Vintage Sound

© Bryan Hall

Alan eyed the album nervously now that he was home alone with it.

The record store he usually shopped at wasn't famous for organizing its vinyl collection, and yesterday he had found this particular album tucked in between Springsteen and ABBA.

There had been something different about it, something that even in the record store had slightly unsettled him. But that unsettling feeling had carried with it curiosity so profound that he had to buy the album.

Alan had been collecting records for three years, enjoying the large artwork and gatefold covers. For the past two years, whenever he bought music, it was always on vinyl. He could care less about any music being released nowadays, and compact discs or mp3s were far inferior in sound quality to vinyl anyhow.

That vintage sound: there was nothing like it. It was almost magical. He had amassed a decently sized collection of records, approaching two hundred albums now, but this one was different than any he'd seen before.

The cover's size and weight was identical to any other record, but instead of the cardboard like feel Alan was accustomed to this one was smooth and glossy like a magazine cover, There was no band name or album title, only artwork done in a strange style; it most closely resembled a watercolor painting in style, although the deep amber, orange, and brown colors seemed more pronounced and rich than the usual light pastels of a watercolor. The art seemed to shift and shimmer slightly as the light caught it, as if he was looking at the album through several inches of water .

The painting was an autumn scene, a view across a field of a small white cabin underneath a couple of trees with the sun casting bright orange and purple streaks across the sky. The ground was covered with fallen leaves, a few still clinging to the branches of the trees. A young girl was outside the cabin, standing in an awkward position as if she were in the midst of a strange dance. Far off in the background stood two other figures: faceless, distant people who were little more than dark shapes silhouetted against the horizon. There was something foreboding and ominous about the far-off figures; they sent another shiver rolling up Alan's spine, and he flipped the album over to examine the other side.

The back of the album was a reverse of the front. The main feature of this side was the two ominous figures once in the distance, now in the foreground and so large that they took up most of the album cover. Although they were much closer now, they were still genderless, featureless, black silhouettes. The cabin and young girl were barely visible in the distance over the shoulder of one of the shapes.

The scene was overtly eerie, these two almost formless entities stalking an innocent, faceless girl.

It creeped Alan out immensely.

But his curiosity had gotten the better of him, damn it. Something inside him, some unknown desire, had compelled him to buy it.

And now he had it.

Slowly, he slipped the record out of the cardboard sleeve and studied it. There was no label on the vinyl. No band name or album title. It was as ambiguous as the cover, and although it had no artwork the emptiness of the blank black record was somehow almost as unsettling as the shadowy stalkers staring at the young girl.

Alan dropped the album onto his record player, switched on the power, and placed the needle onto the record. He made his way to the recliner and sat down.

The pulsing, popping, static-like sound that only vinyl can produce came from the speakers at once, calming Alan for a moment as he waited on the music to begin.

It started quietly, a lulling sound that slowly grew louder. Ambient noise, birds and wind and…was that a little girl laughing?

Then the music trickled into the ambient sounds, a sweet violin medley that was joined quickly by a guitar and mandolin. It wasn't a song Alan had ever heard, but it sounded strangely familiar and comforting. It most resembled a Celtic song, but not exactly. Moment by moment, more and more instruments sprang to life. Alan heard harmonicas and trumpets, harps and sitars, within minutes there were so many instruments playing that he couldn't identify them all.

He closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy the tune. Behind the music, in the ambient noise, he could still make out the sound of the child laughing quietly.

The music stopped suddenly, snapping Alan's eyes open. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and was surprised to see that twenty-five minutes had passed.

It seemed he'd only been listening to the record for a few seconds.

He walked to the record player and took the album off, flipping it around in his hands and studying it again before placing it back on the player with the opposite side up.

Instead of sitting down, he remained at the stereo, watching the album as it spun on the turntable. The music came again, this side of the record much like the other; various instruments trickling into the song second by second. It still sounded vaguely Celtic, but this song was more morose; mournful. The child was still in the background, laughing softly and--

--no...not laughing. The child was crying. It was a quiet, sobbing sound that blended into the sad violins and harps, triggering melancholy emotions in Alan himself. He fought back the urge to cry, trying to ignore the weeping child.

And then the song was over. Alan still stood over the record player, staring down at it, but the record had ended.

He had blacked out again.

A shiver danced up his spine and he closed the lid on the turntable, switching off the power. He backed away from the stereo quickly, suddenly frightened.

Soft, faint footsteps sounded out from upstairs, setting Alan's heart into a frenzy.

He swallowed audibly and took a step towards the stairs. The sound of sobbing drifted down them. It sounded exactly like the child on the record.

Alan shook the thought off. It didn't sound exactly like the crying on the album. His mind was playing tricks on him; he was hearing things. Why the hell would anyone, least of all a kid, be in his home? As freaked out and terrified as he was, he had to rationalize the past few minutes.

He was hearing things and blacking out. That they occurred while listening to the strange new record was most likely a stroke of sheer coincidence.

Now Alan was very scared. He'd watched enough television to know that blackouts and auditory hallucinations most likely meant brain tumors.

Which meant that there was either a child upstairs crying or he needed to see a doctor quickly. The latter, he knew, was far more likely.

“Hello?” He called up the staircase.

The sobbing continued, beckoning for him like a throbbing tooth beckoning for a tongue.

Heart pounding, barely able to breath, he started up the stairs. He prayed that he would find a child somewhere, a runaway seeking sanctuary from an abusive stepfather.

As he reached the top of the steps he called out again. “Hello? Are you alright?”

The weeping continued, the only response to his calls. It was coming from his bedroom.

“Please be somebody,” Alan whispered as he took the first step towards the room.

Halfway between the staircase and the bedroom, the crying stopped. It didn't taper off slowly, like one would expect. It just stopped, mid-sob.

Alan paused, listening for any sound to come. After a moment of silence, he took the last few steps to the bedroom.

It was empty. Alan wasn't surprised, and yet his heart sank.

Goodbye lost kid, hello brain cancer.

Oddly, and perhaps to keep his mind off the real possibility of death that such a thing brought with it, Alan started running through a list of who he should call, and in what order.

His doctor, his mother, his boss, his--

Music flooded the house, loud and jarring; the sound of dozens of different instruments playing out of key with one another. It wasn't a song, exactly, but just random offensive notes screeching from the speakers so loudly that the windows rattled.

Alan ran downstairs, covering his ears with his palms. He'd turned the record player off; he was sure of it. And this ungodly racket was nothing like the music the album had featured moments ago. This couldn't be a hallucination, could it?

He reached the stereo and fumbled to turn the power off. The noise had sent his head into a throbbing abyss of agony. He removed the LP from the turntable and replaced it in the sleeve, tossing it onto the table beside the stereo. Suddenly he heard footsteps, turning his head just in time to see a girl of maybe six or seven run through the doorway and into the kitchen.

Where the hell had she come from? There was no way she could have gotten by him without him noticing. Was she a delusion, too? A phantom sent by whatever was wrong with his brain?

Or was she real, a runaway seeking refuge in his home from something?

Alan ran to the kitchen doorway, with no luck. The girl was nowhere to be seen. The only ways out of the kitchen were through the door he now stood in, or through the door leading outside to the lawn. But the door to the yard was closed, the deadbolt still engaged.

His heart pounded, fear coursing through his veins. Alan had never had one before, but he was sure he was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. Not only was he hearing things, but now he was seeing them too.

Behind him, he heard music. It started quietly, gaining volume gradually. It was the same mournful song he'd heard the second time he played the album. The girl's sobbing was more far more pronounced, in the foreground now instead of blending in with the ambient noise. It sounded more intense as well, more hysterical than before.

He hurried back to the living room. The stereo was still turned off, no record on the turntable.

The music was emanating from the album itself.

Alan stared at the cover, barely able to even take a breath. It had changed. The scene was the same, only now there was no small white cabin. The house in the painting was now his own.

Slowly, fearing what he would see but needing to see it nonetheless, he walked to his window.

His small lawn and the suburb beyond were gone. Alan gazed through the glass at a vast field with lush rolling hills.

In the distance two black, featureless figures were advancing towards him.

Behind him the child's sobs grew louder, the haunting music receding into the background. From somewhere in the house faint footsteps sounded out as the little refugee searched for a hiding place.

As he watched the faceless shadows cross the field the crying faded away and the music overtook Alan and he drifted into it. It wrapped around him like a womb, embracing him with its beauty. His headache melted away, his fear followed closely behind.

Somewhere in Alan's mind he knew that he should be terrified. But there was no way anyone could be afraid with these heavenly sounds filling the air.

He couldn't move, which was fine. He didn't want to. The song was far beyond the point at which he'd blacked out last time. This part of the album he hadn't yet heard, and it was so perfect that he knew he would never hear anything again to match it.

He had to hear as much of the song as he could. Nothing else mattered.

They would be here soon, those dark entities. And even though he had no idea just what would happen when they made it to his home, he knew he only had a few more minutes to enjoy the music.

 _________________

Bryan Hall has fiction pending publication in "Night Chills Magazine" and online at the "Cynic Online Magazine".  Several of his stories have also been accepted for inclusion in various upcoming print anthologies such as "Dead Bells", "The Moron's Guide to the Inevitable Zombocalpyse", and "Elements of Horror".