How could he know I did exactly that a few weeks ago? “Yeah, in the hallway outside my office. You’ve obviously read my book on midlife crisis survival.” I played it off with a jest.

  “I’m somewhat of an expert in that department myself. Did you destroy your business phone yet? Your arch nemesis?”

  This is getting creepy. Is he psychic? “Just smashed it on the sidewalk tonight.”

  “I figured.” He beamed, swishing the whisky.

  The oaky scent made me think of my basement where we had our jam sessions. My mom would always turn the lights on and off to signal that we were playing too loud. Lost in the past, strumming my guitar, the bar’s wall fixtures flickered. I noted how the timing of that was pretty cool. Somebody upstairs is having some fun, or maybe someone from the other side. That’s a hoot!

  “So, what’re going to do now you’ve quit your job?” he asked.

  “My impossible dream would be to get the band back together.” I’ve got no wife to object. Might as well be out all hours and sleep all day.

  “Where’re the other guys now?”

  “Not doing much. Mick’s living in Key West, drinking himself to death. I’d have to convince him to sober up a little and give up playing his guitar every night at Mallory Square. James’s a retired paramedic the last I heard, but who knows if he also retired his drum sticks. Billy’s probably still writing greeting cards, but he’d have to get used to writing lyrics again. We couldn’t have that simple, sappy crap seeping into our songs. And poor Paul. We’d have to fill his spot somehow.”

  “Died, huh?”

  “Yeah, hit by a car six years ago. He was the only noble one—used his lead singer charisma to become a priest.” I took a closer look at the stranger and thought there was something about the shape of his eyes and the fired up enthusiasm that reminded me of a teenage Paul.

  “I know.”

  He knows? He knows what? I felt my whole face tense in confusion.

  “It’s hard to lose a friend.” He averted his eyes.

  “Yeah.” This guy’s a whacko.

  “Well, I seem to be your missing puzzle piece.”

  My eyes met his. “Excuse me?” No, dude, you don’t ‘complete me.’

  “I’m proof there’re no coincidences in life. I’m your singer.”

  “You sing?” I sputtered, slamming my glass on the bar.

  “Pretty damn good, too.” He started to sing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” The tonality and range of his voice was so magnificent that it made me question what music really was. I lost myself in the words, to the point that I no longer heard them or registered their meaning. For a moment I lost awareness of time and space, a chill running through my bones. The experience affected me so deeply that I realized I never wrote a note of music in my life.

  I took a look around the bar. Everyone stopped to stare. The bartender held a glass and tilted bottle in midair. The couple that should have gotten a room had broken away from each other’s lips to follow the source of the song. I felt my mouth had dropped open and I snapped it closed. My eyebrows raised. “Damn.”

  His smile revealed crooked, but white teeth. “In the end, it’s just a couple of notes.”

  “That’s what you call it?”

  He laughed. “Bring the guys here, where a lot of bands’ve found success.”

  “To London?” How the hell was I going to convince them? I’d have to ask for a recording of his voice. That would seal the deal for sure.

  “Yep. We can practice here. And, I’ll call in my industry contacts. Gotta chap over at the 100 Club who’d give us go.”

  Dang! That’s where the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Stones all played. I tried to silence the teen boy inside of me that was bouncing off the walls. “That’s sounding pretty good.” Minutes ago he had been bugging the shit out of me, talking of spirits disturbing the peace and getting up all in my business. One listen to his voice and it was like that was all erased from my memory. “You’ve a band name in mind?”

  “Soul Retrieval?” He smirked. “That’ll come when everyone’s together. Here.” He pulled his wallet from his jeans then handed me a business card embossed with a sun.

  I took it without reading it and slid it into my shirt pocket. Something else had landed on the bar that I picked up. It was a concert ticket stamped “May 3, 1980, International Amphitheatre, The Who.” Suddenly I was seventeen years old, listening with Paul to Roger Daltrey sing numbers from the Who Are You album. He and I stood out in the rain at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning to score those tickets. How the hell did this bastard have one? And what the hell was he doing in Chicago? I flipped the stub over and noticed it was signed, just like Paul’s was. We had run into the lead singer on his way to the band’s tour bus. It was one of our big moments as music fans.

  “You were there?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Sure was.” He grimaced. “Kept thinking of how much I missed Keith Moon on drums.”

  “Yeah, he was awesome.” I really didn’t know what else to say.

  “You see, our paths seemed to have crossed more than once, mate.” After lifting the stub from my fingers, he tucked it back in his wallet.

  “I don’t believe it. And you got it signed?” I really wanted to press him for all the details, but I didn’t. Maybe I was afraid they’d be exactly like what happened with me and Paul. Maybe a part of me didn’t want to know. Is that ticket even real? Why someone would have a fake stub in their wallet suddenly seemed the stupidest thought I’d ever had.

  “Yep, was a pretty wicked moment, I must say. Seems like you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I certainly do.” Funny thing was, I was getting more confused by the minute. The opening rifts of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” played in the soundtrack of my mind. I remember thinking how weird that was—but then again, this whole night had been weird.

  “And here we are—two musicians about to live a dream.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You see, everything happens for a reason.” The ice cubes jingled in the glass as he shook the last drops into his mouth.

  Ignoring the Oprah crap spewing from his mouth, I was still drinking in the excitement of the band reuniting.

  In those few seconds when I regarded him in the mirror, he suddenly looked distorted. His facial features seemed to drip like a waxy mess, and his sharp red shirt blurred and wilted. After rubbing my eyes, the reflection resumed its normal appearance. For shit’s sake, I haven’t had that much to drink. The stress of the day must have screwed me up more than I had realized—or, I was really losing my mind. Maybe that suggestive talk about this place being haunted was doing a number on me.

  “Oh, there’s only one thing. We’ll have to give up our souls in return.” He chortled loudly, throwing his head back.

  “Oh, yeah. No problem.” I laughed along. This guy’s got personality. Playing with him should be fucking fantastic.

  Movie Time

  by Jeff Dosser

  Cecil glanced over at Mother and couldn't help but break into a wide, toothy grin. It had been a long time since he'd seen her this happy. A long time since they'd done anything fun. Yet, here they were. Together. In the car and headed to the drive-in of all places.

  Cecil would never have believed it if he were not sitting behind the wheel and chauffeuring them to the show. Tonight, there was a Star Wars double feature at the Beacon Drive-In. The first film was the original. Star Wars. Then they were showing the latest. The Force Awakens.

  Cecil had seen the trailers for the new movie about a million times on the library computer. He wanted to rent the original on DVD but of course, Mother wouldn't cotton to that. She didn't believe in computer controlled technology and would plunge into one of her rants. She would say they were all 'tools of the devil' designed to corrupt the souls of men.

  She let him keep an old VHS player from when Daddy was around. He watched the original Star Wars every Sunday when Mother took her nap. He'd found the tape on a trip to the Goodwill store and Mother finally relented and let him buy it. It cost seventy-five cents. It was the best movie in the world; until the old tape finally snapped. That was two months ago. But now they would see them both. The original and the new movie...together.

  Cecil steered the ancient Olds Celebrity onto the highway and eased it up to fifty. He glanced over at Mother anxiously. She didn't like going more than forty, but tonight was special.

  "Are you OK, Mother? We're not going too fast, are we?"

  She swung her head 'no'.

  Cecil riveted his attention back on the road. To tell the truth, he didn't much like going more than forty either. When the other cars catapulted past it set his nerves on edge. Cecil didn't like it when his nerves were on edge.

  "We're almost to the turn-off. Mother," he assured her after a worrisome fifteen minutes.

  He spared a quick glance from the white-knuckled ride to confirm she was OK. Cecil clicked on the blinker and the little green arrow flashed in a tic-toc rhythm as he eased onto the exit ramp. Passing cars blared their angry protests as they whizzed past. Cecil gritted his teeth against the distraction and focused on the road.

  It had been a long time since they'd gone so far from home. He always drove when they went to 8 a.m. Sunday service or on their 3 p.m. grocery trips to the local Wal-Mart. Mother was quite particular about her times.

  "Don't worry, Mother," he assured her. "They’re impatient louts and probably doomed to hell."

  Cecil grinned in amusement when mother nodded her head in cheerful agreement.

  He checked the rearview mirror and steered them onto Harper Road. The buildings of the city fell away and they passed sprawling, open pastures of grazing cattle and green, furrowed fields. A few miles ahead, he caught sight of the drive-in spotlights sweeping the twilight sky.

  "We're almost there, Mother. And oh, you're going to love it. Just like I said, you're going to love it."

  As the five-story screen began to ease over the horizon, Cecil's heart thudded a double beat in his chest. Then, they were pulling up to the gate. The gravel crunched beneath the old, bald tires as he crept to the ticket booth.

  The attendant, a chubby-cheeked woman with a too thin nose and hair pulled into a severe ponytail, dropped her elbows onto a ledge beneath the booth window and glared into the car.

  "So, what is it? Two tickets?" she asked. Her jaw worked noisily on a wad of gum.

  "Yes, please. One for me and one for Mother." Cecil passed across a twenty.

  The woman took the money, then handed back the tickets and a five. When she did, her eyes fell upon the passenger. Her chomping jaw gaped open and her eyes grew wide. "Is she... OK?"

  Cecil glanced at Mother. Her chin rested on her chest and her head was rocked to one side. A thick, yellowish fluid hung in a stream from one nostril and arched across to her shoulder. But the thing that caught the eye was the wooden handle of a steak knife protruding from the back of her head. It stuck up like a macabre, out of place hair begging to be smoothed back with a swipe of the hand.

  "Oh yes, she's fine." Cecil's eyes crinkled happily as a crooked smile split his face. "Mother said if anything ever stuck in her head like Star Wars was stuck in mine, then she would go with me to the drive-in. And here we are."

  The Nightmare

  by Bekki Pate

  'So on his Nightmare

  through the evening fog

  Flits the squab Fiend o'er

  fen, and lake, and bog;

  seeks some love-wildered

  maid with sleep oppress'd,

  Alights, and grinning sits

  upon her breast'

  -Erasmus Darwin

  I'm dreaming again, I know I am. I'm not stupid; I know the difference between dream and reality. But try telling that to my frozen body, to my terrified heart, to my dying brain, as I lay here, paralysed. I watch the creature study me, as he sits at the end of my bed.

  Leave me alone! You disgusting thing! Get away!

  These are the words I want to say. No, not say...spit from my mouth like venom, onto the creature, and watch it scream in agony before it dissolves into nothing. I want to grab its neck, and squeeze until its charcoal eyes pop out of its enormous head. Most of all, though, to save me from this terrifying fate, I want my husband, who is snoring beside me, to wake up. To wake me up.

  But I can't move.

  The creature, with its sickening toothless grin, and its long claws attached to stumpy limbs, bends down and opens its mouth. It's so close to my skin that I can feel its breath on my legs.

  Oh God! It's going to eat me! Wake up! You stupid woman, wake up!

  I shoot out of bed with an almighty shriek. I search frantically for the creature, but it's gone. My breath comes in quick, painful gasps, and I am drenched once again in my own sweat.

  My husband, Henry, finally wakes up.

  “Jesus Christ! What the fuck?!” he yells. I don't respond to his swearing at me, because as I had just woken him up at 2:45am by screaming in his face, I let it pass.

  His expression unclouds, and he reaches for me. I am still shaking.

  “Oh, babe,” he says. I have always hated being called that, but three years and one wedding later, I've never had the heart to tell him. “Another dream?” he asks.

  All I can do is nod my head. I am speechless, scared out of my mind, still expecting the creature to come and get me. Henry gathers me into his arms, and I lean my clammy head against his chest. He's so warm, smooth, solid. He smells a little like paint tonight; not an uncommon occurrence for someone who paints as a hobby. I feel so sure of his protection over me, that if the creature tried to get me now, it wouldn't stand a chance.

  I fall back to sleep almost immediately, and this time, I sleep dreamlessly and unconsciously, until the bright sun awakens me with its harshness, and I realise that I have slept through my alarm.

  ****

  I race to work, forty minutes late, and slink behind my desk without making eye contact with anyone. But it isn't long before someone notices me.

  “Emily!”

  I hear the click-clacking of high heels against the floor. “Good morning! What time do you call this?!”

  Bite me, you arse-licking hussy.

  “Andrea! Hello, yes, I...err...had a bit of a nightmare getting in.”

  “Oh dear! Is everything alright?” She doesn't ask out of concern, no, just out of nosiness.

  “Yes, it's fine,” I say. “Andrea, sorry but I'm really busy, so...”

  “So...” She smiles at me gormlessly with those huge lips, and for a second I am propelled back to last night.

  So fuck off! I want to say. She's not even my boss, what business is it of hers where I am and what I am doing at any given moment?

  “So...I need to crack on...” I gesture to my computer, which is still switched off. Sudden realisation washes over her pallid face.

  “Oh! Yes, of course. Excuse me.” She wiggles off back to her desk, her head high, her backside dancing across the room. I know what you're doing; nobody's arse sways so hypnotically under a blue suit skirt without some conscious effort.

  Eurgh...I switch on my computer, and load up my emails. I work in a customer services centre for a gas company. It's alright, pays the bills. Henry had already left by 6:30am for his commute to Birmingham. He is an accountant for one of the top law firms there. My mother, if she were still alive, would have laughed at the fact that her carefree, rather hippy-ish daughter had married a boring, stuffy accountant. Wait...who I am kidding? She had died not really knowing anything about me. I miss the version of my mother that I had created in my head, the version that I tell people about, rather than the version that describes her as a coward, neglectful, and ultimately not able to save neither herself, nor me. Does that make me a bad daughter? I'm not sure.

  As I look through my emails, I happen to glance upon some spam. I sometimes get emails like this, that offer to enlarge a certain part of anatomy that I do not possess, or some miracle fat-burning pill, or informing me that I have won three million pounds in the Nigerian lottery. I wish.

  But this email catches my eye, the photo on it stopping me from hitting the delete button quick enough. It's a company selling horse riding equipment, and the photo of the beautiful, elegant horse being stroked by the young girl with the riding gear on, is for a second, too much for me. I hear a bang, a scream, something falls, and I remember an overwhelming fear that makes me feel sick.

  I shake my head, not wanting to go there right now, and I delete the message.

  I then put my headset on, and start taking calls.

  ****

  By the time evening arrives, Henry is already home, making dinner. As I walk dishevelledly through the door, he glances up and smiles.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.” I put my bags down and shrug off my coat. “Something smells nice.”

  “It's just pork in wine sauce, nothing fancy,” he replies. He thrusts a glass of wine into my hand. “Now go, sit down, drink this, and don't move a muscle until dinner is ready.”

  I don't need to be told twice, so I kick off my shoes and curl up onto the sofa, and sip the wine slowly. The sofa is so warm, so comfortable, if I just rest my head on one of these enormous pillows...

  Once again I am unable to move. I am still scrunched up into the sofa, and suddenly I am very uncomfortable. I look around me.

  There you are, you piece of crap.

  The creature is sitting on the other sofa, curled up as I was, with its head against a pillow. Ridiculously, it has a glass of wine in its hand. It sips the wine slowly, and licks its lips with its large, protruding tongue. It's mocking me! The evil little swine is mocking me!

  It makes a disgusting, gurgling sound, and I am sure at that point I am about to be sick. But to my right I hear a noise, like footsteps, and I strain to try and see over my shoulder whilst being unable to move my head.

  A horse clip-clops through the hallway. It stops, and my heart flips in my chest in terror. It's coming into the room.

 

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