Page 102 of Night Songs

He pressed a button, and the machine whirred.

We waited in silence for a few beats, and then sound oozed from the speakers, like an animal moaning in pain. I thought it must be a guitar, but I’d never heard someone play like that.

Then Belle’s voice came in as a grating whisper, the sound like ice crunching against my molars:

I roll down my beloved Broadway

Seedy clubs where music used to play

Shadows in the corner booth

Nashville is rottin’ at the tooth

My head is tuned to a different channel

From Almighty God to the crafty Devil

Songs about a woman dying

And when I hear them, I can’t help crying,

Save me, Lord, save my child

Save us from the cursed wild

The song went on, describing the many ways she might die:

Onstage, being electrocuted through her microphone; a stage light crushing her skull; asphyxiating on a gas leak; a disastrous house fire leaving only her wigs behind.

And throughout the song, she kept begging.

Save me, Lord, save my child

Save us from the cursed wild

They reminded me of the visions I had, too, of the various ways I saw myself dying.

The song degraded, so that the lyrics were unintelligible, and the music sounded like the watery notes of a broken record, dissolving into nothing but the tap, tap, tapping of no disc.

Beneath the tapping, in a voice so close it felt she was right behind my ear, I heard,

Remember this.

Remember what I am about to tell you.

…

You are cursed.

My vision went black for a few moments, and then cleared to reveal Clayton hovering over me with silver stubble sparkling from his chin. “Rhea, are you all right?”

I nodded, afraid my voice would sound too frail if I spoke.

He shook his head. “Please forgive me for showing you that song.”

I took a deep breath, and felt my body start to return. “No, I’m glad you did.” I took another deep breath. “What are the other songs like?”

He eyed me, then said, “Every song is the same—the only thing thatchanges are the different ways the woman dies.” He glanced at me again and continued, “She said the songs were coming to her at night, like her head had gotten stuck on the wrong channel. She said she couldn’t write any other kind of music, and it was driving her nuts. She thought recording would banish them. That’s how it usually worked when she had a song in her head.”