door, which Ingram could only assume led to the tower. A record spun on a turntable, the needle bumping and hissing in a continual loop; untended, the record had played itself out and was now caught in its auditory death throes. The room looked empty, and Ingram stepped forward to inspect the table that held the library of records. As he moved around the table to get a better look at the collection, he noticed the leg.
From behind the makeshift table, the leg jutted into the open, foot askew. Ingram felt a sinking sensation in his gut as he moved to get a better view.
The dead man lay on the floor in a natty blue suit. An older black man—gray at the temples and through the beard—he looked as though he’d been tortured. His eyes were wide in fright, his mouth open, blood pooling around the teeth, and scratch marks ran down his cheeks, around his eyes and ears. Trails of blood came from his ears, and Ingram spotted, beside the man’s body, a piece of flesh that looked like a tongue.
Ingram gingerly touched his own cheeks.
In the Pacific, Ingram had witnessed death and dead men with expressions like this, but none as bad, as gruesome. He took the man’s wallet from his slacks and verified his suspicions. This was indeed George Carver, owner and operator of KQUI.
Ingram searched the room, the record on the turntable making clicks and hisses as it revolved. The record collection yielded nothing other than a few Helios records indicating Early Freeman had made some contact here.
Ingram checked the files in the bureau. He looked underneath the table. He searched the dead man again, patting him down and emptying his pockets.
He stood, looking at the turntable. It turned, hissing and clicking, the needle caught in the last spiral, diminishing toward the center. The record had no printed label, just a hand-scrawled title on a brown sticker, reading J. Hastur . Just watching that name turn in circles made Ingram feel tight in his shoulders, his back, like someone had a gun on him.
The record was horribly scratched, as if Carver, in a violent spasm, had knocked the needle across the face of the record trying to destroy it. Or silence it.
I’ve got to know.
Ingram took a deep breath and placed the needle on the record.
The music was different from what he’d heard at Helios Studio. This piece was faster, uptempo, more frenetic. The player showed obvious skill, picking the melody in an intricate counterpoint to the rhythm plucked with his thumb. The record skipped drastically, needle popping over the scratches on the vinyl, jumping forward. More guitar, but now with another instrument, an instrument Ingram couldn’t place, maybe a horn, or even a human voice, but alien to his ears. The record skipped again, and there was singing.
Come on, rise up from the sodden earth
Come on, rise up from Death’s black hearse
That is not dead can eternal lie
And dying know even death can die
Have you seen the yellow sign?
Have you seen the yellow sign?
The record skipped and cast the needle back to the first of the verse, singing it again. And once again, Ingram found his muscles clenching, his fists tightening into stones. He had a lump in his throat, and tight bands across his chest. The wounds on his face throbbed horribly in time with the music. His body took up the rhythm and beat of the record.
The record skipped back to the beginning of the verse again, but this time, Ingram heard other instruments. Even though it was the same music, the same piece of vinyl on the record, the needle trapped in an infinite loop of music, Ingram heard something different from the first two revolutions; now he heard another voice. Ingram shuddered, unable to fathom the mouth that made those sounds. Then Ingram heard a thump, and he knew exactly what made them.
The body behind him arose, its dead mouth full of coagulated black blood, repeating the words along with the record. Ingram felt a horrible chill enter the room, a darkness that
From behind the makeshift table, the leg jutted into the open, foot askew. Ingram felt a sinking sensation in his gut as he moved to get a better view.
The dead man lay on the floor in a natty blue suit. An older black man—gray at the temples and through the beard—he looked as though he’d been tortured. His eyes were wide in fright, his mouth open, blood pooling around the teeth, and scratch marks ran down his cheeks, around his eyes and ears. Trails of blood came from his ears, and Ingram spotted, beside the man’s body, a piece of flesh that looked like a tongue.
Ingram gingerly touched his own cheeks.
In the Pacific, Ingram had witnessed death and dead men with expressions like this, but none as bad, as gruesome. He took the man’s wallet from his slacks and verified his suspicions. This was indeed George Carver, owner and operator of KQUI.
Ingram searched the room, the record on the turntable making clicks and hisses as it revolved. The record collection yielded nothing other than a few Helios records indicating Early Freeman had made some contact here.
Ingram checked the files in the bureau. He looked underneath the table. He searched the dead man again, patting him down and emptying his pockets.
He stood, looking at the turntable. It turned, hissing and clicking, the needle caught in the last spiral, diminishing toward the center. The record had no printed label, just a hand-scrawled title on a brown sticker, reading J. Hastur . Just watching that name turn in circles made Ingram feel tight in his shoulders, his back, like someone had a gun on him.
The record was horribly scratched, as if Carver, in a violent spasm, had knocked the needle across the face of the record trying to destroy it. Or silence it.
I’ve got to know.
Ingram took a deep breath and placed the needle on the record.
The music was different from what he’d heard at Helios Studio. This piece was faster, uptempo, more frenetic. The player showed obvious skill, picking the melody in an intricate counterpoint to the rhythm plucked with his thumb. The record skipped drastically, needle popping over the scratches on the vinyl, jumping forward. More guitar, but now with another instrument, an instrument Ingram couldn’t place, maybe a horn, or even a human voice, but alien to his ears. The record skipped again, and there was singing.
Come on, rise up from the sodden earth
Come on, rise up from Death’s black hearse
That is not dead can eternal lie
And dying know even death can die
Have you seen the yellow sign?
Have you seen the yellow sign?
The record skipped and cast the needle back to the first of the verse, singing it again. And once again, Ingram found his muscles clenching, his fists tightening into stones. He had a lump in his throat, and tight bands across his chest. The wounds on his face throbbed horribly in time with the music. His body took up the rhythm and beat of the record.
The record skipped back to the beginning of the verse again, but this time, Ingram heard other instruments. Even though it was the same music, the same piece of vinyl on the record, the needle trapped in an infinite loop of music, Ingram heard something different from the first two revolutions; now he heard another voice. Ingram shuddered, unable to fathom the mouth that made those sounds. Then Ingram heard a thump, and he knew exactly what made them.
The body behind him arose, its dead mouth full of coagulated black blood, repeating the words along with the record. Ingram felt a horrible chill enter the room, a darkness that
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