Page 11 of Bewitched By the Phantom
“Earbuds,” Claudia encourages. “We’re up in three slots.”
I tug my earbuds from where I’d tucked them between my boobs—I don’t exactly have pockets—and press them in my ears. Turning on my pre-show playlist, I try my hardest to get into it like I normally do. Listening to this playlist feels wrong somehow, and the more I try to force myself to listen to it, the more my nerves fray.
Claudia watches me carefully, her eyes sharp as she watches me wind myself up. I can tell she’s worried, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s trying to keep her cool.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath and turn off the playlist, but I leave the earbuds in so everything is muted. I start to hum, softly at first before increasing my volume until it echoes in my ears. It’s the melody from the dream again, the one that’s been haunting me. My heart rate slows. The shaking in my hands steadies. A sense of calmness overcomes me but it also feels borrowed, like the sound I’m humming doesn’t exactly belong to me.
“Hell Hath Honey. Two-minute call,” Ted says from behind the curtain.
“Go time,” Claudia says, standing up and clapping me on the shoulder. “You good?”
I nod. “I’m good.”
Raoul appears with his band from the wings, prepared to take our spot while they wait for their turn. He smiles at me, the expression like sunshine in the dark atmospheric backstage.
“Break a leg,” he says, his eyes crinkling. “Not literally, but . . . you know.”
“Thanks,” I say, something in my chest revolting against his sunshine. “You, too,” I hesitate, “but not literally.”
His smile widens, but I don’t stick around to bask in it. We hear the announcer say our name and we step out from behind the curtains and onto the mainstage.
The main performance space in the old power plant is the same area we rehearsed in on the first day, but you’d never know it by looking today. Fog machines work overtime to add a spooky vibe to everything, the mist falling off the edges of the stage in a way that reminds me of every nineties horror film. Harsh lighting cuts through the fog and the atmosphere in a strange pattern, casting shadows that seem longer than they should be. There’s a ghost of industrial decay beneath the repurposed floorboards as we clomp our way onto stage with practiced smiles, and in Claudia’s case, a well-timed tongue sliding across her fake vampire fangs.
It's weird for there not to be a true audience, but the bands who have already gone and the crew that aren’t needed in the back sit in the seats and cheer all the same. A group of fans hover in their midst, ready to cheer on their favorites. The vibe in the large, open ceiling room is electric and primal, like something’s about to come unhinged.
It’s us. We’re about to come unhinged.
“We’re Hell Hath Honey,” I purr into the mic. “And this is ‘Lightning and Lace.’”
Claudia’s fingers fly over the bass guitar just as Lydia and Vivian join in with the electric guitar and drums.
We’ve played this song a million times, but here on this stage, right now, we might as well be playing it for the first time. This is it. This is our moment. If we don’t play our asses off, we won’t be going anywhere. If we get eliminated in the first round . . .
The buildup is fire like always. I’m crooning into the mic, seducing the cameras as they move around us, getting the best shots they can amongst the mist. I have no doubt the images are going to look sick. These people know what they’re doing.
I build up to the chorus and scream. “It’s lace and lightning, a kiss like a knife. You call it a warning!” I sing. “I call it a life.”
Claudia’s and Vivian’s fingers fly over their respective strings, rocking out the only way they know how. When I grab the mic for the second verse, something tells me that we’re being watched, but not in the normal way. My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the man I know is the source of the feeling, but I don’t find Erik anywhere. I can’t see him, but I know he’s watching. I know he’s there. Like a wire pulled tight, my chest aches with the knowledge, but I try my best to shove that feeling aside as I launch into the second verse.
The spotlights sear golden across the cracked cement and wooden stage, drowning out everything but the beat vibrating beneath my boots. I hold the final note in a rasping scream, then drop into a low crouch as Lidia’s drums roll like thunder behind me.
The small crowd is a blur of limbs, fists, and sweat. All the sound, all the energy, it should’ve been everything.
But then, the lights pulse . . .
. . and the shadows don’t follow.
My breath catches mid-line.
For a split second—maybe less—the silhouetted from of the crowd lags, stretches, dancing to a rhythm just off the beat. They aren’t mimicking the people. They’re . . . independent and elongated, swaying like marionettes cut loose from strings.
And they’re looking atme.
One even lifts its head toward the rafters. No face. Just the dark curve of attention.
I stumble half a step, the mic almost slipping from my hand. Then the next strobe hits, and the shadows snap back into place like nothing happened.
Like they hadn’t just . . .listened.
