Hell is a Stage

The angry roar of heavy metal screamed from the amplifier at ear-bleeding decibels. Kip Daniels stood nearby, his fingers expertly navigating the fretboard of a blue Ibanez six-string guitar. He paused, letting the last of the grungy notes echo throughout the garage studio, his long blond hair matted to a dark sleeveless t-shirt.

“Told ya this speaker kicks ass,” he said, flashing an amused smile.

Zayne Roberts sat in an old, tattered lawn chair, his feet propped up on an overturned bucket. He pulled on one of his gauged earlobes, a subconscious habit developed long ago. “Sure does. Too bad it's stolen.”

Kip frowned, tracing his fingers across the initials D.M. on the side of the speaker’s box. “Hard to steal from a dead guy. Besides, I’m sure he’d want us to have it.” He pointed to a poster hanging on the nearby wall.

The late Denny “Demonic” Moraine stood in the poster, his shirtless torso and neck completely covered in scars and tattoos. His face was coated in black and white paint, split perfectly down the middle. Denny had been a certified heavy metal legend, selling out venues worldwide with multiple chart-topping singles and albums to his résumé. His behavior off stage was just as notorious as the lyrics he wrote, with a lengthy list of run-ins with the law, among other things. Still, as two amateur musicians with their own aspirations, Denny had been one star whose success they’d always hoped to emulate.

When he and Zayne weren’t gigging at local bars, Kip managed a storage unit facility right outside of the Hollywood Hills. He’d come across Denny’s name one evening on the rental ledger and had always hoped to meet him there. That chance never came, and when he’d heard that Denny had fallen to his death from the roof of the Cecil Hotel in Los Angeles, an infamous circumstance in itself, he took the opportunity to grab the vintage Marshall amplifier from Denny’s rental unit before it went up for auction.

“There’s something else I forgot to show you,” Kip added. He turned on a large black light and directed it toward the amplifier. Zayne stood and examined it closely. On top of the amp, visible only under the light, was a crudely drawn rectangle. An arrow pointed to it, along with two hastily scribbled words.

Things Change.

“Strange, huh?” Kip asked. “Kinda looks like blood.”

A piercing scream jolted Kip from a dead sleep. It had been several hours since Zayne left their evening rehearsal, leaving him alone in the house. Perhaps Zayne had forgotten something, he thought, hoping to tame his imagination. The sound grew louder as he crept out of his bedroom, his legs still half asleep. He followed the sound, moving through the kitchen toward the attached garage studio. The amplifier sat right where he’d left it on a bench against the far wall, its red power indicator glowing in the darkness like an evil cyclops. Must’ve left it on, he thought.

Something moved in the dark, temporarily obscuring the amplifier’s light. The outline of a figure appeared nearby, its features undiscernible. Kip froze, the sudden pressure of the situation forcing air from his lungs. He reached quickly for the light switch on the wall and turned it on, revealing an empty room.

He took a much-needed breath, walked to the amplifier, turned it off, and went back inside, closing the door behind him. A moment later, the red light on the front of the amplifier came back to life, its speaker emitting an ominous static. Behind it, its power cord sat neatly coiled, unplugged.

“Got dinner,” Zayne said, lifting a greasy takeout bag as he walked into the garage.

“Forget that!” Kip said, clearly excited. “You gotta see this!” He turned on the light above the amplifier. Smiling, he pulled a quarter from his pocket and placed it in the crudely drawn box on top of the amp. He picked up a V-shaped electric guitar and began to play it. When he finished, he pointed to the quarter. It was gone, replaced by a single one-dollar bill.

“Nice trick,” Zayne said, unamused.

“No trick. Watch.” Kip left the bill on the amplifier and began to play again. The one-dollar bill inexplicably became a five, the image of Lincoln, clean and crisp.

Zayne approached the amp bewildered. “How the hell is this happening?”

“No idea. Denny was into some strange shit. But who cares? Do you know what this means?”

An explosion rang out through the neighborhood behind them, rattling the windows. Outside, two tires on the band’s black Ford equipment had blown, the van now resting on its two front rims.

“Great!” Zayne cried, walking over to inspect the damage.

“We’ll fix it later,” Kip said. “We need to talk about this first.”

Zayne eyed the tires wearily, then flipped over a bucket to sit on. Sighing, he reached for the food bag he had brought and opened it. A sickening odor hit his face, and he gasped, dropping the bag instinctively. The bag’s contents spilled onto the smooth concrete floor. The food was completely rotten and full of maggots.

The following day, Zayne arrived at Kip’s house to find him standing in the driveway, a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his wrist.

What the hell happened?” Zayne asked.

“I tried it again,” Kip said, smiling despite the blood. “I put an empty wallet on the amplifier. A few guitar strings broke and cut my wrist pretty bad. But, look!” He held up an old leather wallet, a large stack of one-hundred-dollar bills pouring out from inside.

Zayne’s eyes widened. “I thought we weren’t gonna use it til we figured this out.”

Kip frowned. “Figure out what? Whatever you put in the box gets better. That’s it.”

“Yeah, and bad shit happens as well,” Zayne said, pointing to the bloody towel as tiny crimson droplets rained onto the smooth concrete floor.

“Coincidences,” Kip said dismissively. “Bad shit happens all the time. But we have a great opportunity here. I was thinking. What if we put our demo tape on it?”

Zayne frowned. He had to admit the idea was intriguing. They had sent the tape to countless record labels without receiving a single acknowledgment or reply.

“Come on,” Kip prodded. “This could be our shot. We might not get another chance.”

They spent the next hour discussing the matter, weighing the pros and cons before Zayne finally agreed, curiosity overcoming fear.

“Ok, moment of truth,” Kip said, his wrist freshly bandaged. He placed the demo tape in the box, propped a foot on top of the amplifier, and picked up the guitar, balancing it on his knee. As he began to play, the speaker squealed and buzzed, tiny sparks radiating from inside. A moment later, Kip screamed, dropping the guitar. The amplifier fell silent; its red light extinguished.

“You ok?” Zayne asked, panic rising in his voice.

“Fine,” Kip said, his hands trembling. “Gave me a little shock, is all.”

A phone rang, and Kip left to answer it, leaving Zayne alone with the amplifier. Something about the speaker deeply unsettled him, a feeling he couldn’t quite explain. It seemed to watch him, returning his gaze with its singular red eye. He shuddered.

Kip returned a few minutes later, wearing a look of pure joy. “That was Calamity Records. I can’t believe it. They loved the demo.” He looked down at the demo tape on the amplifier. “I can’t believe it worked!”

Zayne woke in the darkness of his hotel room to an unusual sound. He glanced over his shoulder, and the girl he met after last night’s sold-out show was gone, a ghostly outline on the white bed sheets all that remained. The high-pitched squeal of a speaker’s feedback echoed from somewhere across the room, spiking his endorphins. His heart racing, he sat up and scanned the room.

The girl sat silently on the floor, legs crossed, facing the far wall. An object sat on the floor in front of her. As his eyes adjusted to the dark room, he recognized the amplifier. Its light was turned on, the speaker emitting a high screech. The red light flickered as the high pitch faded to a steady whisper like a large human mouth relaying subliminal messages.

“Hey,” Zayne whispered, getting out of bed. He moved closer, kneeling beside her. She sat trance-like, her long black hair obscuring her face. He turned the amplifier off, silencing the room. The girl turned, her hair falling away to reveal her face, and Zayne screamed.

Denny Moraine stared back at him. His eyes glowed red like the amplifier’s light, his hair crawling with slimy beetles and maggots. His face was painted white with two words written on his cheeks in what looked like blood.

Things Change.