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  Praise For Brain Dead Blues

  “Not content to conquer the rock music world, Matt Hayward has now turned his attention to dark fiction, and how much richer we all are as a result. BRAIN DEAD BLUES is everything you’d expect from a rock star turned horror writer, documenting not only facets of the music world but also the darkness that can result from obsessions both creative and violent. I have long been a fan of both the music and the man behind it. Now I’m a fan of his writing too.” - Kealan Patrick Burke, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of THE TURTLE BOY, KIN, and SOUR CANDY

  “In BRAIN DEAD BLUES, Matt Hayward shows that he is one of horror's most distinctive new voices. This collection is full of evocative storytelling, vivid characterizations, and fresh takes on old tropes. Do yourself a favor and read it.” - Bryan Smith, author of DEPRAVED and SLOWLY WE ROT

  Sinister Grin press

  MMXVII

  Austin, Texas

  Sinister Grin Press

  Austin, TX

  www.sinistergrinpress.com

  May 2017

  “Brain Dead Blues” © 2017 Matt Hayward

  “Critter”, “Cordyceps”, & “In The Woods, We Wait” © 2015 Matt Hayward

  “That’s The Price You Pay”, & “No One Gets Out Alive” © 2016 Matt Hayward

  “God Is In The Radio”, “Meeting Gregory”, “Hunger Pains”, “The Faery Tree”, “King Of The Gypsies”, “Swan Song Of Robert Enslin”, & “An Angel And A Reaper” © 2017 Matt Hayward

  This is a work of collected Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

  Cover Art by Scott Carpenter

  Book Design by Travis Tarpley

  “Critter” first published in Dark Moon Digest, October 2015

  “Cordyceps” first published in The Horror Zine, February 2015

  “In The Woods, We Wait” first published in ‘Journals Of Horror: Found Fiction’ - Pleasant Storm Entertainment, March 2015

  “That’s The Price You Pay” first published in Dark Moon Digest, January 2016

  “No One Gets Out Alive” first published in ‘Beachfront Starter Home, Good Bones and Other Stories’ - Crossroad Press - February 2016

  Table of Contents

  Praise For Brain Dead Blues

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  God Is In The Radio

  Critter

  Cordyceps

  In The Woods, We Wait

  Meeting Gregory

  That’s The Price You Pay

  Hunger Pains

  The Faery Tree

  King Of The Gypsies

  Swan Song Of Robert Enslin

  No One Gets Out Alive

  An Angel And A Reaper

  About the Author

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to: Anna Muhlbach, Melissa Hayward, David Murphy, Patrick Lacey, Kealan Patrick Burke, Bryan Smith, Robert Ford, Brian Keene, Mary SanGiovanni, Eric Beebe, Jeff Angell, Csaba Mester, Max Booth III, Lori Michelle, Jeani Rector, Ivan Byrne, Jonathan Janz, Rachel Autumn Deering, Jessica Deering, Mike Lombardo, and everyone at Fright Club.

  Dedication

  For Alan M. Clark

  God Is In The Radio

  The note trembled in Elliot's hand as he read for a second time.

  Couldn't hear that song again… So, I'm going to kill myself. I looked for it everywhere, but I couldn't find it. Are you hiding it from me, Bill? Because, us fans, us who understand it, will do anything to get another listen… Anything. Why hasn't it been released? Why would you do this to me, Billy, why? My skin prickled when you played it last night. My hair stood on end. I'm not embarrassed to say that I think I orgasmed. Twice.

  I could see that song, see it in my mind… Sounds turned to colors, taking shape and dancing, dancing… like ballroom ballerinas. That noise raced through my veins and filled me with something that I imagine a syringe, plump with heroin, would be for a junkie. That song is mine. It's all for me. Pure and absolute magic, nothing less… Do you get the same experience from it?

  Either way, I can't hear it now, Billy, and that's driving me insane.

  Other people heard it too. I know, I know… And I'm so jealous that I'm shaking. I can hardly see straight. I can't stand knowing that… You made your song a slut, Billy. A filthy fucking whore. It's been inside so many people now that you should be checking for diseases. You've tainted its purity…

  Oh, but I need to hear it. Not tomorrow, not next week. Now. I need it, I need it, I need it.

  Elliot lowered the note and took a deep, shaking breath. He squeezed at the bridge of his nose before continuing.

  But I can't have it all the time, can I? And there's no way I can have it all to myself… Not when you've already whored it out to every Tom, Dick and Harry with ears. Even the people that don't get it… I'm crying here. How could you give such a beautiful thing away? I can't understand…

  So… I'm out. I mean it. I have a bottle of whiskey (your favorite, by the way), and about forty caps of Kadian that I robbed from work. 30 mg, the good stuff. I worked in a hospital, Billy, did you even know that about me?

  The note was unsigned. Dropping it back to the table, Elliot stepped away as the cabin spun around him.

  “Why are you in here?”

  He turned at the sound of the voice, coming face to face with Bill Jennings. He tried to swallow but found himself unable.

  “The door was open,” Elliot said. “I let myself in.”

  Bill Jennings crossed the room with a sigh, his boot heels clicking off the hardwood. A bruise darkened his left cheek but Elliot said nothing. Instead, he watched as Bill settled into the wicker chair by the window. The old rocker ran a hand through his long, greasy hair. “If me staying here means that you can just come on in anytime you please, then it might do me good to find some place else to stay.”

  Elliot cleared his throat. “I was just checking how the single was coming along, man. Wayne told me that you started recording already. You making progress?”

  The recording equipment inhabited the far end of the cabin, consisting of a laptop wired to a mixing console that sat on a wooden desk with monitors to either side. Cables snaked from the desk, leading to microphones on stands in the middle of the floor. There were three in total— two for Bill's guitar, and one for his voice. Acoustic foam adorned the walls.

  Bill snorted and flicked some dirt from his boot. “Ah, the magic of modern day recording, eh? Years ago, this would have been a double-digit thousand dollar operation. Now? A laptop, some software, a few decent microphones, presto. Better than any big budget studio. And the single's coming along just fine, Elliot. Just fine. I'd say it's a hit.”

  “Good. We'll get started on promotion soon. Guaranteed sales.”

  Bill smirked. “I take it that big house out front wasn't paid for by record sales, though, right? Your parents own this place.”

  “They did. But they left it to me. I didn't ask them to. It was a family business, running a Bed and Breakfast. I'd give it all back if I could take back their crash.”

  Bill's smile faded. “You talkin' back to me, kid?”

  “Bill, please.” Elliot didn't want another argument. They'd happened too often since Bill had arrived. “I've given you this cabin out back and you can stay here as long as you need. I just want to get this single moving.”

  For once, Bill let the fight go. “Packman Records headquarters, once a B&B. That's prett
y Rock 'n' Roll, actually.”

  “Thanks. Wayne came up with that name, you know. Putting our surnames together. I think most people do that when they're starting a business, but Packman sounded especially good.”

  “Indeed, indeed, Mr. Truman.”

  Elliot licked his lips. “Where is Wayne, Bill? You've been gone all night. Not that I need to know what you get up to on your own time, but please be straight with me.”

  You owe me that for giving you a cabin with a studio, Elliot thought. Now, where's my business partner and producer?

  “Wayne lives here, too?” Bill asked.

  “I let him and his girlfriend have a room upstairs, yes. His production skills are good to have on hand when we're recording someone. Like now.” Elliot cleared his throat again. It'd gone very dry. “Where is he?”

  Bill cracked his knuckles. “He's around somewhere, don't worry… Not a bad set up, Elliot. Not bad at all. As I said, the single is moving along just fine. I did a full day today. My voice sounded a little tired after the two shows, but it's all good.”

  “You did a full day? What about Wayne?”

  “I asked Wayne to leave me be for the afternoon, that's all. Wanted to finish up the vocal takes myself. Feel more comfortable recording when I'm alone. I don't have to be so self-conscious if I try something new.” He arched an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, I have some final adjustments to make, so…”

  “You're asking me to leave?”

  “Quick on the draw there, Elliot. That's a good boy.”

  Heat flooded Elliot's face. “Well, I need to ask you about something, Bill. Other than Wayne.”

  “Good, because I need to talk to you about something, too, Elliot.”

  Icy fingers worked their way up Elliot's spine. He wasn't an argumentative person by nature, and Bill could tango with the best of them. “What's that, Bill?”

  “You threw this tour together at the last minute. I was playing clubs across the Northwest, and you reached out. You know as well as I do that my Two Smoking Barrels days are over. I couldn't flog albums if my life depended on it. You know the industry these days. I need to know that people will hear this comeback release.”

  Elliot nodded. “Of course. You're Bill Jennings. Most of the promotion is done by your name alone.”

  “And what about a bigger show? One in Dublin. I'm tired of these backwood towns.”

  “We need to do the backwood towns to get the money for a city show. The Arts Council agreed to finance promotion and the venue if we do a small town circuit first. Part of their Entertainment Outside the City scheme. We have to do it. I told you that when I picked you up from the airport. After we get that money, we can get The Lighthouse in Dublin.”

  “How big will this release be?” Bill asked. “I've been out of the distribution side of things since the early nineties, and the industry's changed an awful lot since then. I don't like reading contracts, neither, so I expect you to be up front with me. Give it to me in good ol' plain English, please. I expect international airplay for this release. People are going to lose their minds at the sound of this.”

  “Well, we'll handle online distribution, Bill. That covers all the major online retailers, with a sizable PR plan in place for three months once the album goes live. That covers Europe and the United States for advertising, reviews and airplay. Physical distribution will be limited to Irish brick and mortar stores, with a first pressing of five thousand copies. Once they sell out, and I'm sure they will, we'll use that money to go into a second print and get it sold abroad.”

  “So what you're saying is, people will hear this music?”

  Elliot arched an eyebrow. “Of course?”

  Bill smirked and scratched his stubbly face, making a sound like velcro. “Well, all right, then. My concerns are laid to rest. I'll take your word for it, Elliot.”

  Back in the day, when Bill Jennings had fronted Two Smoking Barrels, Elliot had thought of the man as an unsung hero of his generation. After hearing the band's first two records, he'd gone straight out and bought both on vinyl and cassette, listening to them constantly. The vinyl had gotten warped over the years, and one of the tapes had gotten stepped on by Peter Simmons when they were in school, but when Two Smoking Barrels' record label never re-issued the albums to CD, Elliot had grown furious. He managed to get a hold of bootlegs, of course, but without an official CD release, he felt that the later generations had been robbed of one of the greatest forces in Rock 'n' Roll history. He meant to change that. But now, with Bill Jennings on his family property with a bruised face and a bad attitude, he wasn't so sure he'd made the right choice.

  Should've left you in the US, Elliot thought. Also — what the hell was that note all about?

  Bill shifted his position in the wicker chair, his raspy voice low. “I'm happy to be here,” he said. His eyes had gotten a far-away look. “And people are going to hear my music. That's very important.”

  Elliot tried to agree but couldn't find his voice. Something about the way Bill's mood could switch so fast frightened him. One minute, the old rocker would be completely normal, chatting and shooting the breeze, and the next, he'd spit nails. Mood swings, Elliot thought. Something that burdened a lot of rock stars, it seemed. He'd thought that watching Bill Jennings on tape or on stage was intense enough, but being alone in a room with the man, and at nighttime for that matter, downright terrified him.

  Finally, Elliot spoke. “People are going to hear this. They'll be dying to hear it once we get a start on the press.”

  Bill smirked. “You're goddamn right about that.”

  Ask him about the note, Elliot told himself. Do it.

  But Bill spoke first. “How much did this place cost a night when your folks ran it as a Bed and Breakfast?”

  “Huh?” Elliot shook his head to concentrate. “Oh, um, one-hundred and fifty euros.”

  “Then I'm living in luxury, I guess.” He crossed his arms behind his head and stretched, his back popping. “Although, Ireland's so damn expensive since the last time I came here that one-hundred and fifty euros probably wouldn't even get you through a day, am I right?”

  “Sure.”

  Ask him about the goddamn note… Just say it.

  Instead, he asked, “How did the show go last night?”

  Elliot would get to the note. He'd work his way to it. Whoever had written it was clearly delusional, but Elliot had never dealt with an act as big as Bill Jennings. Were these crazy tokens of adoration commonplace? Did people threaten suicide because of a song and blame the performer everyday?

  “It went all right, by my standards.” Bill snorted, spitting into the waste bin by his chair. He removed a carton of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit up, the smoke curling toward the ceiling. “Just under a hundred people showed. But still, that's ninety or so in the back ass of Ireland coming to see me. And paying a tenner each, right? So what's that?” He began to mutter the multiplication beneath his breath.

  “Nine hundred,” Elliot said.

  “Right. Just under a grand. After the venue takes their cut, we're left with peanuts. That's great, Elliot. I tell you, I can't wait for these bigger shows. People need to hear the new single I've been working on.”

  That's it, Elliot thought. Enough beating around the bush.

  “There's a note on the table,” he said, then paused, hoping the old man would take the hint and explain. He didn't. “Where did it come from?” He pressed on, forcing a smile. “Just a nutcase fan, huh? You get them a lot?”

  Bill's face fell. He leaned forward, the wicker chair squeaking. Popping the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he narrowed his eyes down to slits. Elliot's heart jackhammered. “You know the difference between real music and fake music, kid?”

  Elliot remained silent. He shook his head.

  “Right. That's because you're a businessman, and not an artist. I'm an artist, and I can tell you the difference.” He flicked the finished cigarette into the waste basket and put his hands on
his knees. “They say the Blues is the Devil's music, did you know that?”

  “I've heard that, yes.”

  “Well, that's because of the tritone. And the blue notes, of course. People didn't know what to make of blue notes when they first heard 'em.”

  “Blue notes?”

  “Yes. Dissonant sounding things, but that's where the mojo comes from. The quirk of a song. You've heard them before, those little off notes in a Blues lick. The ones that make you think of sex and sin… Those blue notes and the tritone are where the secrets lie.”

  “What secrets?” He asked quietly.

  “The secret of music, my friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me, what was the first record to ever give you gooseflesh? That first time your hair stood on end like soldiers coming to attention, and it felt like your brain was having a goddamn orgasm?”

  Elliot blushed. He knew what Bill meant. And he knew the answer, too. “It was AC/DC,” he said. “Highway to Hell. I was about eight years old.”

  “Right. AC/DC. Rock 'n' Roll. And Rock 'n' Roll came from the Blues. You got that feeling, kid, that raw something. That energy. Those blue notes and the feeling. It was passed down to that band by whoever it was they were listening to. Chuck Berry, maybe. And do you remember the first time you heard Son House or Etta James? One of those voices. You know what I'm talking about.”

  “Janis Joplin?”

  “Exactly. Janis had it too, sure. That energy. That, kid, is what I'm talking about. When you combine those notes, sung by one of those voices, you're getting into an international language that everybody can understand… Because what you're hearing is complete, uncut truth, one that no words in any language could ever explain. You just gotta feel it. What you're hearing, right there, is a person wearing their heart on their sleeve. They are giving you themselves, wholly, unconditionally, and most importantly, with warts and all. It's those warts and imperfections that make the music so goddamn perfect. You ever notice that, huh? That's what gets you, deep down. In here.” He patted his chest three times. “How relatable that emotion they're showing is, because it's honest… And it works its way through you, doesn't it?” He began tracing his finger around his chest and arms. “It works all the way through you… It pours inside you, like honey, and you welcome it and it nourishes you… And you know what? One hundred years from now, and even one hundred years from then, people will hear Joplin, James, Hooker, and it'll still bring 'em to tears, because they'll know that it's real. That's the heart and soul of music right there, Elliot, and don't you ever forget it.”