Page 78 of Devil Inside

I can do this. Open up. Relent. “What do you want us to do?”

“Lean back.” He takes our hand and guides us all the way down. “Just like this.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right here, too. Trust me.”

Trust. Him.

Jordan crawls over to the turntable. He lifts the tone arm above the record. There is a breath before he rests the needle in the groove, a moment of reverence that strikes us.

Music has always been a holy thing for him. A sacred rite. He’s sharing it with us.

With me.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

Trust.

Him.

We do as we’re told, sealing ourselves in darkness.

We can do this...

The crackle of vinyl hisses through the speakers, at such a loud volume it feels like we’re burning, immersed in flames.

We keep our eyes closed, even if we’re compelled to open them.

I can do this...

We feel Jordan rest his head against our chest, directly over our host’s heart. He’s pressed his ear against the very center of us, quick to position himself on top.

“Hold on tight,” he says, taking our hand into his own. “It’s all about the reverb.”

Almost immediately, we hear the music.

Feel it.

Her voice captures us. There is no music accompanying her singing. It’s just her—

Nina

—crooning about a new dawn, a new day, a new life for her.

Just when she tells us she feels good...

The horns slither in, serpentine trumpets, writhing out from the speakers and wrapping around our skin. We feel them in our legs, our thighs. The reverb embraces our bones. We are a tuning fork for this song. For Nina Simone. The brass embraces us.

She possesses us. We embody her song.

There is a hail of piano keys. We hear them striking, raining all around.

Then the beat begins. It’s sturdy. Thorough. The drums slide and skitter, and we feel the snare brush over us, the tiny tensile legs of insects scuttling across the percussion.

The horns push against us.

Into us.