Dark Muse (8 page)

As usual, Muddy walked home alone. It partly
made sense. His father wrote horror novels. He often guessed he
should be afraid of his own shadow, but he knew all the monstrous
creatures he invented came from his own mind. If someone saw enough
scary movies, read enough frightening stories, sometimes the real
world didn't seem as intimidating.

Then again, if someone had faced what he’d
just encountered and went where he’d just gone, even a drug
dealer’s or a serial killer’s resolve wouldn’t bend.

Okay, maybe a serial killer with a grumbling
stomach.

* * * *

Howard Rivers sat on the living room sofa,
laptop perched on a pillow, fingers dancing over the keys as he
created images that would probably frighten readers all over the
world. For a brief moment, a pang of jealousy ached within Muddy as
he thought about how he could never enjoy those stories like
millions of others did. Dyslexia sucked. Sure, Mrs. Berg had him
hooked on that new reading program. She swore it would allow him to
chew through a few pages at a time without his head spinning,
without the letters swirling before his eyes. Okay, that was an
exaggeration, maybe, but he knew the hell of being a successful
writer’s son who couldn’t slog his way through even one of his
father’s novels. It really sucked.

Maybe one day that would change.

“Hey, Edgar.”

The man knew his son hated his full name, but
he loved to mess with the kid, anyway. Joking was one of the few
things that kept them sane after Mom died. Still, being named after
a horror writer should be cool, though, Stephen would’ve worked. Or
Dean. Ray. Brian. Heck, even Ramsey had a cool ring to it. But no,
Howard had conned his wife into naming him Edgar, the dark son of
literary macabre.

“Hey, Dad.” Howard was a cool guy, in
father’s terms, but ever since Mom died, a wall thicker than a math
teacher’s skull kept them from being how they used to be. His
stories became darker; Muddy’s songwriting became more blue, more
distant.

“Long practice?” His fingers never stopped
typing. He often had a half-dozen projects going at once, so giving
his only son partial attention seemed normal to both of them. His
mom had often suggested adult ADHD, but the man simply laughed,
stating his mind just never stopped chugging along. “Like a
caffeinated locomotive,” he often quipped.

Muddy headed straight toward the fridge,
remembering he hadn’t had dinner. After rummaging through a mess of
takeout containers and Dad’s leftovers from experiments gone awry,
he found two slices of pizza hiding in the back, probably afraid of
the massive amounts of garlic the mad chef used in most of his
concoctions.

“You guys play late tonight?” Howard asked,
this time louder.

Not wanting to be rude, but not wishing to
get into a conversation, either, the teen simply nodded. Part of
his brain had fried out from the trip; the rest normally retreated
from family talk. Zack was even worse.

Is worse
, he chided himself.

“New guitar?”

Crap. Forgot all about that
.

“Nope. Just something Otis’ dad had lying
around the house. Just borrowing it.”

Howard nodded, but the look in his eyes asked
more. “Have you heard from Zack today?”

Anxiety began to form within him. Muddy shook
his head as the pizza nearly slipped from his fingers.

“I know he didn’t come home last night. Is he
back with that Rachel?”

Nope, Zack couldn’t stand that empty-headed,
conceited witch. Yet with Zack, there was always another female
waiting in the wings. He wondered if hotties surrounded Zack
wherever he was now. Somehow, after that quick glimpse into the
nightmare at the crossroads, Muddy doubted it.

He gave his father what he hoped was a blank
look, wondering how much of tonight was scribbled on his face. Dad
created characters for a living and said his skills at reading
people gave him that talent. Rarely could Muddy or his brother hide
what they thought from him, which was why neither one spent much
time at home.

“Not going to heat that up?”

Muddy realized he'd started to carry the
pizza, cold, out of the kitchen.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” he muttered.
“Sometimes it’s better if you take things as they are.”

Father looked at son as though he’d just
spouted something from Plato. “You don’t think that about Zack, do
you?”

Muddy doubted his dad meant it as a question
and not about dinner, either.

“I sometimes worry he’ll get himself into
something he can’t play his way out of,” Howard said, “especially
lately. The boy hasn’t handled Mom’s passing well.”

Not finding the words to form a reply, Muddy
trudged upstairs.

Like any of us have
.

Sleep found Muddy quickly that night, and
without the nightmares about his mother. Only one dream danced
behind his eyes—the one about the crossroads. He stood at the
epicenter, alone, or so he thought. A figure approached with the
deliberateness of coming night. Muddy's hands scrambled for his
guitar, only to find an empty strap instead. Fear gripped him.

The shape of a person loomed larger, but only
in shadow. With the moon behind him, the person’s face couldn’t be
seen. Muddy’s feet were glued to the dirt trail; he could only
stand and wait. His face burned, but ice rolled down his back.

Time crawled by until the figure stood before
him. Covered in a cloak of deep purple, its head pointed toward
him, faceless behind a hood. His fingers shook as he raised his
arms to touch the thick material that masked the mysterious person.
It felt course, dark and strangely warm as his thumb and fingers
curled around it.

All the while, it simply stood there,
unflinching.

After drawing a deep breath, he did what he
needed to do, what he dreaded. He yanked the hood back. And
screamed himself awake for the second night in a row.

* * * *

Muddy meandered through the following day,
not taking notes or paying a speck of attention to the teachers,
even the ones that he liked. In between classes he traveled the
hallways in a fog, paying little attention to most of the
conversation around him. Stress overload, the counselor would call
it. Everything from the previous night's journey to Zack’s
disappearance and finally, to seeing that face, added up to a brain
fry.

He spoke to no one until band practice, the
last period of the day. During resource room, the period designed
to help students with whatever ailed them, the other band members
sat in uneasy silence. Obviously, they shared his fears and likely
doubted their own memories of the night. However, once the music
flowed from their instruments, their real instruments, practicing a
Mozart rip-off that some wannabe composer tossed off to the high
schools as the next big fad, things opened up.

Otis broke the ice with the subtlety of a
sledgehammer, as usual. “Hey, you swimming in the River there,
Muddy?”

“Shut. Up.” Muddy replied with more venom
than he'd intended.

“Edgar,” Poe snapped. “Relax. We’re
all
on edge after last night.”

So, it did really happen
.

“Sorry, Otis. I just had a bad night.”

Poe leaned in and whispered, “Dreams?”

“Bad one,” he answered, not wanting to
explain.

Her hand shook as it gripped his arm. “Me,
too.”

“Make that three,” Otis added.

“Four,” came a shaky response from Corey.

After a minute of playing that awful song and
tripping over the hackneyed, convoluted rhythms, Mr. Satriani
eyeballed the foursome and signaled to them to break again. The
friends regrouped and looked at each other, waiting for something
to happen.

“Mine was just freaking scary,” Poe said.

“Mine, too,” Corey replied. Otis and Muddy
just nodded.

“I mean, it’s normal to dream about those
horrible crossroads after what happened, right?”

It hurt Muddy to see her so shaken, even if
it was by something unreal.

“Yeah, of course,” he said, but even as he
spoke, the muscles in his shoulders pulled tight.

“And it’s okay for me to be scared of
something that seemed like it was from the
other
side,
right?”

“Sure.” His back became as taut as the
strings on the guitar neck.

“So, why did I dream of that freaky guy in
the dark hood?”

“Holy…” breathed Corey.

“No way!” Otis started, but then simply shook
a little.

Muddy felt paralyzed, glued to the metal
chair.

Corey leaned in, letting the others hear his
fear, even though their teacher tossed odd glances toward them from
time to time. “Did you see? Did you see his face?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Just that freaky
hood. I think that was scarier. Did you?”

“Nope,” the sax man replied.

“I didn’t, either,” Otis said, his fingers
white on the drum sticks.

They waited for Muddy to speak up.

“I did. I saw his face.”

Chapter Eight

They left class shaken—none more than
Muddy—but things had to be done. Any plans they had to pursue the
person in their collective dreams had to be put on hold, at least
for the moment. Set up and auditions for the Battle of the Bands
was scheduled right after school.

“How am I supposed to practice now with that
image in my mind?” Otis swirled his sticks, but without the usual
finesse.

All of the bands were set up on the
auditorium stage, many sharing amps and drum kits, much to the
chagrin of the pickier musicians. Yet with only one PA system, they
had to get along for this one day. Each group was allowed to play
two songs. The Accidentals had yet to decide on which ones they
were going to play.

Muddy shook his head, unwilling to meet
anyone’s gaze. “Just play. Pretend we’re in the basement. Just
focus.”

“Okay,” Otis replied. “Okay.”

As they watched one lousy band after another,
butchering cover songs to the point where even the student advisors
couldn’t decipher what they were hearing, the memories of the
previous night faded enough so that the group could concentrate on
the deal at hand.

When it came time for Bentley’s group to gear
up, the butterflies in Muddy’s stomach grew rusty barbs on their
wings and spit fire through his insides. Bentley was the school’s
cover boy and thought life revolved around him. He believed that
because he had good looks, money, and a hot car, he was better than
any of his peers. Muddy felt like a one-fingered, lobotomized
accountant compared to his nemesis’ speedy, fleet-fingered runs.
True, not much soul existed in Bentley’s flashy playing, but no one
seemed to care. A good-looking guy playing fast guitar would
usually win over the high school crowd, especially the girls. Plus,
Bentley could sing. Girls like Chelsea and Porshe fell for that
every time. Muddy wondered if Poe ever would.

Even though six-stringing seemed to be
embedded in his genes, his vocal cords must've had some connection
to the president of the Tone-Deaf Club. Thankfully, Poe’s voice
made up for any torture he inflicted on anyone’s ears.

Bentley’s singing fell way short of Poe’s
angelic style, but when you were popular, audiences forgave just
about anything. He might as well have sung the theme song to
Barney. Most of the student body would have still applauded.

They launched into an up-tempo version of a
classic Van Halen song (of course, classic rock had rushed like a
tsunami through American high schools in recent years, thanks to
Guitar Hero and other games). Simple to pull off, technically, but
with that band, it was never about technique, but about soul and
rhythm.

As Bentley rambled toward the end of the
song, the waiting foursome readied themselves. Muddy wondered if
the others ever felt those same rusty butterflies.

“Hey, where’s Brian?” asked Corey.

He must have given Corey a dumb stare in
return because Corey slapped the back of his head. “Our bassist du
jour? Does he know the audition is today?”

Sighing, Muddy thought about their
four-stringed situation. Most bands employed a full-time bass
player, usually someone who couldn’t handle guitar, a friend who’d
do anything to be part of the band, or a singer who couldn’t sing
while playing. Few these days actually loved to play the
instrument. Even fewer could play it well. Nobody wanted to be Flea
from the Red Hot Chili Peppers anymore.

His dad called their problem the “Star Trek”
situation. The teen had never watched the show, but the writer said
that when the spaceship explored a strange new planet, they sent
out a scout team to scour the area for life forms and ominous
danger. In every single episode, one member never lasted for more
than that one episode, always falling prey to whatever terror lay
in wait. He died within minutes of the show’s opening, before
anyone even learned his name or background.

The Accidental’s bass players lasted only a
bit longer, thus adding another reason for their moniker. True, no
aliens ever chomped down on their brief, four-stringed friends, but
odd incidents usually befell them. Most of the time, a freak
accident took the blame. The other incidents weren’t as colorful,
but usually ended with stitches or at least an ice pack.

While anxiety readied its attack on Muddy in
the form of hands twitching and his back sweating, the auditorium
doors burst open and in sauntered Leo Lumley, a lanky goof who had
close to zero musical skills. Slinging his vintage Fender P-bass
over one shoulder, he approached the stage with a smile that
suggested flatulence would soon follow.

“I’m here,” he announced in the deep voice of
a junior who still hadn’t found his niche in school. Very similar
to the band in many respects, but he could hold his own, and that
was all that mattered.