"Circe's Music Shop" by A. Craig Newman © 2012
Writer's Notes:
The challenge behind this work was to write a story based on a character given to me by another person. I asked my best friend, Tamisha, and she said she wanted to be a sorceress. My mind immediately went to the classics, I thought of Circe, and then this story fleshed itself out in a very brief amount of time. I thought it was a decent exercise, but it felt like an excerpt and I didn't think much of it as a complete story. Still, I posted it on a critiquing website and was surprised by the amount of praise I received. That posting led to this story being turned into a podcast on HorrorAddicts.net - Episode 21. -ACN
The challenge behind this work was to write a story based on a character given to me by another person. I asked my best friend, Tamisha, and she said she wanted to be a sorceress. My mind immediately went to the classics, I thought of Circe, and then this story fleshed itself out in a very brief amount of time. I thought it was a decent exercise, but it felt like an excerpt and I didn't think much of it as a complete story. Still, I posted it on a critiquing website and was surprised by the amount of praise I received. That posting led to this story being turned into a podcast on HorrorAddicts.net - Episode 21. -ACN
"Check me," Johnny said. "Do you see it?"
After a cursory inspection of Johnny's waist, Fats replied, "No, boss. You look fine."
Johnny made a mental to note to pay a visit to his tailor later. For a $1000 per suit, he ought to look better than fine. "Got yours?" he asked Fats.
Fats opened his leather jacket enough for Johnny to see the silver .38 revolver in his shoulder holster. "You really expecting trouble here, boss?"
"Two weeks ago, two of my top earners came in here and disappeared. A week ago, two more do the same. Let's just say I want to be ready for anything." Johnny took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his wet eyes. "C'mon, let's go."
Fats led the way down the stairs from street level to the basement store. Above the door was a small lit sign saying "Circe's Music Shop." There was no storefront window or neon lights or signs with posted hours. Just a small sign over a solid oak door in the basement of a brownstone.
When Fats opened the door, it struck a bell and announced their presence. The young Black lady behind the glass counter to their left looked up at the two men, and then went back to her reading. They closed the door, striking the bell again. Fats walked deeper into the store while Johnny stayed at the front and looked around.
The store was small, but functional. Musical instruments of all types were mounted on the walls, grouped into functional sections - guitars, basses, and violins; trumpets, saxophones, and flutes; clarinets, oboes, and pipes; and all kinds of drums. There were tables on all walls lined with sheets of music, books, tapes, and CDs. If it were not for the open central space to the shop, this place would have seemed impossibly cluttered. As it was, the linoleum floor could be seen and there was a path through all the ordered chaos to a beaded curtain in the doorway on the back wall.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" the lady asked without looking up from her book.
"Are you Circe?" Johnny asked.
"No, I'm Tamisha. There is no Circe."
"You're the only one that works here?"
"Owner, proprietor, and sole employee."
Johnny nodded and wiped his eyes again as he noticed Fats walk through the door at the back of the showroom.
"What is your friend doing?" she asked as she turned a page.
"Just checking to make sure we're alone."
"We need to be alone?"
Johnny leaned on the glass counter. "Well, we've got some important and urgent business to discuss with you and we want to be sure that we are not disturbed."
"Ah. Well, he needn't bother. There's no one else here."
"We just wanna make sure. Say, whatcha readin' there?"
"The Odyssey."
"Good book?"
"It's been around for more than two thousand years. Yeah, I'd say it's pretty good."
Fats reemerged from the backroom and nodded. Johnny crooked his thumb towards the door.
"Now, we can talk," Johnny said as Fats locked the door.
"So, talk," Tamisha said without looking up.
Johnny reached over and grabbed the book. He closed it with a loud clap and tossed it onto the glass counter. "I would like your undivided attention."
Tamisha sighed and rose from behind the counter. As she moved, the green and purple flowers on the sky blue background of her floor-length dress seemed to blow in the wind when her attire flexed and folded. She walked to the front of the counter and casually sat cross-legged on the glass. "And now you have that. What are you names, sirs?"
"I'm Johnny Teardrop."
"'Teardrop'? Sounds like a nickname. Why do they call you that?"
Johnny wiped his eyes again. "Because I kiss the girls and make them cry."
Tamisha smiled. "Right. Ok. And your name, sir?"
Fats made no effort to answer. Johnny replied, "His name isn't important. If I like the answers to the questions I have to ask, you'll never have to deal with him."
Tamisha nodded. "I'm all ears. Ask away."
"Four of my boys paid you visits to talk business. I was wondering if you remember them."
"What kind of instruments did they need?"
"Not that kind of business. They wanted to discuss our insurance policy with you. A policy that all of your fellow business men and women in the area have purchased."
"Insurance? Hmmm…this is starting to sound familiar. Do you have pictures of these men?"
Johnny snapped his fingers and Fats produced a picture of four men on a boat holding up an enormous bluefish. Tamisha smiled and nodded instantly.
"Yes, yes. They didn't all come together. But the guitar, the mandolin, the kettle drum, and the recorder – I remember these men well."
"I told you they weren't here for no instruments."
"Yes, I apologize. I have a habit of trying to guess what instrument would be perfect for each patron. It has become my way of remembering people."
"So, they were here?"
"Yes, they were."
"What happened to them?"
Tamisha looked deep into Johnny's eyes. "For you – bass guitar. Definitely a bass."
"Look, lady, just tell us where they went. Did you hear them say anything about where they were going next?"
Tamisha looked at Fats. "You're a bongo. You ever play the drums?"
John grabbed her by the chin and made her look at him. "He's going to start his drum solo on you if you don't answer my questions. What happened with my boys?"
"We had a difference of opinion. They insisted I pay; I insisted they leave."
"What happened?"
"We came to a compromise."
"Which was?"
"I would never pay; they would never leave."
Johnny let go of her face and stepped back. "Fats, tune this bitch up a bit, will ya?"
Fats moved with surprising speed, striking Tamisha across the jaw. She flew backward with the force of the blow and landed on the floor behind the counter. Fats sprang over the counter and started kicking her where she lay.
"Don't kill her, Fats. We need some more info."
Fats picked up Tamisha's thin frame by the waist and threw her over the counter into the middle of the showroom floor. She landed with a heavy thud at Johnny's feet.
"Tamisha, Tamisha," Johnny said. "All we want is some information. Stop playing games and tell us what we want to know."
"I told you," she mumbled. "I wouldn't pay and they are still here."
Johnny kicked her. "Oh, you're gonna pay or every fucking day of your very short life you'll spend wishing you had." Johnny kicked her again. "And if they are still here, where are they?"
Tamisha coughed and spat blood on the floor. With great difficulty, she tried to enunciate through swollen lips, "Why not have Fats ask me again?"
John shook his head. "Fats, ask her nicely for me this time."
Fats walked over, gun drawn. He whipped his hand back and brought it down hard. Tamisha caught the hand in mid-flight. From her back, she sprang from the ground, wrapping her legs around his waist. Fats pitched and twirled, trying to hit her with his free hand. Tamisha grabbed a handful of his hair and held tight. She brought her mouth close to his ear. After whispering something, she bit down on the ear hard.
Fats froze. Tamisha remained wrapped around him, holding his gun hand away and continuing to draw blood by sinking her teeth deeper into his ear. He made grunting noises like a pig as he fell backwards, stiff as a statue. After a moment, she released him, took the gun from his hand and tossed it into the corner. Fats continued to grunt and groan on the ground, his body becoming more and more rigid. Crunching sounds filled the air; Johnny recognized them as the snapping of bones. Before his disbelieving eyes, Fats's feet and hands withered, pulling up into his clothing. Fats jaws clenched tight and his teeth ground together. He seemed to want to scream, but all that came out was more high-pitched grunting.
Blood dripping from her lips, Tamisha turned toward Johnny Teardrop. Her face showed no signs of the beating she took a moment ago. She did not hunch or limp as she walked towards him. She did not seem to be hurt in any way.
Johnny drew his gun and aimed. "What did you do to him?"
"Oh, you're about to find out."
Johnny fired his gun. Instantly, Tamisha’s body burst into a swarm of bees. Her clothes and underwear slipped from the swarm and gathered in a heap on the ground. She changed back to her womanly form, now nude, and continued her pace towards Johnny. Mouth agape, he fired again and again. Each time, the bullets passed through the swarm of bees she changed to in an instant. She changed back to her womanly form just as quickly and continued her progress without a mark of damage on her. Johnny staggered backwards, firing shot after shot at her and hitting nothing more than the air between buzzing insects and the wall at the rear of the shop.
He scrambled for the door and pulled futilely on the knob. He fumbled with the lock, but could not work it. Just when he heard a satisfying click, the bees descended on him. He danced and swatted at the crawling, flying, buzzing mass of insanity that tormented him. He dropped to the ground and attempted to crawl away. The bees dropped with him and coated his body. In an instant, it was Tamisha again, legs wrapped around his waist and lips to his ear.
"Shadabodesca," she whispered, and then bit hard on his ear. He felt a heat pass like a snake from her mouth into his head and worm its way down his body. Fire seemed to be shut up under his skin and ice froze his bones rigid. Then, he felt pressure. A crushing pressure on his head face and body. A pulling pressure on his neck caused it snap and crack. Johnny went rigid and started to shake and twitch. Blood flowed from his nose and sprayed from his lips with each breath. Though he tried, he could not scream.
Tamisha released her second victim. As the wiseguys twitched and grunted, she wiped their blood form her lips and relocked the front door. She watched the transformations as she redressed.
Fat's head had retreated past his neck into his torso. Only the top of his hair could be seen where his head should have been. His arms and legs were retracting. His pants legs and shirt arms seemed to be deflating. His chest expanded ripping his shirt, popping seams, and stretching the material. His blue silk shirt turned a vivid purple from soaking up the blood seeping from his pores.
Johnny bled from his eyes, ears and nose. His body shrank and flattened. His neck grew. And grew. And grew. It snaked out form his body like a garden hose of flesh.
Now fully clothed, Tamisha walked to Johnny's head at the end of his giraffe-like neck. His eyes looked about wildly and winced from pain his elongated throat could no longer articulate.
"Johnny," she said, "you're going to have the rest of a very long life to wish you had stayed home today."
She grabbed the collar of his shirt and jacket and dragged Johnny's bleeding, crunching, changing mass out of the room. She came back for Fats and dragged him out by his leather coat. She returned with a mop and bucket of soapy water. Tamisha hummed as she mopped up any physical trace that Teardrop and Fats ever walked through the door.
******
Johnny could feel nothing but pain. The fire under his skin never stopped. The ice in his bones was a never-ending dagger.
At least the twitching had stopped. All movement had stopped. There was no squirming, walking, or running. No standing up or lying down. No grunting, yelling, or screaming. No blinking, breathing, or beating. There was only the pain of the moment and that moment seemed to last forever.
After what seemed to be an eternity in this hell, noticing nothing but his own agony, Johnny's frozen eyes saw three figures stand before him – two men with their back to him and a woman facing them and Johnny. It was she; THAT woman. Tamisha – the name that would be a hiss from his lips if only he had the power to speak. The men looked about as they spoke with her. Tamisha smiled when she talked. That smile was meant for Johnny alone, he knew it. He wanted to leap for her, but could not even muster the power to rock or budge. All he could do is hang there in his pain, watch, and listen.
"All of these are one of a kind," she said, gesturing to walls and instruments outside of Johnny's vision. "Each has its own name and a unique sound. Test them you'll see. Is there anything in particular that you're looking for?"
"My friend here is looking for a bass," one of the men said.
"For what kind of music?" Tamisha asked.
"A fusion of blues and metal."
"Ah!" Tamisha said as if she had just solved a problem. "Blues is pain, loss, grief and regret. Metal is fire, anger, torment, and chaos. Then, I've got the perfect axe for you, babe." Tamisha walked pass the men straight to Johnny, put a hand around his neck, and lifted him from the wall.
The musician took Johnny into his hands and inspected him. Carefully, he ran his fingers along his body and his elongated neck. "This feels like skin."
"It's specially treated leather. Designed to be soft to the touch and yet durable. It'll never wear out."
"And the bone along the neck?" he asked
"Bleached wood carved by the best."
The bassist looked at Tamisha. "This is about the creepiest axe I've ever seen."
"True, my friends, but nothing you will find will say pain and torment better. Give it a shot."
Each touch was new pain for Johnny. The rough handling, hanging from the musician's shoulder, being jacked in – all caused ripples of searing agony that wafted over his entire form. But, nothing was as bad as when his strings were played. Each pluck, strum, and fingering increased his torment ten times over. It was as if this musician were raking his fingers across Johnny's soul. He felt that the player's hands must be covered in blood after the musical gutting.
The bassist smiled when his solo was through. “Perfect.”
“You bet your ass, it’s perfect,” Tamisha said, unzipping a guitar case and presenting it to Johnny’s soon-to-be owner.
“This axe got a name?” his friend asked.
Tamisha smiled at Johnny, "It's called a Teardrop."
After a cursory inspection of Johnny's waist, Fats replied, "No, boss. You look fine."
Johnny made a mental to note to pay a visit to his tailor later. For a $1000 per suit, he ought to look better than fine. "Got yours?" he asked Fats.
Fats opened his leather jacket enough for Johnny to see the silver .38 revolver in his shoulder holster. "You really expecting trouble here, boss?"
"Two weeks ago, two of my top earners came in here and disappeared. A week ago, two more do the same. Let's just say I want to be ready for anything." Johnny took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his wet eyes. "C'mon, let's go."
Fats led the way down the stairs from street level to the basement store. Above the door was a small lit sign saying "Circe's Music Shop." There was no storefront window or neon lights or signs with posted hours. Just a small sign over a solid oak door in the basement of a brownstone.
When Fats opened the door, it struck a bell and announced their presence. The young Black lady behind the glass counter to their left looked up at the two men, and then went back to her reading. They closed the door, striking the bell again. Fats walked deeper into the store while Johnny stayed at the front and looked around.
The store was small, but functional. Musical instruments of all types were mounted on the walls, grouped into functional sections - guitars, basses, and violins; trumpets, saxophones, and flutes; clarinets, oboes, and pipes; and all kinds of drums. There were tables on all walls lined with sheets of music, books, tapes, and CDs. If it were not for the open central space to the shop, this place would have seemed impossibly cluttered. As it was, the linoleum floor could be seen and there was a path through all the ordered chaos to a beaded curtain in the doorway on the back wall.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" the lady asked without looking up from her book.
"Are you Circe?" Johnny asked.
"No, I'm Tamisha. There is no Circe."
"You're the only one that works here?"
"Owner, proprietor, and sole employee."
Johnny nodded and wiped his eyes again as he noticed Fats walk through the door at the back of the showroom.
"What is your friend doing?" she asked as she turned a page.
"Just checking to make sure we're alone."
"We need to be alone?"
Johnny leaned on the glass counter. "Well, we've got some important and urgent business to discuss with you and we want to be sure that we are not disturbed."
"Ah. Well, he needn't bother. There's no one else here."
"We just wanna make sure. Say, whatcha readin' there?"
"The Odyssey."
"Good book?"
"It's been around for more than two thousand years. Yeah, I'd say it's pretty good."
Fats reemerged from the backroom and nodded. Johnny crooked his thumb towards the door.
"Now, we can talk," Johnny said as Fats locked the door.
"So, talk," Tamisha said without looking up.
Johnny reached over and grabbed the book. He closed it with a loud clap and tossed it onto the glass counter. "I would like your undivided attention."
Tamisha sighed and rose from behind the counter. As she moved, the green and purple flowers on the sky blue background of her floor-length dress seemed to blow in the wind when her attire flexed and folded. She walked to the front of the counter and casually sat cross-legged on the glass. "And now you have that. What are you names, sirs?"
"I'm Johnny Teardrop."
"'Teardrop'? Sounds like a nickname. Why do they call you that?"
Johnny wiped his eyes again. "Because I kiss the girls and make them cry."
Tamisha smiled. "Right. Ok. And your name, sir?"
Fats made no effort to answer. Johnny replied, "His name isn't important. If I like the answers to the questions I have to ask, you'll never have to deal with him."
Tamisha nodded. "I'm all ears. Ask away."
"Four of my boys paid you visits to talk business. I was wondering if you remember them."
"What kind of instruments did they need?"
"Not that kind of business. They wanted to discuss our insurance policy with you. A policy that all of your fellow business men and women in the area have purchased."
"Insurance? Hmmm…this is starting to sound familiar. Do you have pictures of these men?"
Johnny snapped his fingers and Fats produced a picture of four men on a boat holding up an enormous bluefish. Tamisha smiled and nodded instantly.
"Yes, yes. They didn't all come together. But the guitar, the mandolin, the kettle drum, and the recorder – I remember these men well."
"I told you they weren't here for no instruments."
"Yes, I apologize. I have a habit of trying to guess what instrument would be perfect for each patron. It has become my way of remembering people."
"So, they were here?"
"Yes, they were."
"What happened to them?"
Tamisha looked deep into Johnny's eyes. "For you – bass guitar. Definitely a bass."
"Look, lady, just tell us where they went. Did you hear them say anything about where they were going next?"
Tamisha looked at Fats. "You're a bongo. You ever play the drums?"
John grabbed her by the chin and made her look at him. "He's going to start his drum solo on you if you don't answer my questions. What happened with my boys?"
"We had a difference of opinion. They insisted I pay; I insisted they leave."
"What happened?"
"We came to a compromise."
"Which was?"
"I would never pay; they would never leave."
Johnny let go of her face and stepped back. "Fats, tune this bitch up a bit, will ya?"
Fats moved with surprising speed, striking Tamisha across the jaw. She flew backward with the force of the blow and landed on the floor behind the counter. Fats sprang over the counter and started kicking her where she lay.
"Don't kill her, Fats. We need some more info."
Fats picked up Tamisha's thin frame by the waist and threw her over the counter into the middle of the showroom floor. She landed with a heavy thud at Johnny's feet.
"Tamisha, Tamisha," Johnny said. "All we want is some information. Stop playing games and tell us what we want to know."
"I told you," she mumbled. "I wouldn't pay and they are still here."
Johnny kicked her. "Oh, you're gonna pay or every fucking day of your very short life you'll spend wishing you had." Johnny kicked her again. "And if they are still here, where are they?"
Tamisha coughed and spat blood on the floor. With great difficulty, she tried to enunciate through swollen lips, "Why not have Fats ask me again?"
John shook his head. "Fats, ask her nicely for me this time."
Fats walked over, gun drawn. He whipped his hand back and brought it down hard. Tamisha caught the hand in mid-flight. From her back, she sprang from the ground, wrapping her legs around his waist. Fats pitched and twirled, trying to hit her with his free hand. Tamisha grabbed a handful of his hair and held tight. She brought her mouth close to his ear. After whispering something, she bit down on the ear hard.
Fats froze. Tamisha remained wrapped around him, holding his gun hand away and continuing to draw blood by sinking her teeth deeper into his ear. He made grunting noises like a pig as he fell backwards, stiff as a statue. After a moment, she released him, took the gun from his hand and tossed it into the corner. Fats continued to grunt and groan on the ground, his body becoming more and more rigid. Crunching sounds filled the air; Johnny recognized them as the snapping of bones. Before his disbelieving eyes, Fats's feet and hands withered, pulling up into his clothing. Fats jaws clenched tight and his teeth ground together. He seemed to want to scream, but all that came out was more high-pitched grunting.
Blood dripping from her lips, Tamisha turned toward Johnny Teardrop. Her face showed no signs of the beating she took a moment ago. She did not hunch or limp as she walked towards him. She did not seem to be hurt in any way.
Johnny drew his gun and aimed. "What did you do to him?"
"Oh, you're about to find out."
Johnny fired his gun. Instantly, Tamisha’s body burst into a swarm of bees. Her clothes and underwear slipped from the swarm and gathered in a heap on the ground. She changed back to her womanly form, now nude, and continued her pace towards Johnny. Mouth agape, he fired again and again. Each time, the bullets passed through the swarm of bees she changed to in an instant. She changed back to her womanly form just as quickly and continued her progress without a mark of damage on her. Johnny staggered backwards, firing shot after shot at her and hitting nothing more than the air between buzzing insects and the wall at the rear of the shop.
He scrambled for the door and pulled futilely on the knob. He fumbled with the lock, but could not work it. Just when he heard a satisfying click, the bees descended on him. He danced and swatted at the crawling, flying, buzzing mass of insanity that tormented him. He dropped to the ground and attempted to crawl away. The bees dropped with him and coated his body. In an instant, it was Tamisha again, legs wrapped around his waist and lips to his ear.
"Shadabodesca," she whispered, and then bit hard on his ear. He felt a heat pass like a snake from her mouth into his head and worm its way down his body. Fire seemed to be shut up under his skin and ice froze his bones rigid. Then, he felt pressure. A crushing pressure on his head face and body. A pulling pressure on his neck caused it snap and crack. Johnny went rigid and started to shake and twitch. Blood flowed from his nose and sprayed from his lips with each breath. Though he tried, he could not scream.
Tamisha released her second victim. As the wiseguys twitched and grunted, she wiped their blood form her lips and relocked the front door. She watched the transformations as she redressed.
Fat's head had retreated past his neck into his torso. Only the top of his hair could be seen where his head should have been. His arms and legs were retracting. His pants legs and shirt arms seemed to be deflating. His chest expanded ripping his shirt, popping seams, and stretching the material. His blue silk shirt turned a vivid purple from soaking up the blood seeping from his pores.
Johnny bled from his eyes, ears and nose. His body shrank and flattened. His neck grew. And grew. And grew. It snaked out form his body like a garden hose of flesh.
Now fully clothed, Tamisha walked to Johnny's head at the end of his giraffe-like neck. His eyes looked about wildly and winced from pain his elongated throat could no longer articulate.
"Johnny," she said, "you're going to have the rest of a very long life to wish you had stayed home today."
She grabbed the collar of his shirt and jacket and dragged Johnny's bleeding, crunching, changing mass out of the room. She came back for Fats and dragged him out by his leather coat. She returned with a mop and bucket of soapy water. Tamisha hummed as she mopped up any physical trace that Teardrop and Fats ever walked through the door.
******
Johnny could feel nothing but pain. The fire under his skin never stopped. The ice in his bones was a never-ending dagger.
At least the twitching had stopped. All movement had stopped. There was no squirming, walking, or running. No standing up or lying down. No grunting, yelling, or screaming. No blinking, breathing, or beating. There was only the pain of the moment and that moment seemed to last forever.
After what seemed to be an eternity in this hell, noticing nothing but his own agony, Johnny's frozen eyes saw three figures stand before him – two men with their back to him and a woman facing them and Johnny. It was she; THAT woman. Tamisha – the name that would be a hiss from his lips if only he had the power to speak. The men looked about as they spoke with her. Tamisha smiled when she talked. That smile was meant for Johnny alone, he knew it. He wanted to leap for her, but could not even muster the power to rock or budge. All he could do is hang there in his pain, watch, and listen.
"All of these are one of a kind," she said, gesturing to walls and instruments outside of Johnny's vision. "Each has its own name and a unique sound. Test them you'll see. Is there anything in particular that you're looking for?"
"My friend here is looking for a bass," one of the men said.
"For what kind of music?" Tamisha asked.
"A fusion of blues and metal."
"Ah!" Tamisha said as if she had just solved a problem. "Blues is pain, loss, grief and regret. Metal is fire, anger, torment, and chaos. Then, I've got the perfect axe for you, babe." Tamisha walked pass the men straight to Johnny, put a hand around his neck, and lifted him from the wall.
The musician took Johnny into his hands and inspected him. Carefully, he ran his fingers along his body and his elongated neck. "This feels like skin."
"It's specially treated leather. Designed to be soft to the touch and yet durable. It'll never wear out."
"And the bone along the neck?" he asked
"Bleached wood carved by the best."
The bassist looked at Tamisha. "This is about the creepiest axe I've ever seen."
"True, my friends, but nothing you will find will say pain and torment better. Give it a shot."
Each touch was new pain for Johnny. The rough handling, hanging from the musician's shoulder, being jacked in – all caused ripples of searing agony that wafted over his entire form. But, nothing was as bad as when his strings were played. Each pluck, strum, and fingering increased his torment ten times over. It was as if this musician were raking his fingers across Johnny's soul. He felt that the player's hands must be covered in blood after the musical gutting.
The bassist smiled when his solo was through. “Perfect.”
“You bet your ass, it’s perfect,” Tamisha said, unzipping a guitar case and presenting it to Johnny’s soon-to-be owner.
“This axe got a name?” his friend asked.
Tamisha smiled at Johnny, "It's called a Teardrop."
