playlist of the damned

Edited by

jess landry and willow dawn becker

contents

Music and Magic

An Introduction

Jess Landry & Willow Becker

Side A

Tears Like Rain

Tim Waggoner

The Brazen Bull

Sofia Ajram

Oil of Angels

Gemma Files

This Loaded Gun of a Song Stuck in My Head

Paul Michael Anderson

Everybody Loves My Baby

By Mercedes M. Yardley

Pack Up Your Sins and Go to the Devil

Elis Montgomery

The Lung of Orpheus

Jonathan Duckworth

I am He

Premee Mohamed

Pied Piper

Carol Edwards

Mixtape

V. Castro

To The River

Corey Farrenkopf

The Prodigy

Philip Fracassi

Red, Black & Blue

Linda D. Addison

Instruments of Harm

Julia LaFond

Electric Muse

Virginia Kathryn

Side B

Ambient

L.B. Waltz

Vinyl Remains

Chad Stroup

Goddess

Lisa Morton

Her Only Single

Devan Barlow

I Will Not Scream

John Palisano

Lovely Piano of Rich Mahogany

A.J. Bartholomew

A Concert in Merzgau

R.L. Clore

Sing to the God of Slugs

Maxwell I. Gold

Song of the Guqin

古琴歌

Frances Lu-Pai Ippolito

The Men Who Play

Jangar Topka

Whalesong

Shannon Brady

The Devil Went Down to the Subway

A.J. Rocca

Possession No. 239 in E Major, Op. 1

Hailey Piper

Slow Head Karaoke

Robert Beveridge

Content Notes

The Authors

The Artists

The Editors

Thank You!

About the Press

music and magic

An Introduction

Jess Landry & Willow Becker

Music is magic. At least, that’s what Marylin Manson said, and he probably knows more actual spells than either you or I do. It’s a bit of a glib statement, though, isn’t it? In a world where we can instantly talk to people on the other side of the planet and AI robots are telling us the movies we want to watch before we even know we want to watch them, there seems to be a lot of magic to go around. So much that it calls into question whether music is even really that magical to begin with.

And yet...

Despite our technology, or maybe because of it, music is as important to humans on planet earth as the day Grock decided that banging a stick against the ground made a pretty groovy beat. In fact, as technology has advanced, so has our ability and desire to take music with us to the edges of evolution. No matter how small the device, how invasive the procedure, how much of our mind or soul it requires, we are always willing to invest in the music.

As Tommy Lee Jone’s character, Agent J, says in Men In Black, I guess I’m going to have to buy the White Album again.

We will. And we do. As soon as Apple comes out with the BrainPod, you know that we’ll be the first in line.

But what is it about music that makes us so willing to give up our money, our time, and even our lives in the pursuit of it? What is the essence of the magic that music offers?

It has the ability to flip a terrible day into something not so bad, to make you want to get up and dance, to bring out a full range of emotions from the simple twinkle of a piano key or the chord from a guitar. It has the ability to heal, to break, to bend, and to become a completely different and personal and unique thing from person to person.

For myself, I make playlists (not necessarily damned ones) for each project that I’m working on. These lists range from purely moody, atmospheric instrumental ones when I need to feel that unease, that terror that goes into writing something horrific; to an entire jam session of 90s rock anthems fronted by female singers for when I need to feel like I can make it through my next workout. I use music to relax, to agitate, to fill silent voids and have dance parties with my daughter. As I sit here typing this on my laptop at my daughter’s dance class, I can hear a pop song I’ve heard a thousand times, repeating over and over again so the kids can nail a dance move. For them, it’s inspiring, it’s making them dance. For me, I wish I would’ve brought earplugs.

Music is everything—it’s emotion, it’s transformation, it’s life-altering, it’s transcendent. It has the power to shear away the years, to transport you to a time and place in one of the only truly tangible methods of time travel that humans can produce. Besides writing, that is.

And as long as where (or when) you’re going is full of rainbows and sunshine, you’re safe to make that journey­—one song at a time.

But music, dear, sweet music, can also terrify. Add the right combination of strings and eerie, off-kilter noises, and suddenly, you’ve found yourself submerged into a nightmare. Find yourself walking alone in the middle of the night, no one else around, and suddenly hear the Halloween theme song playing? You’re probably going to pee your pants as you run for dear life.

Every beautiful summer day, every first kiss, every dance...you know that you have a soundtrack for them. And every trauma? There’s a soundtrack for that, as well.

The stories and poems in Playlist of the Damned are the embodiment of these nightmares, tales that blend both horror and musicality, both intertwined and unable to exist one without the other.

And much like music, these stories transcend. They pluck at your heartstrings like the devil tuning his violin; they use music not as a sound, but as a memory, one powerful enough to move you through space and time; they go beyond the music that we know on earth and bring us into worlds different from ours, where sound and music and noise become something else, something more.

In whichever way music moves you, you can’t deny that music is magic. So turn down the lights (but not too much—you’ve got a book to read!), turn up the broody, atmospheric tunes, and let these melodies that we’ve stacked on our Playlist of the Damned soothe you. Move you. Transport you.

But be careful. Tell someone where you’re going before you begin. When you listen very carefully to the music, it has the power to take you. There’s no guarantee that you’ll have the power to return.

Jess Landry

Willow Dawn Becker

September 23, 2023

tears like rain

Tim Waggoner

A bell—an honest-to-god bell—tinkled when Michael Wilkins opened the door to Audio Junkie and stepped inside. It was pouring rain, and he was glad to get out of the deluge. He hadn’t checked the weather app on his phone before setting out on his trip, and he’d gotten caught in the storm without an umbrella. He should keep one in his car, so he’d always have it when he needed it.

Thunder boomed, rattling the store windows, and the sounds—combined with the driving rain outside—became a plaintive melody echoing in his ears.

Dying…dying…

He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, balled his fists, and stood there, wet clothes cold against his body, rainwater dripping on the wooden floor.

I don’t hear you, I don’t hear you!

The Song receded, but it didn’t go away entirely. It never did.

Can I help you?

Michael opened his eyes and saw a man standing in front of him—fifty-ish, thick white hair, bushy beard, tinted aviator glasses, gray T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He was on the heavy side, and he made Michael think of a druggie Santa. There was a warm smile on the man’s face, but his eyes were sharp and calculating.

Sorry about your floor, but it’s really coming down outside.

The man shrugged. It’s just water. It’ll dry soon enough.

Michael took a quick look around. The walls were painted with murals featuring musicians from various eras and styles: classical, big band, jazz, rock, country, pop, folk, rap…

The art was so realistic that it almost looked like the images might come to life any moment and start performing. Narrow tables filled the small room, atop which rested wooden crates filled with vinyl albums, 45s, eight tracks, cassettes, and CDs. There were no labels anywhere to identify the specific artists whose work the crates held. Were the genres combined and arranged alphabetically? Or was there no organization at all? The place had a funky, mildewy smell, one Michael associated with age and while he didn’t exactly like it, he didn’t find unpleasant either. An old-fashioned cash register sat on a counter by the door, and in the rear of the room was a doorway covered by a curtain of multicolored beads.

Michael realized the man was waiting for him to respond to his original question—Can I help you?

"I found your place mentioned on an Internet discussion board where people talk about…well, the unusual."

The man laughed, a booming sound not unlike the thunder outside.

"This is Ambergris Falls, son. Everything here is unusual."

That was certainly the village’s reputation. Ambergris Falls was located about an hour from Dayton in southwest Ohio, home to an eclectic community of artists and craftspeople who sold their creations in downtown shops next to microbreweries, specialty coffee bars, vegan cafes, and gluten-free bakeries. Michael had once dated a woman who said that Ambergris Falls was the place where the Sixties went to die, but he thought of it more as a place where the milieu had been preserved. The village’s branding statement on its web page said it all: Ambergris Falls—We Do Things Our Own Way.

The man went on. Besides, you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet—unless, of course, it’s true. He chuckled at his joke, but Michael only smiled politely. Let me get you a towel. It’s a cold rain coming down today. A man could catch his death out there.

The man turned, walked toward the doorway, pushed aside the bead curtain, and stepped into the back room. A moment later he returned carrying a towel with a faded rainbow design on it. Michael accepted it gratefully, wiped his face dry, then his hair. He patted down his shirt and jeans as best he could, but it didn’t do much to dry the sodden cloth. When he was finished, the man took the wet towel from Michael and draped it over his forearm, as if he were a fancy waiter in a high-class restaurant.

You said you read about Audio Junkie on the Internet, Graybeard prompted.

Yeah. A lot of the posts were about what a great selection of old music you carry, but some were about the special items you keep in the backroom—items connected to sound—and how you’re willing to make trades for them.

"For some of them, Graybeard said. Others I won’t part with under any circumstances. What are you interested in and what do you propose to give me in trade?"

I’m interested in Silence.

"First time I’ve ever had anyone come in here looking for that. Why do you want it so badly that you’ve come to me?"

Because I can’t stop hearing it.

Hearing what?

Michael didn’t want to say, but he sensed the man wouldn’t help him unless he answered his question.

The Death Song of Existence.

As if speaking these words was a trigger, Michael heard the Song in his mind again, wailing this time, mournful and pain-stricken.

Dying, dying, DYING…

Michael first heard the Song in his mother’s womb.

Surrounded by comforting darkness, floating in wet warmth, wrapped in a soft sack of flesh—he would never feel so loved again. He could hear sounds, although he did not know that’s what they were—the omnipresent whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh of his mother’s heart, the gentle hum of his parents’ voices, the melodic rhythms and cadences which he would one day know as music. But behind them all was a single sound, one that came from inside instead of outside, felt as much as heard.

Dying, dying, dying…

He did not understand ending. How could he when he hadn’t begun yet? But the deep, ancient sorrow in that sound affected him on a primal level, and he thrashed within his warm home, instinctively trying to force this invader to leave so he could return to the tranquility which was all he had ever known in his brief pre-life. But the sound—the Song—refused to leave, and it continued singing its pain inside his head. And when he was born, he shrieked until his tiny throat bled.

Graybeard introduced himself as Oren Stull, then led Michael through the bead curtain and into the back room. It was crammed with cardboard boxes of unsorted audio media sitting side by side or stacked atop one another, stuff that, once catalogued and categorized, would make its way onto the sales floor. But one wall held wooden shelves from floor to ceiling, upon which rested empty mason jars, metal lids screwed on tight. The shelves were covered with so many jars, there was scarcely room for more.

Stull gestured to the jars. This is my private stock. I’m a collector as well as a merchant.

You collect…jars?

He hadn’t been sure what he would find in this place, but a bunch of empty jars definitely wasn’t it.

Stull looked at him oddly for a moment, and then gave another booming laugh.

"I collect sounds. Pick a jar, unscrew the lid, and give it a listen. Go on, whichever one you want."

This had to be some kind of joke, but Michael decided to go along with it. The faster they got this out of the way, the faster they could get down to business. He selected a jar from the middle shelf and unscrewed it. The lid came off easily, and as soon as he removed it, a sound emerged—water thrashing, someone screaming, meat being ripped apart…

With trembling hands, Michael put the lid back on and replaced the jar on the shelf.

That’s the sound of a bull shark tearing a chunk of thigh from a swimmer’s leg. One of my personal favorites. Would you like to try another?

Michael was so disturbed by what he’d just heard that he couldn’t speak. All he could do was give his head a quick shake.

Stull bent over and reached into a cardboard box on the floor next to the shelves. He withdrew another glass jar and held it out to Michael. Michael shook his head more vigorously this time.

Relax. This one’s empty.

Stull removed the lid, and Michael winced, but nothing happened. Stull screwed the lid back on and handed the jar to Michael, who took it this time. The glass felt normal enough in his hands. Maybe a bit colder than he’d expected, but that was all.

I can give you the silence you crave, Stull said. But you must collect a sound for me, one that I don’t currently have in my collection. That’s the price for my help. Are you willing to do this for me if it means getting the relief you’ve been seeking throughout your life?

The Song seemed to grow louder then, almost as if it was a thing alive and warning him not to do this. He ignored it.

Yes. What sound is it?

Stull smiled. The last breath of a dying person.

His hearing tests all came back normal.

Four-year-old Michael sat on the examination table, his legs dangling over the side. He was bored and antsy, and he wanted to swing them back and forth, but he knew Mommy would scold him and tell him to behave. She didn’t like it when made a fuss, which—as near as he could tell—meant doing or saying anything. She stood next to the examination table, one hand on his shoulder, as if afraid he might try to escape any moment. Doctor Tricia stood close by, holding an open manila folder in both hands. There were papers inside, and Michael figured they were the tests Doctor Tricia had spoken of. Initially, he’d been afraid when Doctor Tricia had sent him to a different doctor to have his hearing tested. But it hadn’t hurt. All he’d had to do was wear these big earphones and tell the doctor whenever he heard soft beeps. It had been kind of fun.

I don’t understand, Mommy said. "He’s always talking about this horrible sound he hears. It makes him so upset. Sometimes he cries, sometimes he even screams. And he has a terrible time sleeping at night. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all. He keeps both my husband and me up with his foolishness. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since he was born."

Michael felt ashamed. He loved Mommy and Daddy, and he didn’t want to make their lives hard. But no matter how much he tried not to hear the Song, he still did, every second of every day—and when he did manage to fall asleep, he heard it in his dreams.

Dying, dying, dying…

Michael really liked Doctor Tricia, but he sometimes wondered if she had trouble sleeping, too. The skin beneath her eyes was dark and puffy, and she yawned a lot, like she was having trouble staying awake.

"There might be a…non-medical reason why he hears the Song, Doctor Tricia said. Have you ever taken him to see a therapist?"

Mommy drew back as if Doctor Tricia had slapped her.

"Why would I do that? There’s nothing wrong with him that way. Besides, those people always blame the mother for everything."

Michael wasn’t sure what a therapist was, but given the way Mommy had reacted to the word, he knew it wasn’t something good.

Doctor Tricia looked at him then, and he could sense that she was trying to decide something. She turned toward Mommy.

Would you mind if I spoke to Michael alone for a few moments? Sometimes children speak more freely when their parent isn’t around.

Mommy looked at the doctor, then at Michael, then back to the doctor again.

Doctor Tricia gave Mommy a reassuring smile. It won’t take long.

"Well…if you think it will help."

I’ll come get you when we’re finished, Doctor Tricia said.

Mommy gave his shoulder a squeeze then left the examining room.

When she was gone, Doctor Tricia’s smile vanished.

I know what you hear, Michael. I hear it, too. Lots of people do, they just don’t talk about it.

Michael was stunned. All his life he’d thought he was alone, feared that he was imagining the Song. But now a grown-up—a doctor—was telling him it was real.

You were born different, Doctor Tricia said. "Me too. No matter what we do, we’ll always hear the Song, and we have to learn to live with it. She gave Michael a weary smile, and although he was only four, he understood why she was tired, had dark spots under her eyes, sounded so sad. She’d been hearing the Song longer than he had—much longer.

What is it? he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"From the moment anything is born, it starts to die, and it begins to sing a song—a song of fear, sadness, anger, and despair. But most of all, a song of pain. All of these different voices join together to make a single voice. That’s what you hear."

He didn’t understand, not fully, but he nodded anyway.

"Damaging our ears won’t stop the Song because we hear it in our minds. And do not kill yourself to escape the Song. If you die while listening to it, you’ll join with it, and then you’ll never be free. But if you’re at peace when you finally die, you might—just might—escape it."

Doctor Tricia reached into the pocket of her examination jacket, removed something, then held it out to him.

Lollipop?

Michael looked at the jar in his hands.

How does it work?

Simple, Stull said, when you’re ready, remove the lid and point the open end toward the sound you wish to collect. The jar will do the rest. When you’re finished, put the lid back on.

Michael tapped a fingernail against the jar’s surface. It felt and sounded like glass.

What if I accidently drop it?

It’ll break, Stull said. The sound will escape and our deal will be null and void. Only one jar to a customer.

Michael didn’t want to believe Stull. The jar with the shark attack sounds in it could’ve easily been a fake created by some technical trickery. The place was called Audio Junkie, after all. But Michael did believe the man. The same way he knew the Song was real, he knew Stull could do what he said. But how was he going to find someone who was dying and capture their last breath? And even if he did find someone, how would he know when their last breath occurred? He looked up at Stull.

Can I capture more than one sound in the jar?

No. And you only have one attempt to get it right.

Michael considered. Maybe he could go to a hospital or better yet, a hospice. He could bribe one of the employees—an overworked nurse, an underpaid orderly—to let him sit with someone who was getting ready to check out, and if he was lucky, he might be able to capture their last breath.

Maybe you could kill someone. That way you could better control the moment they die.

It was a terrible, awful thought, but he considered it for a few seconds. No, he didn’t think he had it in him. He’d find another way, he’d have to. Still, if he couldn’t find a better opportunity…

Dying, dying, dying…Dying, dying, dying…

Stull stuck out his hand.

Good luck, Michael.

Stull’s hand looked completely normal, but Michael was still reluctant to shake it. He took it, though, and was surprised to find the flesh cold and wet. He jerked his hand back and looked at the palm, expecting to see it coated with moisture. But it was dry.

He gave Stull a parting nod, then turned and left the back room.

As he stepped out of the store and into the rain, he began making plans. When he got back to his car, he’d start researching local hospices on his phone. How much money would he need to bribe one of the employees? Did he have enough in savings? He wasn’t sure. He’d have to check his bank balance.

The rain was colder and coming down harder than before, the thunder more intense, the wind a wild roar. All the sounds—rain, wind, thunder—merged to become an impenetrable wall of noise so loud that it took Michael a moment to realize something.

For the first time in his life, he could no longer hear the Song.

He stopped on the sidewalk and stood there, shivering, head hunched over to keep the driving rain out of his eyes, and listened.

No Song.

It had been with him all his life, pressing down on him like a great millstone, relentlessly grinding, grinding, grinding, reducing his mind and spirit to infinitesimal bits. It was only now, when the Song was silent, that he realized what it meant to be truly free, and he laughed with joy.

Was this just a bizarre coincidence, or had Stull done something to make it happen? Michael thought of the man’s parting handshake and his wet, cold grip. Like the rain.

But why would the man give him what he wanted before Michael paid him? Stull hadn’t struck him as the type to act out of the kindness of his heart. He was a businessman, a trader of goods and services. He wouldn’t just give this blessed Silence away.

Michael’s left hand felt strange, and he moved it closer to his face so he could examine it. The fingers were tingling, especially his pinkie and his ring finger. The rain wasn’t that cold, was it? He still had normal sensation it the rest of his body, so why…

The tingling in his two fingers intensified to the point where it became painful, and then—just when he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore—the sensation stopped, and he felt a gentle, almost pleasant release. He watched his fingers lose cohesion, liquefy, and be washed away by the rain, leaving only patches of smooth flesh where they had been attached to his hand.

He had never experienced anything so wonderful.

Something Doctor Tricia said came back to him then.

If you’re at peace when you finally die, you might—just might—escape the Song.

He then remembered Stull’s words.

It’s a cold rain coming down today. A man could catch his death out there.

And he recalled the village’s motto on its website.

Ambergris Falls—We Do Things Our Own Way.

In a normal shop, you paid first then received your goods. But in Audio Junkie, maybe it was the other way around.

Michael knew he couldn’t stand here forever. Sooner or later, the rain would end, and the Song would return full force. He didn’t think he could take that. But then he didn’t have to, did he?

He held the jar with the remaining three fingers on his left hand and unscrewed the lid with his right. Still leaning over, using his body to block the rain, he moved the jar close to his mouth. He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then exhaled. As he released his breath, he let go of everything—pain, sorrow, fear, hopelessness—and his entire body began to tingle. He quickly screwed the lid back on the jar, bent down, and placed it on the sidewalk.

Then, weeping tears of joy, he collapsed into liquid and became one with the rain.

A few moments later, Oren Stull stepped out of his shop. He gripped the metal frame of an umbrella in his hand, but even without fabric, it still somehow protected him from the rain. He walked down the sidewalk a bit until he came to the jar. He picked it up, held it to his ear, and listened. Smiling, he lowered the jar and gazed down at the rainwater rushing along the gutter toward a nearby sewer grate.

Pleasure doing business with you, son.

Stull turned and headed back to his shop, the new addition to his collection held tight in his hand, whistling a tune that Michael—if he’d still been alive to hear it—would’ve recognized.

the brazen bull

Sofia Ajram

I can tell you what will happen. I can play your mentor.

On a night you won’t remember, the fading chambers of its heart will bellow, and the sound will cleave across the sky like a sonic boom, and when it finds you, it will bifurcate your life into two.

You will hear it