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.

He smiled at Zayne, revealing rows of rotten teeth, then screamed, emitting a terrible high-pitched screech, the same horrible sound that came from the amp’s speaker. Denny’s hands shot forward, grabbing Zayne’s throat. He woke in his hotel room, coughing uncontrollably. The girl from the concert was beside him, sleeping peacefully.

“We’re excited to see what you’ve come up with,” a stick-thin man with thick glasses and an expensive-looking suit said enthusiastically. Kip sat at the other end of a long oak table, four sets of eyes staring at him in anticipation. Platinum records lined the walls of the large conference room, evidence of the successes and expectations of Calamity Records.

“You’re gonna love it,” Kip promised, placing a black notebook on the table in front of him. “I’ve been in the zone lately and have several songs ready to go.”

“That’s great to hear,” the executive replied, smiling. “With the first album’s success and the two-album deal you’ve signed, we feel it’s best to strike while the iron’s hot. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Kip opened the notebook. Two words scribbled repeatedly covered the entire first page in bleeding red ink.

Things Change Things Change Things Change…

His eyes widened as he flipped through the rest of the book, a feeling of dread overcoming him. Every page contained more of the same. He flipped quickly to the last page of the book and froze. A crude sketch of an amplifier was scribbled on the bottom in red and black ink. And standing beside it, unmistakable, even in the rudimentary drawing, was Denny “Demonic” Moraine.

“What the Fuck?” Zayne gestured angrily. “You told me you got rid of the amp. And since when did you start drinking like this? It’s nine in the morning!”

Kip stood beside the amplifier, a half-empty bottle in his hand. He sat it down and raised both hands pleadingly. “Just hear me out. I know what I said, but we’ve got a problem. The label is demanding the next album, and look.” He handed Zayne the notebook. “I’m not sure what’s happening, but they’ll drop us if we don’t give them something soon.”

Zayne examined the book as Kip continued. “But I thought if we used it one last time on the notebook...”

“No!” Zayne interrupted. “This is crazy. It almost killed you last time. And it’s not just that. I’ve seen him,” he said, pointing at the image of Denny in the notebook. “This thing. It’s evil!”

“Look, I know it’s a little strange, but if we can finish the second album…”

“At what cost?” Zayne interrupted.

“I’ve thought of that,” Kip offered desperately. He pointed to a guitar stand on the floor behind him. A guitar sat racked inside it, a cable running from it to the amplifier. “Figured if I could somehow play it without touching it...”

“You’ve lost it,” Zayne said. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to us?” He moved toward the amp. “I’m getting rid of it before someone else gets hurt.”

Kip blocked his path. “I can’t let you do that.” He put a firm hand on Zayne’s chest, stopping him. Zayne’s eyes widened in surprise. He dropped the notebook on the garage floor, its pages fluttering in the breeze.

“I’m asking you as a friend,” Zayne pleaded. “Don’t do this.”

Kip picked up the notebook and placed it on the amp. He stared at Zayne, his gaze defiant. They stood quietly, the tension between them razor-edged.

“I won’t be a part of this,” Zayne said, finally. He turned and walked out of the garage.

Frustrated, Kip turned and kicked the guitar stand. A single chord bellowed from the amplifier behind him. On top of the amp, the loose pages of the notebook fluttered and filled with words.

And Zayne fell to the ground dead.

A brain aneurysm, doctors had concluded—bad luck for a good person. Heartfelt tributes poured in from around the industry, and although nobody could replace Zayne, Kip eventually hired another guitarist, and the second album became an even bigger success. The amplifier had delivered thirteen fantastic tracks, including a bonus song titled “Zayne Roberts Tribute,” a song Kip never showed to anyone.

On his first night home from touring, Kip woke to find Zayne standing over him, his eyes sewn shut with steel guitar string. Zayne opened his mouth, and plastic guitar picks expelled from it like vomit, landing on Kip’s chest. They turned to live spiders crawling all over him. He screamed, rolling onto the floor in a mess of tangled sheets. He checked his body, but the spiders were gone. His eyes darted fearfully around the room, searching the darkness for his former bandmate, but the bedroom was empty. His hands began to tremble, a frequent occurrence since his accident with the amplifier. Sweating, he sat on the edge of the bed and took several long swigs from a whiskey bottle on the nightstand. The alcohol move through him, numbing his senses. But the thought of the steel guitar string stitched into Zayne’s eyes and traced his finger along the long, thin scar on his left wrist burned its way into his mind.

He got up to check the rest of the house and found the amplifier in the kitchen. It sat unplugged in a chair at the table, its red light flashing intermittently. A steaming coffee cup sat on the table before it, its liquid black contents bubbling over the side like hot oil. Zayne’s voice called to him from the speaker.

Hey buddy, can’t sleep? I know the feeling. I’ll never sleep again, thanks to you. It looks like the new album is doing well. I’m sure that makes you happy. That’s all you ever cared about—making yourself happy.

“Shut up!” Kip yelled, heaving the bottle in his hand. It missed its mark, hitting the far wall in an explosion of glass and liquid. Furious, he picked up the amp and slammed it onto the tile floor. Zayne’s voice fell silent as pieces of the amplifier scattered across the kitchen. The smell of burning electrical wire floated across the room. Satisfied, he picked up the mangled speaker box and carried it outside, placing it in the passenger seat of his car. He got in and peeled out of the driveway into the cold night air. As he drove, the broken amp returned to life, Zayne’s voice coming through again on its mangled speaker.

This is a nice car, man. It sure will fly. Is it a turbo? Car of the stars, they say. You always wanted to be the star, no matter who got in the way. Hey, how bout some tunes?

The car’s LED stereo lit up, and the familiar lyrics of Zayne Robert’s unrecorded tribute song bellowed from its sound system. Furious, Kip punched the stereo repeatedly with his free hand. The stereo’s lights flickered and then died, silencing the music. He smashed the accelerator, and the car shot forward, its powerful engine revving aggressively. The headlights of oncoming traffic flashed by them in split seconds, vanishing like small, ghostly orbs.

Zayne continued.

I miss the old days in your parent’s garage. Just us and our guitars pretending to be the next big thing. Remember when we snuck into the Metallica concert and got chased by security? We told ourselves people would be sneaking into our shows one day. Those were some good memories. But things change, right Kip? That’s all I’ve got now, thanks to you. Memories.

Kip rolled down the windows, drowning out Zayne’s voice. The cool night air was a welcomed intrusion, its crisp bite stinging his face. Up ahead, the Vincent Thomas Bridge came into view, crossing over the Los Angeles Harbor. Kip smashed the brakes, and the tiny sports car screeched to a stop near the bridge’s center. He got out and pulled the amplifier from the passenger seat. Breathing heavily, he staggered to the nearby rail and tossed it over the side. It disappeared into the darkness of the harbor, hitting the water moments later with a distant splash.

A while later, Kip pulled back into the driveway, his body and mind at exhaustion’s peak. He turned off the ignition and peered through the car’s windshield.

The amplifier was back in the garage and fully intact.

Welcome back, bro, Zayne’s voice called as he entered the garage. Nice night, huh? Hey, Denny’s here. He told me to say hello. You’ll never believe it. We started a band. Us and a few others. You should join us; we could use another guitarist. Take the stage with us. That’s what hell is, ya know. One big stage with nowhere to hide. One performance over and over playin’ the same song. Monotony. That’s what hell is.

“Leave me alone!” Kip roared. He grabbed a gas can from a nearby shelf and poured its contents over the amp, the vapors overwhelming the garage. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and dropped it, igniting the gas. Zayne continued talking as the amplifier burst into flame.

We wrote a song for you. Do you want to hear it? It’s got a killer chorus. It’ll pull the skin right off your face. Like a peeler on a potato.

Heavy metal music erupted suddenly from the flaming amp. The skin on Kip’s face began to burn, his flesh searing in agonizing pain. He turned to run as the amplifier’s cord came to life, wrapping around his feet and sending him tumbling to the smooth concrete floor. The cable tightened, pulling him toward the burning amplifier. He fought desperately, clawing at the concrete as the fire spread, engulfing the boxes and walls around him. Kip cried out helplessly as the cable constricted tighter around his legs, cutting off circulation. Overhead, the garage door began to move, lowering in front of him. As the cable pulled him in, song vocals began to join the music from the amplifier.

Always so set in your own stubborn ways.

All your greed and vanity willing things to change

Has bound you now eternal on a self-inflicted stage

A showman for the legion with an unforgiving rage.

On the garage wall, the poster of Denny Moraine began to smolder. Denny’s image began to move, his hands grabbing both edges of the poster’s frame. A burning leg emerged as he pulled himself out of the poster into the garage as if climbing through an invisible window. He grinned at Kip, his eyes pale and lifeless.

Kip screamed as several burned hands emerged from the amp behind him, pulling him inside. As the lower half of Kip’s body disappeared into the amp, Zayne’s head popped out of the front, his eyes sewn shut with steel string, singed flesh hanging from his face.

“Welcome to the band,” he said, smiling. The amplifier’s music faded away as it swallowed the rest of Kip’s body, leaving only the eerie sound of distant sirens and combusting wood.

“Happy birthday,” a middle-aged man said, gesturing to a large wrapped gift on the floor before him. “Open it.”

An excited teen wearing a black RIP Kip Daniels T-shirt smiled and enthusiastically opened the gift. “Woah! I love it,” the teen said, tracing his fingers along the initials “D.M.” carved into the side of the old amplifier.

“Found it in a pawn shop downtown,” the man said. “I know you like the vintage ones.”

The teen stood and hugged the man. “It’s awesome, thanks, Dad. I\'m going to go practice.” He grabbed the amplifier with a smile and carried it down to the basement, determined to be like the rock legends before him.

About the Author

Jason Frederick Myers suffered from horrible nightmares as a child, so the irony of growing up to write dark and weird fiction is not lost on him. As a young adult, he became obsessed with the writings of Shirley Jackson, Clive Barker, and Stephen King, authors from whom he draws inspiration today. When not reading or writing, you will likely find him exploring a secluded mountain or forest, as he only goes to town to acquire new Halloween decorations. A member of the HWA, his fiction can be found or is forthcoming at DarkWinter Lit, Black Sheep Magazine, Exquisite Death, Black Petals, The Horror Zine, and various anthologies.

Follow him on X:  https://x.com/jasonfmyers