Welcome to the Show: 17 Horror Stories – One Legendary Venue Read online

  “Sean, is Coop up there with you?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he said.

  “The show starts in—” she looked at her watch. “Thirty minutes. You guys might want to come down—”

  “I’m afraid I cannot. I’m not feeling quite myself. You’ll be in charge tonight, but I’ll need to see you first.”

  “Ah, yeah, okay. I’ll . . . be right up.”

  “Splendid.”

  He hung up.

  “What?” Cindy said.

  “I don’t fucking know.” She lit another cigarette. “He’s being really fucking weird. He said he doesn’t feel well or some shit. Told me I’m in charge tonight. And Coop is up there, too, I guess.”

  “Whoa, you think it’s like a test?”

  “I kind of thought so, for a minute, but something feels off.” She stood. “He wants to see me before the show starts. You’re coming with me.”

  “Now, you’re weirding me out,” Cindy said.

  ***

  Jillian led the way up the stairs. It was dark as hell. She tried flicking the switch, but it did nothing. As they got closer to the top step, she noticed the broken light fixture.

  “What is it?” Cindy said.

  “The light fixture. It’s busted out. That’s why it’s so fucking dark up here.”

  “I don’t like this,” Cindy said, now clasping Jillian’s hand.

  Something crunched beneath her sneakers as she crossed beneath the broken light. “Found it,” she said, kicking the broken bulb and pieces of the old fixture to the side.

  She stopped outside Sean’s office and knocked.

  There was no answer.

  “Come on,” she said.

  “He told you to come up. Just open it,” Cindy said.

  She turned the knob, and gently shoved the door. When it opened, Sean was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by candles. She flicked the light switch on the wall just inside the door, but the darkness remained.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Sean said.

  Again, with that fucked-up accent.

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” Now, she was pissed. She walked straight to his desk. “Sean, do you realize what the fuck is about to happen downstairs?”

  “And you brought a friend,” he said.

  “It’s just Cindy.”

  “I can wait outside, really, it’s no problem,” Cindy said.

  He folded his hands over his stomach and leaned back. “Just what I was thinking,” he said.

  “I’ll be right here if you need me,” she said before ducking outside.

  “Sean, MTV is down there. We—The Shantyman—are about to be broadcast across the fucking country. I don’t even know what to say?” Jillian stepped to the desk, trying to hold her tongue as she wondered what the hell he was thinking?

  “Have you been up here this whole time?” she asked.

  “I’ve been here much longer than that,” he said, rising to his feet so quick it startled her.

  “Wh-where is Coop?” she said, taking a step back.

  The door behind her slammed shut.

  She turned at the sound.

  “Coop?” Sean said. “He was torn from limb to limb until there was nothing left but pulp and human waste.”

  Before Jillian could move, her feet were off the ground. She shrieked as her body went prone, suspended in mid-air.

  “You humans make the most delicious sounds.”

  ***

  Hearing Jillian’s keening wail through the wall of sound from the club downstairs raised every fine hair on Cindy’s body. She stood outside the door, the broken bulb above left her dressed in darkness.

  She knocked before placing her ear to the door. “Jill? Is everything all right?” She couldn’t hear anything else over the music. She pounded on the door with the underside of her hand. “Jill? Jillian. Can you hear me?”

  She tried the knob and cried out as she pulled her hand away. It was red hot and now burning brightly, illuminating the gloomy space around her in a crimson glow.

  Oh shit.

  She thought of the damned Ouija board. That thing that spoke to them. Eiddam. What had they done?

  Cindy turned and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time, nearly falling twice as she made her way to the hall and toward the stage area. She needed to find Mark.

  ***

  Jillian heard the pounding on the door. She knew it was Cindy trying to get back in, but she couldn’t move. Her body floated over the wide desk. The candles below slid to the four corners, the flames flared around her as Sean’s papers and magazines scattered to the floor.

  “What are you? What do you want?” she whimpered, her back landing upon the desk.

  The thing drank her in as the dancing fire flickered in Sean’s eyes. His clothes split down the center of his body, as if sliced by some unseen force, and slipped to the floor. His exposed flesh bubbled, oozing mucus. Jillian’s stomach turned like curdled milk.

  “I am the one called Eiddam. I serve my Master, and he has waited more than a century to return to this place.”

  “This place?”

  “There are many points around this wretched world, places of complete evil, where the veil has been thinned by the wickedness of mankind and the monsters on the other side.”

  He stepped toward her, blackened nails split forth from the ends of his fingers. Swiping a tear from her cheek, he brought the salty discharge to the snake-like tongue darting from his lips.

  “How wonderful,” he said, sucking at the wetness. His body shuddered. “Now, I’m going to give you an opportunity your companions were not extended.”

  “No . . . ” she whispered as he reached for her. “Please . . . no . . . I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Yes. You will, won’t you?” Eiddam said.

  He reached down, touching a nail to her flesh, applying just enough pressure to penetrate the soft tissue. She trembled at his touch, too shocked to scream.

  “It is okay,” he said. “You can start screaming anytime you like.”

  As he pressed his dagger-like nail deeper and began to carve a line from her exposed navel to the middle of her chest, Jillian did just that.

  ***

  Mark stood talking with a pissed-off-looking weasel in a Dodgers ball cap.

  “Mark, Mark,” Cindy shouted, falling into him.

  “Jesus, Cindy,” he said, holding her up. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Excuse me, Miss,” the weasel said.

  “Mark, it’s Jill,” she said

  “Mr. Remme,” the weasel pleaded. “We must get this start—”

  “Jillian? Where is she?”

  “Up in Sean’s office, but the door’s locked, they won’t open it, and when I grabbed the door knob . . . .” She raised her scalded hand up to him.

  “Come on,” he shoved past the weasel, leaving the douchebag yelling in the background.

  ***

  Finished, Eiddam freed her. Jillian slid from the desk to the floor. Her thoughts swirled, her vision distorted as a fog of oblivion fell over her.

  The dreadful voice lanced her fading consciousness.

  “You will open the doorway for the Master,” Eiddam said.

  Jillian fought to keep from passing out. The flames from the candles on the desk burned higher and higher. So high they should be licking the ceiling. A ceiling she could no longer see. She craned her neck toward the door. It, too, was gone. A smoky, fluttering blackness stretched from wall to wall.

  Oh God, how am I supposed to get out?

  “This building is older than you know. It has been the gateway for many monstrosities from many realms.” He brought a hand to his chest, dug his talons in, and scraped off a large patch of dissolving skin, dropping it to the floor. The tiled floor below sizzling with each plop. “This place has always attracted the vulgar, the downtrodden, those with no place else to fit in, a place for all to give into their darker cravings. You shouldn’t be a
ll that surprised. It was you and your friends that invited us.”

  Invited? Us? Jillian couldn’t think straight. She felt inebriated.

  “You don’t even realize the power the flesh has over you.”

  Jillian shook her head from side to side, the feeling of violation rising again like bile.

  “But you see how weak it is? Yes? This—” he peeled off an area of tissue from his throat and threw it at her feet.

  She scurried back, whimpering as he continued his grotesque exhibition and his vile sermon.

  “This is nothing. This—” he pulled one of Sean’s ears free “—is disposable.”

  She ducked as he flung it past her head, droplets of blood splashing across her left eye and the bridge of her nose.

  “What do you want from me,” she screamed.

  “You are an innocent among the sinners. You will be the Master’s sacrifice.”

  His eyes began to shine a hypnotic white light. Jillian felt his magnetic pull.

  “God, please.”

  “Oh, my love. He has no place here, but you, you will be adored forever.”

  ***

  Beneath them, Cindy heard the weasel announcing Bad Obsession to the stage. The gathering throng of rockers exploded. It was the loudest crowd she’d ever heard at The Shantyman. She stood in the black hallway with Mark as they approached the office door. The knob no longer shined red, but Cindy couldn’t bring herself to touch it. She found it hard to breathe up here. Like the air was a thick fog, heavy and wet.

  “The door knob is ice cold,” Mark said.

  The thick air swirled around her. Cindy tilted, dizzy and nauseous. She stumbled off to the left.

  “Cindy, are you all right?”

  Mark sounded miles away rather than next to her. The room teetered. “***-Mark?”

  “Cindy? Where are you? I can’t see a goddamn thing.”

  The urge to get everyone out of the club suddenly seemed essential. “P-pull . . . ” she coughed. Something thick and oily wrapped around her throat and slithered up to her lip. “Pull the fire . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Pull the fire alarm!” she said, the thing around her throat began closing tight.

  “But there’s no fire?” The words slurred as they came from his mouth.

  “Just do it,” She managed to squeak out.

  “Where the hell is it?” he asked.

  “On the wall . . . ”

  “Got it!” Mark said. “You sure you want me to do this?”

  “Arrrgghhh . . . y-y-yessss . . . ”

  ***

  Jillian watched in horror as the gash down her front—courtesy of the demon—began to pulse, but it did not bleed. How or why didn’t matter. The entire night was beyond reason. Satisfied that her insides wouldn’t spill out, she gritted her teeth and rose to her feet. Blood-spattered and shamed, she let the rage surge through her.

  “Listen to them. How they worship. He will be here . . . ” Eiddam, horns protruding from his skull, green, viscous sludge moving over the bones and muscle of what remained of Sean’s body. He stretched his arms out in a Jesus Christ pose.

  Jillian clutched at her faith and prayed to God that he would empower her just this once.

  Guitars exploded below them. Rhythmic drums brought forth the primal and aggressive intuition within the many, the weak, the supplicant . . .

  “Yes,” Eiddam moaned. “The Master is coming . . . ”

  A deafening sound bleated out from overhead. The loud blast stunned Jillian into submission. Someone had pulled the fire alarm, but why weren’t the sprinklers working?

  The band below fell silent. The crowd went from screams of ecstasy to cries of panic.

  It was Eiddam who now bellowed in rage.

  Jillian stood, fists clenched at her side and ready to unleash her own brand of hell.

  She bent before the desk, clutching the cheap metal and flimsy wood in her grasp, and flipped it over. The torch-like flames shot out and set everything ablaze, invoices, magazines, the small shag rug in front of the desk. All of it caught fire. Eiddam raised his arms over his head and wailed as the flames engulfed him.

  All around them, the blackness that had started to devour the room dissipated, returning the four walls and ceiling of The Shantyman as Jillian knew them.

  Eiddam fell to the floor, crawling, mewling, and reaching out toward her.

  The office door flew open. Mark and Cindy stood, hands before their faces, as a viscous black cloud swirled around them before bursting in a blinding light that knocked them all to the floor.

  Jillian heard Eiddam roar one final time as she was swallowed by the pain.

  ***

  Eiddam felt his Master’s rage as he continued to burn.

  “No . . . please.”

  BROTHER, YOU HAVE FAILED ME FOR THE LAST TIME.

  Eiddam’s bubbling flesh and charred body spilled ichor as it was stretched by the invisible beings. He groveled, but to no avail. As the overhead sprinklers finally began to discharge, Eiddam, or what remained of him, dissolved into smoke.

  ***

  Jillian awoke in the back of an ambulance. Mark and Cindy next to each other on one side, a paramedic on the other. She tried to smile but couldn’t. She lay wounded, broken, confused . . . but alive.

  MONDAY

  Three days later, Jillian met Mark and Cindy at the club’s front door. Mark had phoned her earlier to let her know the damage to The Shantyman was minimal, most of it confined to the upstairs office. She stepped from her car and took Cindy’s hand.

  “You look good,” Cindy said.

  “I’m feeling better, considering.”

  “It’s cool that Sean and Coop left the club to you,” Mark said. “When do we—”

  “Never,” she said. “I want nothing to do with this place.”

  “Woo,” Mark said. “Thank God. I was hoping you’d say that. Frankly, even being this close again makes my skin crawl.”

  She felt it, too. Cindy nodded along. Jillian walked to the door. The posters for the momentous MTV Headbanger’s Ball gig with Bad Obsession still plastered the entry way and the inside of the door. She pulled the keys out, gave them a once over, and then slipped them back in her purse.

  “Fuck this place,” she said. “Let someone else have it.”

  “Come on,” Cindy said. “Let’s go grab a drink or two or three.”

  “Nah, I think I’m gonna drive out to my mom’s. Why don’t you two go ahead.”

  She noticed the sparkle in Mark’s eyes as the two looked at one another.

  “Are you sure?” Cindy said.

  “I’m sure. Go.”

  Cindy and Mark each gave her a hug.

  “Call me, tonight, tomorrow, whenever,” Cindy said. “I’m here if you need me for anything.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  She watched them walk side-by-side. After a few seconds, Cindy grabbed Mark’s hand. Maybe something decent came out of this after all.

  She climbed into her car and headed for the freeway.

  She thought of the horrible dream she’d had last night—the demons, the black fog, a throne made of human bones, and that vulgar imitation of Sean’s voice whispering in her ear.

  She took the onramp and fought her way into traffic. She was done with the Bay Area. She’d talked to a cousin in Riverside and had agreed to move into her recently vacated room. It was a nice complex with a fitness center, pool, and a hot tub. Hell could follow her, but it would have to catch her.

  DARK STAGE

  Matt Hayward

  Leather-clad rockers milledabout the open floor of the Shantyman with their voices raised to be heard above the juke. Sweat, smoke and aftershave collected in an invisible cloud, hot-boxing the venue for another night of sex and sin. In the morning, recollection of those smells would send a hot jet of puke into the bowl of many unfortunate drinkers, but for now, tomorrow stayed at arm’s length. The night had just begun.

  At the bar, Fred in
voluntarily spat beer as his bones burned like hot coals. He slammed his glass to the countertop and clutched his fist with a wince. Only Tuesday night, and already he’d experienced several flairs. Arthritis at forty-three. Man, sometimes life dealt a stinker.

  Paul paused with a handful of empty glasses behind the bar and arched a bushy brow. “Another one?”

  “Make it a whiskey.”

  “I meant your hands, man. Bad?”

  Fred flexed his fists and lay them out on the countertop, ignoring the layer of sticky film. His digits visibly shook. Goddamn it.

  Paul sighed and grabbed a bottle of Jack, untwisted the top. “Look, I’ll make it a double and I’ll make it free. Ain’t gonna lie, this place won’t be the same without you, man. You were the best sound guy I ever knew.”

  Fred gave a tight-lipped smile and watched the bartender pour, jealous of the smooth motion. He envied the majority of the population and their pain-free joints. “Much obliged, buddy.”

  Paul grunted and returned the bottle beside the others, most half empty even though they’d only restocked Sunday. Then he shouted for Justine to handle the clamor of drinkers who’d swarmed like the walking dead and stepped out from behind the bar. He pulled up a stool next to Fred, snorted. “Bossman due down soon?”

  Fred eyed his whiskey, hands folded together while waiting for the tremors to pass. Pain thumped beneath his skin in rhythm to the music of the room’s speakers. “He gets in at ten. Just enough time for me to catch the show tonight. Then I do what I got to do.”

  “He’s not going to be happy about losing you, Fred. There’s a reason he bought you out from the Fillmore. You know how to work a sound desk better than any man in all of San Fran.”

  “Don’t I know it, babe.” Fred reached for his whiskey and quickly scooped it to his lips before spilling too much. He gulped, returning the glass to the table with a hiss. The chore hurt more than he cared to admit. Hot liquor burned his chest and he relished the waxy air in his throat.

  Paul shook his head. “Man, it’s gotten bad, huh? Jesus.”

  “Looks like benefits for me until I find a job that doesn’t involve my hands.”

  For a moment the thought twisted Fred’s guts and he eyed the wall of signed memorabilia behind the bar to avoid overthinking. His future looked as grim as most the Shantyman’s pint glasses—but he had the choice to drink from one or not. A stupid thought. As teeth grinding as his hands could be, pain wasn’t going to stop him living. Or so he told himself.