By Al Bruno III
January 4th: The owner and chief moderator of the FEAR AND TRUTH message board went by the username 50Fingers. His real name was Mike Whitehead, and he lived in Greenwich Village. When he wasn't moderating debates about whether ghosts can poop (they can't), he ran a record store. And I mean a real record store—Chelsea's Garage, which specialized in vinyl, collectibles, reissues, and every accessory for turntables you could imagine. He insisted I drive down to the city to meet with him, believing he might have a way to help Sara. So, I took the day off and started the 3-hour drive to New York City.
Three Depeche Mode mixtapes later, I walked through the front door of Chelsea's Garage. Inside, the store exuded old-school charm with polished wooden floors and walls lined with shelves of vinyl records. The rich, earthy scent of aging vinyl and the faint hum of a turntable created a nostalgic atmosphere. The layout was both organized and eclectic, with neatly categorized crates of records and rare collectibles displayed in glass cases.
The walls were adorned with posters of classic jazz legends and iconic album covers, giving the store a gallery-like feel. In one corner was a large vintage record player surrounded by turntables, amplifiers, and other high-end audio equipment. Warm, golden light from hanging fixtures bathed the space, casting a cozy glow over the rows of records. Mike Whitehead stood behind the counter, expertly handling a stack of records.
He was curly-haired and dressed in loose-fitting clothes. The shape of his face suggested he hadn't smiled in a long, long time. He came out from behind the counter and greeted me enthusiastically. His voice had a distinct tone, with a slightly lower pitch and rhythm. He spoke slowly, pausing at times, and there was a soft, muted quality to his voice.
And that was when I realized he was deaf.
He quickly ushered out his remaining customers and closed the store early. Then, after putting on some Nina Simone, we settled in the back room with coffee generously spiked with brandy, catching up on everything that had happened. Occasionally, he asked me to slow down and repeat myself so he could read my lips more easily. Once we finished catching up, he began discussing his research. "The first quote I found was in the 9th Edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, in a chapter about magic."
"That's not the starting point I expected," I said.
"It came out in 1880 and was significantly revised in the 1885 and 1889 editions," he said. "From there, my studies led me to Hippolytus's Refutation of All Heresies. He was a Christian theologian and martyr, and the magic chapter of the Britannica paraphrased his description of a ritual for Hecate."
I frantically scribbled in my notepad. "What kind of quote?"
He cleared his throat. "Infernal, and earthy, and supernal Hecate Chthonia, come!
Saint of streets, and brilliant one, that strays by night;
Foe of radiance, but friend and mate of gloom;
In howl of dogs rejoicing, and in crimson gore,
Wading 'mid corpses through tombs of lifeless dust,
Panting for blood; with fear convulsing men.
Gorgo, and Mormo, and Luna, and of many shapes,
Come, propitious, to our sacrificial rites!"
"Wow," I said. "It's definitely got an oomph to it."
"Hecate," he began, "that's what you're dealing with—the triple-faced goddess and patron deity of witches. Well, the bad witches, anyway."
I nodded, recalling childhood viewings of The Wizard of Oz, with its fairy godmother-like good witches and terrifying bad ones. "So all I need is to burn some sage?"
"You need more than that. This is serious, Brian. Hecate is a triple-faced goddess. Gorgo is her aspect that birthed the legend of Medusa, Mormo is the Chthonic Mother of the Barghests, and the Thousand-Faced Moon?" He looked worried. "It relates to her ability to change her form, but other sources, like the Constantinople Document, suggest it reflects her ability to inhabit the bodies of both willing and unwilling vessels."
"I don't like that. I don't like that one bit," I said. "But what about the clowns? They must be related."
"We need to go back to the Constantinople Document for that," Mike said. "There's a single paragraph that mentions a subsect of the cult called the Athanatoi, or the Ashen Hearts. However, the author spends the entire paragraph insisting that this subsect does not exist."
It was all too much; I buried my face in my hands. "What am I going to do?"
Unaware I had spoken, Mike got up, refilled our coffee cups, and put on a new stack of records. This time, it was the legendary Jimmy Scott. "There's someone I think can help you, but she's dangerous."
I looked at him glumly. "Do I have a choice?"
"I don't know," he said, draining his cup in a single gulp. "But her name is Ashley Fowler."
"Ashley Fowler?" I cocked my head. "THE Ashley Fowler?"
"Yes."
For those not in the know, Ashley Fowler is from my neck of the woods; she's rich, influential, and believes she's the Devil. She inherited her family's fortune after her father was killed by an intruder—well, that's her version of events, anyway.
Despite my areas of investigation and interest, I'd always steered clear of her. I always thought she was a crank of the highest order. "I guess she's my next step."
Mike sighed heavily, his frown deepening. "You have to be careful with her. She's the real thing."
I asked, "How do you know for sure?"
And then he told me the story of the night he met her, the night he realized the Devil wore a blue dress…
####
The Statement of Mike Whitehead
…Back then, I was the drummer of a six-man jazz combo called 'The Fifty Fingers.' We were pretty popular among Albany's rich and famous. We used to play at the Fort Orange Club all the time. You know the place—private club, big bucks, even the Governor was a member. One time, Jack Nicholson was there. He tipped us a hundred bucks each.
I'd been playing music since I was a kid. My father was a jazz enthusiast, and he got me started on the drums when I was just eight. By the time I was fifteen, I was already sitting in with local bands. My father was happy that I had found success at an early age, but he wasn't happy when I dropped out of high school to tour full-time with the Fifty Fingers.
Even if I hadn't been a sixteen-year-old kid, joining 'The Fifty Fingers' was like a dream come true. All of the other members were in their forties, but they never talked down to me or called me 'Kid.' I had been brought in to serve as a backup for their original drummer, whose health had begun to slip. He was a great guy, but Parkinson's made him hang up his sticks less than a year after I joined. The band toured up and down the East Coast. They taught me a lot—like how to fake a song we didn't know, how to get by on about four hours of sleep, how to drive, how to improvise, and how to make instrument repairs on the fly while on the road. I also learned that even jazz bands had groupies. Oh boy, did I learn that.
By the night I met Ashley Fowler, I was thirty years old and pretty much in charge of the band. It was practically a different band by then; all the original members had aged out but one. So there we were, 'The Fifty Fingers' playing another gig at the Fort Orange Club for some political bigwigs. The guests were dressed to impress—men in sharp tuxedos and women in elegant gowns dripping with jewels. There was champagne, caviar, and two hundred-dollar steak dinners. I didn't know if anyone was really paying attention to us. The bass player said we were just there to be background noise, but at least we were well-paid background noise.
Everyone noticed when Ashley Fowler arrived at the party. She wore an elaborate blue dress that flowed around her like liquid, with intricate beadwork and a sweeping train. She was gorgeous, with short red hair and black earrings that looked like flames. All conversations paused as she made her way to the guy hosting the party and gave him a casual hug.
From my vantage point behind the drumset, I could see the atmosphere changing. The band once had a gig in Georgia where we were the entertainment at a wake; everyone there acted like they were having a good time, but you could tell they weren't. That's what the party was turning into, but what did we care? We were just the band; we played on.
We took a break about halfway through the party. Most of the guys went to help themselves to the open bar or try and make small talk with some of the single-looking guests. I decided I needed a smoke break, and since it was too cold outside, I went down to the stairs in the back of the kitchen.
The cellar was dimly lit, with firewood stacked against the walls and a faint, musty smell in the air. I was leaning against a wooden beam, taking a drag from my cigarette, when I saw her walk out of a dark corner of the room I had been so sure was empty.
"Hey Mike." Her voice was smooth and confident.
I blinked, caught off guard. "You know my name?"
"I know a lot," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I have a proposition for you." With any other woman, I might have mistaken that intense look for flirting.
"What do you mean?" I asked, drawing on my cigarette to play it cool.
Leaning in, she said, "I have a request. I want you to play 'Satanic Blues.'"
Raising an eyebrow, I answered, "That's a great tune, but it's Dixieland. Not really fitting for this crowd."
A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes as she smiled. "Oh, I'm sure you can make it work. And I can make it worth your while."
Finishing my cigarette, I narrowed my eyes. "Why's it so important?"
Her smile grew wider. "It'll give the Governor a headache and make him leave early. When he gets home, he'll find a very newsworthy surprise waiting for him. We need to get the timing just right."
Shaking my head, I said, "I'm sorry. No requests tonight."
Her expression shifted from eager to sulky. "I can make it worth your while."
"I'm not going to risk my career for a request," I replied firmly.
"What career?" she shot back. "You don't have savings, family, or a lover. If something happens to you, you'll end up alone and broke. Is that what you want?"
Growling, I responded, "Not everyone gets rich by shooting their dad."
Her expression darkened. "You should have listened. Now you'll listen."
Before I could react, she spat in my face and said something in a language I didn't recognize. I wiped the spittle away, anger rising in my chest. "Bitch."
"Maybe." She turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply on the cellar's uneven floor. I was left alone, fuming.
I went back to the stage, trying to shake off the encounter. The rest of the gig went off without a hitch. I was relieved to learn that Ashley Fowler had gone home after our confrontation.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of wind chimes. Since I didn't own any wind chimes, I figured the noise was coming from my neighbor's apartment. The soft tinkling was faint but persistent, so I brushed it off, got dressed, and went about my day.
But the sound didn't go away. Everywhere I went, the chimes seemed to follow me. At first, they were barely audible, something I could ignore. However, the next day, the sound was louder. I tried to tell myself it was just a figment of my imagination or maybe some auditory illusion brought on by stress.
But I was worried I was having some kind of stroke or something. The longer I heard them, the more the sound became distorted. They began to sound less like metal and glass wind chimes and more like something being tortured and just out of sight.
I visited my doctor, who ran some tests and told me I was perfectly healthy. He suggested I might be overworking myself and also recommended I see a psychiatrist.
And the chimes grew louder each day, their sound becoming increasingly unbearable.
The intensity of the noise started to affect my daily life. It was so loud I could barely concentrate. I was constantly on edge, unable to focus on anything but the relentless clanging. I started missing gig after gig until the band had to hire a temporary replacement drummer.
At night, the sound became unbearable. I'd lie in bed, tossing and turning, desperate for escape. I began drinking heavily until I passed out just to get some sleep. When that stopped working, I started taking sleeping pills. Eventually, I began combining both, hoping for relief.
Finally, there was the last night. The chimes were like a thousand metal chains being dragged through my brain. I lay in bed shivering and sick until something in me snapped. I went to the kitchen and rooted in the silverware drawer until I found what I wanted and didn't pause to think about what I was doing.
I stabbed out my eardrums with a steak knife...
###
…That night over dinner, I told Sara everything I had learned—except for the part about the 'unwilling vessels' and the last part of Mike's story, the worst part, the kicker.
What Mike said felt like a splash of cold water. Even now, days later, part of me wants to insist that he was crazy or lying. But I've seen too much over the years to let myself believe things like that.
So what was the kicker? The last part of Mike's story?
"The chimes," he said. "I can still hear them, Brian. I can still hear them."
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