Page 14 of Bewitched By the Phantom
I remember them vividly. They were a synthwave trio called Static Saint. They wore neon face paint and had weird energy. Hell, they opened with a weird cover of “Tainted Love” on an ocarina. They were definitely a vibe, one I remember pretty thoroughly because of how strange they were. Not that they weren’t talented. That solo on the ocarina slayed.
“Hey, what happened to Static Saint?” I ask the innocent stagehand walking by before he can disappear.
The stagehand frowns at me. “Who?”
“Static Saint. Three dudes wearing neon face paint. They performed yesterday second to last,” I say. And that should be all he needs. It’s not like there are a million of us.
“There’s no one here like that,” the stagehand replies, looking around.
“Clearly,” I grunt, annoyed. “But they were here yesterday. They’ve been here the whole time. Now they aren’t and suddenly their name is wiped from the schedule.”
“Not ringing any bells. Sorry,” the stagehand shrugs before continuing on his way.
“What the fuck?” I mumble, turning toward one of the ladies from The Medusa Complex. “Hey, have you seen Static Saint?”
Her brows furrow in confusion. “Who?”
I blink. “Never mind. Sorry to bother you.” I pull open my phone and search them up. Everyone here had a social media following—I know because I’d immediately went and followed everyone— but when I type their name in, nothing comes up. No photos. No songs on streaming platforms. Their profiles are gone. There’s no way that’s possible.
I leave the schedule and go in search of their apartment. Number six. I know exactly where they were staying. But when I knock on the door, I find it already ajar and the rooms completely empty. Even if I were insane, there would be another band here, right? No one has been eliminated yet.
“Don’t mess with me,” I mutter, staring at the empty rooms. “I literally told one of them his mesh tank looked like a haunted jellyfish.”
But no matter who I ask, no one seems to remember them. Even Raoul is confused about who I’m talking about. The longer I search for answers, the more confused I am. The air around me feels thinner, almost electric, like an amp turned on with no cable plugged in. I don’t get it.
As the day gets longer, I start noticing more strange things. They’re small, quiet, almost ignorable if I wasn’t already on high alert. I’m not going crazy. I know I’m not, but it’s starting to feel like I might be. After all, these glitches shouldn’t be happening. Maybe I really am about to take a tumble in a padded room.
When I walk past a mirror in the greenroom hall, my reflection feels off for all of two seconds. It doesn’t turn when I do. It lingers a half second behind, my reflection’s eyes are off, like they’re the wrong color. It’s almost like the reflection is watching me. It creeps me out, but it’s not long enough for me to be convinced I actually saw what I thought I did. Erik happens to walk past right after, my gaze following him as he walks away with carefree swagger. He throws me a smirk, like he knows something I don’t, but doesn’t initiate any conversation with me.
As it grows later in the day, when the sun starts to fall, I start to hear music bleeding through the concrete and metal walls, but when I go in search of the music, no band is playing. Sometimes, it sounds like something eerie. Sometimes, it sounds exactly like the lyric scrap I’d found in my guitar case. Slow, minor key, like something decaying in a music box. I stand in the room I followed the music to, spinning in a circle to try and find the source, but only find dusty shelves and dirt-smudged walls. Just as the melody begins to fade, Erik appears at the door, knocking on the doorframe, checking to see if I’m okay. When I reply that I’m fine, he nods and disappears again, as if he was never there to begin with.
Once, when I’m walking past an empty room, I even hear my name whispered with such longing, it makes my knees lock. There was no one there. Like the air was speaking. Like the walls were breathing my name.
By the time the moon rises, my nerves are frayed and I’m convinced I’m losing my mind. Not a single person I asked about Static Saint knew who I was talking about, but I know they were here. I know I didn’t imagine them. I just don’t understand what’s happening. Am I in an episode of the Twilight Zone? Maybe X-Files. It’s aliens. Gotta be aliens.
When Erik appears again in front of me after another strange whisper of my name, I stop him.
“Hey, Spooky. You always seem to show up after all the weird starts. That’s awfully convenient,” I say, crossing my arms.
He smiles, most of his face hidden behind his golden mask. “Or considerate. One might even say . . . attentive.”
I scoff. “I could say orchestrating, actually. Sounds like an admission of stalking to me.”
He slides closer, smooth as peanut butter. Or like a zombie clawing its way up through the earth. “Angel, if I could orchestrate this, I’d have given you better lighting.”
I blink. “Before you start trying to seduce me with your weirdness, I have a question.”
“Yeah?” He waits patiently.
“Do you remember Static Saint?” I ask. His eyes flicker, so fast, I almost miss it. He doesn’t say anything, and I find myself stepping closer. “You remember them, don’t you?”
Erik hesitates. “Maybe they were never meant to be remembered,” he murmurs quietly.
“So, you do remember?” I push.
He clamps his lips shut and he won’t confirm or deny. But it’s all the confirmation I need. I’m not crazy. Something weird is going on here.
I try to talk to Claudia about it, but they don’t believe me. None of my bandmates remember Static Saint either, and I know for a fact Claudia had spoken to their lead singer about his ocarina. The fact she doesn’t remember makes it all the more strange. Why do I remember and they don’t? When Claudia starts asking questions, I just wave her worry away and blame it on stress.
