Rob Zombie - Lords of Salem

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” said Heidi. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said. “Besides, I got paid in pancakes.”

Heidi wasn’t playing along, though. She really must have been tired. “You can crash on the couch if you want,” she said, but he could tell by the way she said it that she was just being polite.

“Naw,” he said. “I should go.” She just nodded. Still holding her head, she led the way to the front door and let him out.

Chapter Nineteen

What the fuck was that all about? wondered Heidi. Did I drink more than I realized? No, that couldn’t be it. She’d been just fine, having a good enough time, eating pancakes and talking with Whitey, listening to music, a little tired, and then suddenly everything had changed. It had been that record, the one by the Lords. Why had the needle done that? It shouldn’t have been able to do that.

She massaged her temples. And then when the record started playing, why had Whitey been unable to hear it? It hadn’t been loud, true, but even when Whitey was claiming the record was blank, she could feel it. Not hear it exactly, but feel it somehow pulling somewhere deep within her body, tugging at her guts. Was that music? It wasn’t the way she normally thought about music, but it was true there were songs that felt like they took place inside of you instead of outside. Maybe it was a little like that, but a negative version of that. It didn’t feel good exactly. It had made her feel almost nauseous.

But once she’d started to feel it, she’d been unable to stop herself from reaching out and turning up the volume. And then the moans had started and Whitey could hear them, too. But from there, things had gotten strange.

She couldn’t remember exactly what the music had been like, simply knew that it was strange. But what she did remember was seeing something. And not simply seeing it—experiencing it almost. There was blood; she remembered that. Blood everywhere, and flashes of bare flesh, but they were so distorted it was hard to see. And that symbol on the box as well, but not carved in wood, instead drawn on flesh in something dark. Maybe paint. Or maybe blood. Or maybe not drawn exactly but cut into the flesh. Hard to say—it all had come in bits and pieces, in flashes, and was hard to put back together again. She groaned. There had been something else, a fire, and women swaying, their bodies naked and grimy, moaning and clutching at one another and—

Maybe I’m getting confused, she thought. Maybe that fucked-up black-metal video we watched earlier had some subliminal shit in it, and now that I’m tired it’s rising in flashes to the surface. Again, just like earlier that day, she felt the craving for a fix. She pushed it aside. She sighed, again rubbed her temples. Best thing you could do for yourself, she thought, is crash and go to bed.

Chapter Twenty

The apartment was dark throughout, or almost so, the only light being the television’s pulsating blue glow. Heidi lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, half watching the program in spite of herself and despite her own exhaustion.

On-screen, a man in a black hood was discussing his time as a hit man for the Mafia.

“You indicated you used a shotgun,” said the interviewer from somewhere off-camera.

When the hit man responded, it was in a digitally distorted voice, unnaturally deep, almost demonic. “Not just any shotgun, a sawed-off,” he said. “He was at a red light and I pulled up alongside him and fired both barrels. He never saw the green. I wasn’t expecting the blast to tear his head off.”

And then, for just a moment, the screen seemed to shift as she watched, flashing strangely, giving her a glimpse of something else. In the place of the hit man she had a brief glimpse of a human skeleton, several holes broken through its skull.

She blinked and it was gone, the shadowed hit man in its place.

She groped for the remote, but couldn’t find it. She closed her eyes, tried to trick herself into sleep but it wasn’t working. She heard, from the TV, in that same distorted voice: “I expected them to die… But I didn’t realize I would grow to enjoy the killings.”

She opened her eyes and looked at the TV, but instead of the hooded hit man, she saw a filthy room. Hanging from the ceiling was a wrought-iron cage, crudely made. A chicken had been crammed into it. The creature filled the cage so fully that it was unable to move or turn around. Its feathers bowed against the cage’s bars or poked out. Only its head and neck could move. Its head darted desperately around, its movements shaky, its eye darting about. And then suddenly there was a rapid movement, a flash on the screen and the chicken was gone, the cage bent and torn open and half gone, with blood dripping slow down the bars.

Did I change the channel? she wondered. But the voice that was speaking over the image of the cage was that of the interviewer, rambling on. Maybe something was wrong with the TV.

Or maybe something was wrong with her.

And then the camera angle slowly shifted to reveal a strange face very close to the lens. It didn’t look quite human. It was oddly colored, almost brick red. Maybe a trick of the light, she thought, and then thought, What the hell is this? The face smiled and the teeth the open mouth revealed were long and sharp, filed. No, definitely not human. Some sort of network problem where two signals had gotten crossed.

“After a while,” said the distorted voice—and strangely enough the demonic mouth on the screen seemed to be moving in time with it, as if it were actually the one saying the words—“I started taking a few liberties. I wasn’t killing just for hire. I did that, but I’d also just drive around until I found someone and if it was safe, well, I had my sawed-off handy.”

The eyes were red and glowing like two coals. The whole time the voice was talking, these eyes seemed to be staring straight at her. Like they saw her through the TV. It felt like they were trying to suck her in.

Fuck , she thought, what’s wrong with me? She groaned, searched again for the remote. When she didn’t find it, she rolled over and reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. She drank from it, but there was almost nothing in it, just a half a swallow.

“Fuck,” she said. Still thirsty, she got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, turning the TV off on the way.

The bathroom light nearly blinded her. She stayed still, blinking and staring down, letting her vision adjust, then moved to the sink. She filled her water glass and took a long drink. Forgot to call my mom, she realized as she drank. She filled the glass a second time and then exited the bathroom.

But on the way back to the bed, something felt wrong. The space felt different. It was different. There was something different that she couldn’t quite put her finger on for a moment and then she realized what it was: no dog smell, no dog noises, nobody rubbing up against her leg and asking to be petted when she was on the way back to the bed. Where was Steve?

She whistled but Steve didn’t come. She looked around the bedroom and then wandered out into the front part of the apartment. But Steve didn’t seem to be there either. And the apartment door was open.

“Aw, man, what the fuck?” she said.

Just to make sure, she went through the apartment again, whispering his name. But he wasn’t there. So she threw her faux fur coat over her pajamas and stepped out into the hallway.

Steve was there. He had gotten out somehow, or maybe the door hadn’t latched all the way when Whitey had left. He was at the end of the hall, scratching at the door to apartment five.