“What do you mean, open the back door to Hell?”

“The Mudman, dude. Whatever name you wanna give him, he’s real. He is Shakti’s shadow. He feeds on creative energy, and when that energy runs out, he feeds on the person who used to carry it. And this series of notes—” He played the opening again, only much slower. “—is his invitation to enter this world. Not at this tempo, it’s got to be a little faster.”

“How do you know this?”

He grinned. “Because I called him up by accident one night. I’d just finished the first leg of my solo tour, and I was bored out of my skull at the hotel at three in the morning, so I started fiddling with the riff, and I increased its tempo and…there he was.” He set aside his guitar and opened his shirt. The middle of chest was a mass of scar tissue.

“Fucker tried to take a piece out of me, Sam. That’s why the police found all the blood and that section of my flesh in the hotel room. The Mudman demanded a sacrifice from me, and I wasn’t ready to make it.” He buttoned up his shirt and picked up his guitar once again.

“I’ve been running away from him ever since. But I’m too sick now. I can’t run any more.”

I scratched at my dead ear. “So why are…why are the others out there looking for you?”

“Because they’ve been kissed by him. He devoured all their creative energies, then chewed up what was left. That’s how he works, Sam. He finds someone who’s really creative, and he feeds on their energy, all the while giving them too many temptations, access to too many excesses, because that way, their energies will be spent faster. He gorges himself on their energy, then eats them for the dessert. What you’ve got out there, those are the ulcerations that remain, the aftertastes, the memories of the legends.”

“The icons, not the people.”

He nodded. “You might buy the farm, but your legend never does…and as long as the legend remains, even if it’s just in the mind of one person, then you’re tied to him and his desires. It sucks. If you’re born with any kind of creative talent, you’re on his hit list from the beginning. They’re all here because I dug their music. I’m one of the ulcerations that keeps them alive.”

“So why not…why not just not play the notes?”

“You think it’s just as simple as that? Dude, it doesn’t have to be me who plays them. The notes, they’re out there. They’re everywhere. A bird, the sound of the wind, a car backfiring…the notes are all over the place. And every so often, enough of them come together in the same place, at the same, and in the right tempo, that the doorway opens and he comes shambling in. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do to stop it.” There was a knock on the door and I rose to see who it was. “It’s me,” said the Reverend. I let him in. He took one look at Knight, sniffed the air, and said, “Hawaiian seedless?” “A man of the cloth who knows his weed,” replied Knight. “Will wonders never cease?” “Not anytime soon, from the looks of thing.”

Knight stared at him. “Please don’t tell me Elvis just showed up.” “I think he’d feel a little out of place with this crowd.” “Is Billie Holiday really there?” “She is.” Knight shook his head. “Damn. I finally rate Billie. Wow.” The Reverend closed the door. “Is it always the same bunch?” “Some of them change. Depends on who I’ve thinking about or listening to before the Mudman finds me.”

The Reverend did not ask who or what the Mudman was. One look at him, and I knew that he knew. Don’t ask me how, but the Reverend…knows things. Most of the time it’s pretty cool, but sometimes…sometimes it’s just creepy.

“What are we supposed to do?” he asked Knight.

“Damned if I know, but if I had to guess, I don’t think it’s up to you to do anything. Whatever’s gonna happen…it’s my call.” He rose from the cot, finished his brandy, and patted down his hair. “And what I’m gonna do, if it’s all right with you, is play in front of an audience one more time.”

The Reverend considered this for moment. “I think that would be wonderful.”

And Byron Knight smiled the last genuine smile of his life.

8

Everyone gathered around the center of the room as Knight situated himself on a stool. Even Morrison and the others looked on him with a sad kind of respect. “Any requests?” asked Knight.

It was Grant McCullers who spoke up. “I’ve always been partial to Bach’s ‘Sheep May Safely Graze.’ It’s kind of a Christmas tune, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

And Knight began to play it, smoothly, hauntingly. It was majestic and sad and melancholy and glorious, and yet there was something hesitant about the way Knight played the song; the notes brushed you once, softly, like a cattail or a ghost, then fell shyly toward the ground in some inner contemplation too sad to be touched by a tender thought or the delicate brush of another’s care.

It was perhaps the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

And then someone screamed from the basement.

Timmy was the first to respond, snapping his head in the direction of the scream and muttering, “Terrible, just terrible,” as he ran across the room and down the stairs. Linus hopped up on his cart and made a beeline across the floor, then pushed himself off and took the stairs with his hands as Beth, Lump, and the still-damp Kyle followed after him.

That’s when I realized that it had been the little girl, Missy, who’d screamed.

I reached the top of the stairs just as Timmy came around the corner, carrying Missy in his arms, her small, shuddering body wrapped in a towel.

He was pale and shaking. “Terrible, just terrible.”

He sounded horrified.

A few moments later Lump gave out with a snarl and a bark, then came charging up the stairs, Beth and Kyle right behind him.

“I saw the Bumble,” cried Missy. “he w-w-was…he was in the wall!”

Beth took Missy from Timmy’s arm and began stroking the back of her daughter’s head. “Shhh, hon, there-there, c’mon, it’s all right…c’mon, you just got a fright, that’s all. The Bumble scares you and you just imagined it.”

She might have just imagined it, but Lump had seen or sensed something that was making him crazy; his legs were locked in place, his lips curled back, eyes unblinking as he stared at the bottom of the steps and growled.

“Where’s Linus?” asked the Reverend, coming up beside me.

“He’s still down there.”

Ted Jackson joined us. He’d unstrapped the top of his holster and was touching the butt of his gun, ready to pull it. “Jesus Christ in a Chrysler, I about jumped out of my shorts.” “Probably nothing,” said the Reverend. “The little girl got spooked, that’s all.” I could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe it any more than I did. Knight was standing now, holding his guitar like a child, his eyes closed, his face almost peaceful. Morrison and the others were gone. And from somewhere in the basement, something moved. Something big. “What the hell?” said Jackson, gripping his gun but not pulling it from the holster.

Timmy came up to the reverend and grabbed his arm, saying, “Terrible, just terrible,” over and over, getting louder and more excited.

“Timmy,” said the Reverend, gripping both of Timmy’s arms, “I need you to calm down, c’mon. There you go, deep breaths, all right. Good. Now…did you see something down there?”

Timmy nodded.

“Are you sure you actually saw something that was there, or was it—”

Timmy pointed at his eyes and shook his head: no, it wasn’t one of his visual hallucinations, he knew the difference, thank you very much. “Terrible…terrible…just terrible.”

Beth was rocking Missy back and forth, whispering comfort in her ear, kissing her cheek, while Kyle sat on the floor beside them, holding his little sister’s hand.