Sickening Thud

 

James McIntire

 

            You want to know more about it, huh? I am not a big fan of repeating myself, but I also want you to know, I have nothing to do with this. This situation came to me. It crawled its way from whatever vile hole in the ground and introduced itself to me. I gave it no aid. I didn’t egg it on. I didn’t provoke it. I never even fucking asked for it. Now, for the sake of cooperation and clearing my damn name, I will tell you, Detective, the same exact story I told the others.

            It all started about a week ago. You know what kind of business I am in, but for the sake of compliance and accuracy, I will say it again. I am a small time, with extra emphasis on small time, music producer. I do indie stuff, and I do all types of music genres. I respect the art and the artist. I take on the tired and sick and all of that jazz, pun fucking intended. I am no prude, and yes, before you ask, I do dabble in shock rock and some horror acts. As I said, I respect the art and the artist.

           A lot of guys and girls come to me looking to make an album or something or another. I give them a space to do their thing. I know damn well who I am in this world, and I don’t tell them how to do their thing unless it involves technical aspects. I let the artist create. I don’t tell them to change lyrics, I don’t dissuade them from writing radio-friendly shit. I just let them do their thing for a fair fee.

           Now, back to the point of all of this. Yes, a great deal of eccentric people come to me. I’ve had guys dressed in space monster costumes who would only talk to me in character and ignore me unless I played along. I had a guy come in dressed as if he rose from the dead, and yes, you bet he played the bit all the way through his recording session. He spent most of his time doing goth rock covers of Johnny Cash stuff. Does anyone ever make it big? Sometimes. Sometimes they just become TokTik famous or whatever that fucking site is called.

           So yeah, he came to me. He was no more or less odd than anyone else who wandered through that door. He was pale and bald and dressed as though he stepped out of some kind of private club, if you catch my meaning. Imagine Max Schreck in BDSM gear. That kind of thing. And no, it never seems strange. The people who come to me looking to make their music, I never bat an eye. Besides, it wasn’t the way he looked that bothered me. It was what he had with him.

            He came into the building, and I met him face to face. He extended a hand, clenching a CD case. I took it from him.

           “I want to get this out to all people,” he said. I explained to him that was not really how things worked. I explained he can absolutely record here, and yeah, we can make an album, but we are small time. Maybe you make it big, but more likely you don’t. This is the same talk I have with all of these kids. Yeah, I am giving you a place to do your thing, but there are no guarantees for superstardom if that’s what you think this is. It’s a place to create, but marketing and reaching all people, as he put it, requires other resources I cannot provide. The public decides who gets their fifteen minutes of fame, and the same public decides who gets eternity of nothingness.

           I know, rather grim and pessimistic, but I cannot lie to these kids. I want them to do their thing, but they need to know the reality.

           So anyway, he says, “Listen to it, and you’ll understand.” Then he just left. So, you know damn well what I did next. I listened to the fucking thing.

          First, there was some feedback and static. Then, it was quiet. After about ten seconds of sterile silence, I heard it. My first thought at the time was someone, maybe a butcher or a chef, was tenderizing meat. As it went on, I realized what the entire five minutes and thirty seconds really sounded like. The last two minutes make it obvious for anyone who doesn’t get it. So, there I am, headphones on, listening to a steak getting smacked around a cutting board, and then like I said, the last two minutes I hear the whimper. To ensure I didn’t misunderstand it happens again, and then it becomes a desperate plea. You want me to repeat it? Come on… You know what I heard. You talked to the boys in your department… Fine, it said, “Please stop.”

I am going to say something to you now. And I don’t care if you think it makes me desperate for absolution or not. I will never unhear, and I will never forget what I heard on that recording. At the time, I thought it was a recording from some extreme horror film or some shit. These guys and girls like to do shit like that. Some of these kids think they are making next level stuff with just ambience. Remember the band Suicide from the seventies? That’s what I thought it was. Someone trying to say something with the medium, but choosing to break all of its rules. I didn’t take it at face value, as it was provided. I will live with that, too. I hear it when I rest my head on my pillow. I hear it faintly within my dreams. Knowing it wasn’t instruments or samples. Yeah, now knowing the truth, I will not think about it or the human being that was on the other end of it.

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     Residing in Greenwood, Indiana, James McIntire writes horror and sci-fi. Always looking to subvert all expectations with each story. James is the author of short story collections Visions and The Guide Book For a Bad Time. James has also written a variety of articles for the website WickedHorror.com. He is a mad scientist creating the most depraved and bizarre stories possible.

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       Sophia Wiseman-Rose (aka Sr. Sophia Rose) is a Paramedic and an Anglican novice Franciscan nun, in the UK.  Both careers have given Sophia a great deal of exposure to the extremes in life and have provided great inspiration for her.  

  She has travelled to many countries, on medical missions and for modelling (many years ago), but has spent most of her life between the USA and the UK. She is currently residing in a rural Franciscan community and will soon be moving to London to be with a community there.  

  In addition, Sophia had a few poems and short stories in editions of Black Petals Horror/Science Fiction Magazine

 The majority of her artwork can be found on her website.

  https://www.artstation.com/sophiaw-r6