positioned to face a free-standing sculpture at the opposite wall.
The sculpture was . . . how can I put this, Mr. Hargrove? It was the most fucked up thing I’ve ever seen.
Sculpted from porcelain or maybe marble, it stood seven feet tall, draped in a robe that was expertly crafted to look like actual fabric, spilling over the contours of a body underneath. Multiple arms protruded from the abdomen, some bent at the wrong angles, some ending in hooves, and some curved inward upon themselves like snakes.
The sculpture’s head looked human, but its face was obscured by one of its hands, the fingers splayed over the eyes, nose, and mouth. Upon closer inspection, the nails of each sculpted finger seemed to dig into that porcelain white flesh, the sculptor capturing this bizarre creature mere moments before self-mutilation. And in its other hand was a plain white mask. A strange, curved symbol was etched into the mask’s forehead.
We were silent throughout Camilla’s tour of her not-so-humble abode, but when we saw that ungodly statue, Hank broke that silence in the only way he could.
“What in the actual fuck is that?”
Camilla beamed, prancing across the living room toward the statue. She ran her fingers along its chest and looked back at us. “I commissioned this piece. Isn’t he beautiful? Our King Hastur, frozen at the moment of his unmasking.”
Bobby and me, we sort of mumbled our approval to be polite, but Hank just stared at it slack-jawed.
“That is the god-awfulest thing I’ve ever seen, darlin’, and I’ve seen some shit.”
Camilla blanched at his comment, preparing to fire back criticisms of her own, but Johnny interrupted the standoff.
“Come on, guys, let me show you what I’ve been working on.”
We followed him into their bedroom, but before I stepped away, I took another look at the statue. Camilla stood on her toes and kissed her king’s pale wrist. I thought I heard her say, “Soon, my love.” She looked over her shoulder, caught my eye, and winked.
“Aidan, you coming?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to look away. I joined the boys in the next room and tried to shake off the chill that had come over me.
***
We gave an interview for one of those self-proclaimed ‘metal’ magazines a couple of months before the last show. We gave several, in fact, but this one stands out in my memory because of the question we were asked.
“This album came together quickly. What was the writing process like?”
Johnny took the lead on that question, as he did with most media requests in those days, regurgitating a canned response that Camilla had probably fed him hours before.
“I’d had the lyrics swimming around in my head,” he’d told the interviewer, “and the music sort of wrote itself. Like it was always there, you know? Like it was being whispered to me from afar.”
Whispered from afar. The fans loved that mystical shit. It was reminiscent of Led Zeppelin’s mystique, culled from Jimmy Page’s fascination with Aleister Crowley. Johnny just put our spin on it. The Yellow Kings were bringing dark magic back to metal, or some dumb shit like that.
I mention this because the interviewer ate it up. They paraphrased that quote for the article byline: ‘The Yellow Kings: Whisperers From Afar.’ And they ate it up because, in truth, no one really believed it. It was our shtick, our gag, our stage theatrics like Alice Cooper or Marilyn Manson. It was another way for the label’s marketing team to package our music for the masses.
But the thing is, it was absolutely true. Those lyrics were swimming around in Johnny’s head and had been for as long as Camilla had been in the picture. They were being whispered to him from afar, only they weren’t coming from the ether; no, they were coming from the gypsy herself. Camilla had been telling him what to say, ‘inspiring’ what to write on paper, right down to the melodies themselves. And the dumb bastard was so blind to her suggestions that he thought he was the genius of that relationship, that everything had just come to him in some bizarre flash of wisdom.
But I knew better. Maybe Hank and Bobby did, too, but were too afraid to say anything. The notes that he strummed for us in Camilla’s bedroom weren’t his usual style. They were cleaner, polished, but reverberating with a dark edge underneath. The sound had weight to it, the way you feel thunder in your bones during a storm. Even now, thinking about it gives me goosebumps.
When he finished, I asked him to play it again, and this time I closed my eyes. I bobbed my head to a silent beat and let my imagination take me away. I saw a city emerge from the shadows of my mind, a bright golden palace built from impossible stone structures filled with holes. Towers jutted outward at angles which made no sense, and as I stood on that far-off vista, I realized the city was moving, breathing, whispering to me. Take off your mask, it said. Take off your mask.
“So what do you think?”
I opened my eyes. The city was gone, but that hushed voice remained in the back of my mind, lurking from the shadows.
Bobby nodded. “It’s got a weird timing to it, but that’s not a bad thing.”
“I think the bass will drive the song,” Hank said. “What about you, Aidan?”
“I dig it,” I said. “What’re you calling it?”
Johnny smiled. “This one’s called ‘The Final Reconciliation.’ I think the whole album wil
l be called that.”
Hank shrugged. “What the hell’s that mean?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Johnny sighed. He closed his eyes. “I think it’s like a metaphor for unity, like bringing two worlds together. Reconciling them. One world has to see the other, but they can’t yet. I don’t know, I’m still working out the journey.”
The journey. That was his way of saying it’s a concept album. Like Rush, Mastodon, King Crimson, and a dozen others, The Yellow Kings would be telling a story with their music.
And oh, what a story it would be.
“So what do you say?” Johnny asked. “Want to pursue it?”
“I’m in,” Bobby said, sticking out his hand. Johnny put his atop Bobby’s.
Hank shrugged and followed suit. “I’m game.”
The three of them looked at me, grinning. I hesitated for a moment, meeting each of their eyes, contemplating what I was about to do. I knew in my heart that Camilla had everything to do with Johnny’s inspiration, but I couldn’t kid myself—the music was good, and I dug the concept. Whatever her role was, I couldn’t deny that it would be great for our music careers.
So after all that I’d seen, after all the warning signs and bizarre shit, I ignored the screaming voice in the back of my head and put my hand on theirs.
“Count me in,” I said.
A week later, we began recording what would become our first and final album.
-TRACK 5-
SEASON OF THE LEECH
All the rumors about the dark ritual shit that went on in the recording studio were true. Camilla had offered us free reign over her extensive book collection, an invitation which Johnny took full advantage of. I bet he carted at least thirty tomes down to the studio. They weren’t top choices from the bestseller lists, either. These books were fucking ancient, dusty old things bound in cracked leather, and paper so thin it might crumble to dust if you breathed on it the wrong way.
“Grimoires,” Camilla called them. Johnny was enamored immediately.
“What the hell do you need those for?” Hank asked him. We were hanging out in the control room, waiting for Bobby to finish setting up his drum kit in the studio. Johnny dropped a stack of books on the coffee table.
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