Watching Hank stand up to her was simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying. I feared for him in the moment. Either Johnny would kick him out of the band or she’d tear his throat out with her teeth.
Neither happened, of course, which made the argument even weirder.
“Day in, day out, we get to watch you parade yourself around this fucking studio like you own the place, like you own us. Leechin’ off us. All because you’ve got this spineless coward by the balls.” He gestured to Johnny, whose cheeks blossomed dark red with heat, fury. “What, you think because you’re sitting on his dick every night—”
Camilla grinned. “Yours too, honey.”
“—that you can come in here and dictate what goes on in this band? News flash, cunt: You ain’t part of this band. You never were. You never will be. You’re just a groupie, and it’s all you ever will be. And you—” He wheeled around and opened his mouth to spew vitriol at Johnny, but our frontman had heard quite enough. Johnny’s fist was waiting for him when Hank turned.
And . . . well, you get the idea. Blows were traded. By the time I managed to pull Bobby out of the studio and get him cleaned up, Hank and Johnny were collapsed at opposite ends of the studio. Their hair was disheveled, their shirts torn, their cheeks bruised and lips bloodied.
Camilla sat between them with her eyes closed, in the center of Johnny’s makeshift Metatron design, with her legs crossed and back straight. She inhaled slowly and exhaled in a singular hum, filling the room, filling our heads, with a warm, even buzzing sound. All around us, candles perched on our equipment flickered and danced, casting erratic shapes along the walls.
When the humming stopped she opened her eyes and looked up at us. Her eyes glowed gold, and when she smiled at me I felt my balls shrivel up and hide. For the first time since we entered the room, I noticed she wasn’t sitting on the floor. She was floating.
“I do hate when my subjects quarrel.”
Camilla rose into the air and unfolded her legs. The tips of her toes lightly brushed against the studio carpet. She floated toward us, brushed past me, and took Bobby’s chin in her hand.
“Just five more minutes, Bobby. You can do that, can’t you, hon?”
Bobby’s teeth chattered. He tried to speak but couldn’t, and nodded instead.
“Good boy,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She turned and let her feet touch the floor. “Back to it then, my Yellow Kings.”
***
I made a call to Reggie that night when I got back to my room. He didn’t answer, so I left him a message and asked him to call me back. When he did, I’d have a hell of a story for him. I’d had enough of the bullshit, of feeling like a hostage in my own band. Something had to give, and it was going to be me.
My frustration, anger, and resentment weren’t enough to fill the pit of fear that had opened in my gut. I didn’t know what Camilla was or where she came from, but what I’d experienced in the last few weeks left me fucking terrified. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw those figures in red robes standing at the gates of the golden city. I saw them—and they could see me.
That night, for the first time since I was a child, I slept with the lights on.
I still do.
-TRACK 6-
BENEATH BLACK STARS
Reggie called me back the following morning and told me to meet him at a small diner a couple blocks away. “Bring the guys,” he said, “and let’s talk about this.” I told him I would, but I didn’t say which guys. I roused Hank and Bobby from their rooms, but none of us bothered calling Johnny. He’d been staying at Camilla’s loft, an invitation which had been extended to all of us, but none of us were brave enough to accept it. Hank and Bobby had had various trysts with her since that night in the hotel, but like I said before, I’d made it a point to stay as far away from her as possible. Besides, Johnny wasn’t invited to this meeting.
Our manager was waiting for us in a booth at the far end of the diner. Three mugs of coffee were already on the table.
“Thought you might need this,” he said, moving over. “Drink up. It’s fresh.”
We took our seats and nursed our coffee. Reggie was silent for a few minutes, watching each of us, inspecting us. Afterward, I realized he was looking for the signs he’d seen all too often in the business: track marks, scabs, bloodshot eyes, raw nostrils from too much coke. We had the bloodshot eyes covered—none of us had been sleeping well, something I think I already told you—but we were free and clear otherwise.
Still, old Reggie didn’t mince words. “You boys look like dogshit.”
None of us disagreed with him.
“So . . . you swear to me none of you have been using? Don’t lie to me, guys.”
We shook our heads, but Bobby and Hank looked to me to speak for the group. “No,” I said. “You know us better than that. The only thing we do is drink, and we’ve kept ourselves sober for the recording. We wanted to stay sharp.”
Reggie nodded. “Good, good. This Camilla, she’s still clinging to Johnny?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I said.
“Okay, then. Put it another way.”
We took turns telling him what had transpired since we last saw him at the hotel all those weeks ago, down to the weird hallucinations which, to my surprise, had been happening to everyone. Bobby’s fainting incident the night before was part of it.
“That’s what happened to me,” Bobby said. “I blacked out, but I was still awake, you know? And there was this weird city, with these weird people in robes, telling me to take off my mask or something. I stood up from my kit and meant to walk down to the shore, and . . . and that’s where I blacked out for real, I guess. Next thing I remember is you guys crowded around me and Hank yelling at Johnny.”
Hank recounted what happened after I took Bobby out of the studio to get cleaned up.
“So me ‘n Johnny were going at it, right? Fucker can throw a good punch, I’ll give ‘em that. Anyway, I took a charge at him like a linebacker, and the next thing I know, I’m flying through the fuckin’ air like goddamn Tinkerbell. Johnny, too. Camilla had stepped between us, but she never touched us. Not once. Whatever she did sent us flying at opposite ends of the room. When you guys came back into the studio, we weren’t cowering from each other; we were cowering from her. And then she did that weird floating meditation shit.”
Reggie perked up, his eyes as big as quarters. “Floating meditation shit?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Kind of like that night in the hotel. Remember?”
Our old manager’s cheeks blossomed a dark shade of maroon. He looked down at his cup of coffee and idly stirred the black brew with his spoon. The metal scraping against the ceramic mug gave me chills.
“I’d . . . I’d hoped that was just a bad dream.”
Hank shook his head. “Wasn’t a dream, Reg. We were all there. Those things she made us do . . . ”
“I know,” he whispered. He let go of his coffee mug and ran his fingers across the rim of his gold wedding band. “Honestly, I think I’d rather go back to believing it was a dream.”
“So would we,” I said. “We didn’t mean to dredge up the past. Believe me, we’d rather leave it all behind us, but the point is, she’s a problem. A real fucking problem.”
Bobby piped up. “I don’t feel safe, Reg. Like what we’re doing in the studio feels wrong somehow. The candles, the incense, the weird positioning, all the hallucinations, it’s like we’re doing something unnatural. Like the music we’re making isn’t supposed to exist or something.”
I thought about cutting in to say I didn’t think they were hallucinations at all, but held my tongue. How might they react to something like that? And what good would it do? I felt foolish for even thinking such things, but the fear of that golden city mingled at the back of my mind. Whatever that place was, wherever it was, it sure as hell felt real to me. I could still feel the warm breeze blowing in from the sea, could smell the briny waves and hear them crash against the s
hore.
I could still hear the hushed whispers crawling over the dunes toward me.
“Take off your mask,” I whispered. The others fell silent and looked at me. “That’s what they said. The figures in the robes.”
“What do you think that means?” Reggie asked.
“No idea.” I sighed. “And if it’s all the same, I’d rather not know.”
“Can’t say I blame you, son.” He sighed and sat back in his seat. “So what do we do?”
“What can we do?” Hank asked. “She’s got him wrapped around her fucking finger. And we can’t kick him out of the band. He’s our lyricist.”
Bobby shook his head. “We’re not kicking him out. Johnny’s the heart of the band. If it weren’t for him, none of us would be here right now.”
I considered our options. Camilla had managed to entwine herself around Johnny’s heart. Like the others, I feared that if we cut her out, she’d take the best part with her—or worse, she’d kill him altogether, either in body or spirit. Or both.
I didn’t like the idea of kicking Johnny out of the band. I also didn’t like the idea of keeping Camilla around. Ultimately, I took the coward’s way out, choosing to put off the decision at a later date. I still kick myself for it.
“Look,” I said, “let’s just finish the record. We can solve the Camilla problem when we’re done. We can cross that bridge when we come to it. Deal?”
None of them had a better suggestion. Our silence sealed the agreement.
“I hate to be a killjoy,” Reggie quipped, “but what if you’re already on that bridge?”
We didn’t have a clever answer to that question. Instead, we ate our breakfast in silence, and Reggie’s words hung over us like a dense fog after a storm.
***
We took Reggie back to the studio after breakfast. Even though our conversation about what to do about Johnny and Camilla weighed heavily on all of us, we were still excited for him to hear the new material. I’ll go on record and say that I’m proud of the music we made. From a technical standpoint, I don’t think we ever played better than what we put down in that studio during those sessions. Even if things hadn’t gone the way they did, if the album saw the light of day and our careers took off, we never would’ve risen above that record. The Final Reconciliation was our peak, and I think we would’ve spent the rest of our lives trying to top it.
The thought of those songs never getting a proper release does pain me at times. We poured everything we had into those recordings. If only they hadn’t been tainted by Camilla’s dark presence. If only . . .
The three of us sank into the sofa at the back of the control room and watched Reggie’s reaction to our work, one song at a time. Joe had put together a rough mix of each song. Johnny’s vocals were missing from a lot of them, but we had enough to give Reggie an idea of what we were doing.
And I have to tell you, Mr. Hargrove, his reaction was priceless. There’s nothing in this world more satisfying than earning the respect of someone you admire.
The track list for the album was pretty much done. Johnny already had it all mapped out, one song segueing into the next. Reggie kicked back in the office chair and crossed his arms as the opening acoustic notes of ‘Reconciliatory Matters’ spilled out of the stereo speakers. Halfway through the introduction, he turned to us with a peculiar smile on his face.
“Is this an instrumental?”
Bobby shook his head. “Johnny hasn’t decided yet. He was thinking about writing a few lines for it.”
Reggie nodded. “Tell him not to bother. It’s perfect as-is.”
The track ended, kicking into the grimy crunch of ‘Gypsy’. The opening was so abrupt it gave Reggie a start. He fidgeted in his seat and tapped his fingers to Bobby’s machine gun percussion. That song was one of the few which contained Johnny’s recorded vocals, and it had a hell of a hook in the chorus:
“Tell me, sweet gypsy / Under whose black stars do you lie? / Where are we going? / What have you done? / A handful of dust to blot out the sun / His kingdom of gold to defy.”
By the time the second chorus came around, Reggie was already mouthing the words, drumming his fingers on the edge of the mixing board, and tapping his feet to the rhythm. He caught my stare and smiled. I can’t properly tell you how proud that made me feel.
I’m not sure when the change happened. Probably around track three or four, maybe—either ‘Dim Carcosa’ or ‘Usurper’, I don’t recall for sure. My memory becomes fuzzy after Reggie’s smile. I remember the room around us vibrating, pulsing almost, as though the air itself was a curtain behind which a child was rapping their knuckles. The music grew distant, nowhere near as overpowering as it had been, a faint melody carried across the waves.
Because there were waves, crashing against the edge of a bluff upon which the studio sat. I blinked and looked around at my friends, who were each lost in some form of dream state, rocking gently to the breeze, the tide, the ghostly melody lilting from afar. We were again on the dunes outside Carcosa, beneath a fiery red sky upon which hung carrion black stars that twinkled and cast crawling shadows over us.
Disoriented and confused, I rose from my seat and took a couple of steps across the sand, peering down the beach where a masked congregation waited at the city gates, their ruby robes flapping carelessly in the breeze.
My every instinct told me to turn away and run, to flee from that impossible city, and I remember even feeling the twitch of my muscles spasm in agreement, but I didn’t. Instead, I wandered across those darkened shores toward the congregation, and as I drew near, I discovered their robes were emblazoned with a golden symbol. The symbol was familiar to me, though I couldn’t recall where I’d seen it.
One of the congregation, an unfathomably lanky creature draped in robes, heard my shaken voice and turned back to face me. I was taken aback by the mask it wore, a sickly white thing that bore the appearance of an androgynous human, the eyes black and lifeless, the mouth expressionless—and a series of gray nubs that squirmed and writhed just beyond the edge.
The robed creature approached. I stood motionless upon the sand, rooted in place by a fear I had never known before, and a cautious curiosity. What were these things? And was this really happening? If I turned back, would I find myself fast asleep in the control room? Part of me wanted to look back, to turn away from this gargantuan beast and the writhing things that moved behind its mask, but my curiosity got the better of me.
An oily, guttural voice rose from behind the creature’s mask, choking out the words, “Do you know the Yellow Sign?”
In that moment I realized where I’d seen the symbol. The statue in Camilla’s apartment, with its fingers poised and frozen at the point of mutilation. Hastur. The true Yellow King.
“I do,” I whispered, my voice barely present, the sound of sandpaper grit against stone. “Will you take off your mask?”
“As you wish,” it said, raising a slender claw to its face. The red-robed thing pulled off its mask with a sickening wet sound. What I saw lurking, slithering, nesting in the vacuous hole of its face sent my mind spiraling into a maddened panic. The scream worked its way up my throat and across my quivering tongue, infecting the billowing fabric of reality, and alerting the other members of that blasphemous congregation.
I screamed until my insides were hot and raw, my vocal cords withering in a flame of my own kindling, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not take my eyes off the festering gray worms writhing and feeding within the thing’s fleshy wound of a face.
The last thing I recall before Johnny woke me was the dry hiss of the congregation speaking as one: “Coronate the usurper in the waters of Hali.”
Moments later I was back in the control room, thrashing my arms and legs wildly against Johnny’s restraint. A red haze clouded my vision, and for a time I thought I’d jumped from one nightmare to the next. My senses returned to me slowly as though they were a series of switches flipped on in succession, and I realized that
awful noise filling my ears was my own pained shrieks.
“Aidan! Christ, dude, get a hold of yourself.”
I sucked in air and held my breath to steady my racing heart. I counted to twenty, exhaled, and blinked. My vision remained hazy and dark. “Why . . . why can’t I see?”
Johnny placed a tissue in my hand. “Because your eyes are bleeding.”
***
Later, after I’d cleaned the blood from my face, I learned I wasn’t the only one to suffer an ‘episode’ like that. Reggie, Hank, and Bobby had all experienced similar things, only they weren’t foolish enough to wander down the shore toward the city. That was my own stupidity.
We sat in the control room for what might have been hours, each of us suffering from what I can only describe as the worst hangover imaginable. Withdrawals, maybe. Hank’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I heard Bobby crying at one point. Reggie stared off into space, mumbling incoherently to himself.
Camilla wandered through the room with a knowing smile. Watching her traipse through filled me with a quiet rage. I wanted to rise from my seat, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her. “How dare you?” I wanted to scream. “How dare you mock us?”
She knew what we’d seen, where we’d been. Somehow this was her doing, even if it was our music that unlocked the gate into that other place. She may not have put the instruments in our hands or told us what notes to play, but—
My rage faltered. But what, exactly? The anger drained from me, leaving me weak and drenched in a film of sweat. Camilla had everything to do with this and nothing at all. She was Johnny’s inspiration for the greatest thing we’d ever done, and a cancer that was slowly devouring us one day at a time. Looking at her from across the room, a word crawled up out of my memory of Carcosa’s distant shoreline: usurper. That’s what she was. A usurper, not of a throne, but of our lives, upheaving everything we knew and cared about, twisting this journey of ours into something straight out of her own sickly twisted fantasies.
Somehow she’d imposed her will upon us without lifting a finger. Just as she’d bent our will in the hotel room that night, or made her eyes change color, or levitated off the ground. Was it the weird esoteric shit back at her apartment? Was it all that dark ritual magic bullshit? Or was it something else?
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