CW: The following story contains instances of Violence, Blood, Gore, Death, and language which may be too much for some beings to endure. Listener discretion is advised.

{Intro Music}

This is Queer Ghoul. An anthology of short queer horror stories written and produced by me, Adriana Oister, pronouns she/her and they/them. 

With various tales of horror, suspense, mystery, and science fiction, I in the role of “The Narrator”, will introduce you to a diverse set of characters each of whom trapped in their own hellish landscapes, and teeth-clenching nightmares.

{Intro Music slows down…then picks back up}

Monologue: Now that you’re getting used to my charming voice (Sing Out “Charming Voice”)…I’d like to introduce you in this story to some musical talent, a little by me, but mostly by featuring the band “No Rest for the Americans.” However, we will not be focusing too much on the front woman, the lead guitarist, or the drummer. But rather on what can be argued as the most important member of any music group, the bass player. For without them, or in this case she and her, the band would fall completely into chaos. The bass player for No Rest for the Americans is Jane Strangelove, and she is deeply possessed by her favorite old rocker Max Ratched, and unfortunately she’s possessed in more ways than one. I now present to you…WHEN STRANGELOVE MET RATCHED.


When Strangelove Met Ratched

 The loud growling resonances of heavy rock bounded into the acoustic foam on the walls of the studio. Three of the members of the band “No Rest for the Americans” were practicing and writing new material of rebellious nature, having some fun in their process.

Jane Strangelove, whose cheap black bass had donned one transgender flag sticker placed between the pickups and the bridge, was in a quick pattern of locking her rhythm in with the drummer, and stopping to scribble into the pages of her notebook which rested on her orange amplifier as it hummed. She would hold her plastic pink guitar pick in the corner of her mouth as she wrote down notes and lyrics that popped into her head with a pen being held by fingers with red sore blisters on their tips.

She adjusted her white leather guitar strap, and started striking down on her bass strings, creating a thumping tempo that the drummer, who only went by the name of Hyde, followed with their own part. The lead guitar player, Carmen Dagger, joined in, thrashing down on a combination of power chords and notes. Each of the bandmates were synced into their band’s aggressive style.

Until a glass alcohol bottle whizzed just past Jane’s head and smashed into the foam on the wall.

“Turn that shit off!” A female voice boomed.

Jane let up on her bass and looked up to see Regan Bates had entered the studio. She wore only denim pants and a black crop top. Her face smeared in makeup that Jane could tell was from the night before. Behind her, hanging by the doorway which separated the recording studio and sound engineer’s booth from the lounge, stood Todd Bates in his poorly sized suit. He was Regan’s brother and the band’s manager, although who the band’s true manager was, was questionable.

Todd cleared his throat. “I’m just going to let you ladies and Hyde figure things out. I’ll be out here if you need me. Try not to draw too much blood this time.” He said as he left, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t know what the hell I just heard, but it sucked.” Regan said. Her speech slurred.

Jane rolled her eyes. “How would you even know? You just got here, with another hangover. When you knew we needed to work on new material today.”

“You’re one to talk. Last time I saw you, you and Hyde were going off into a hotel room with a few girls who just happened to have left early this morning with less clothes than they came in with. You’re supposed to be watching her, and here they are high as hell.” Regan stormed over to the tattooed drummer, and ripped off their aviator sunglasses.

Hyde hissed and covered her red bloodshot eyes with her hands. “Turn the lights off!”

Jane stopped herself from saying that Hyde didn’t need supervision, because she knew that wasn’t really the truth. “At least she’s here and coherent. You constantly show up late, and when you do show up, you’re drunk.”

Hyde rested their hands on the top of their white snapback hat which covered their short blue hair, and showed off the thick bushes of hair that grew in their armpits. Their eyes were dilated. “You know what your problem is Regan? It’s that you’re jealous.”

“Oh God. Hyde, please don’t start this.”

Regan tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, and pointed at herself. “I’m jealous. Really? What do you think I’m jealous of?”

“You’re just jealous because Jane will always be more talented than you. The best you can do is keep a simple rhythm on your guitar and sing in tune. Which I’ll still give you credit for, because most people can’t even do that. But Jane can. Jane can sing in tune and play notes on her bass at the same time, and write our music and lyrics. You’re not talented enough for that, and you know it.”

Carmen, who was a little older and more famed and seasoned than the rest of her bandmates, was known to be of the silent type. She tapped her silver sneaker against one of her guitar pedals on her pedalboard, and cringed at seeing Regan’s face go bright red. She placed her black shining guitar in its stand, and leaned against her amp cabinet. She pulled her denim jacket closer to herself and her ABORT THE SUPREME COURT shirt, and watched the show unfold.

Hyde twirled their drumstick in her fingers. Their foot impulsively tapped on the bass drum’s pedal. “Just because people become dazzled by the front man, doesn’t mean that the front man is the best and most talented out of the band.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to ram those drumsticks down your throat and fucking kill you.”

“Then come over here and do it, bitch!”

Jane intervened. “Hyde, no, don’t tell her that. Can we just forget it for now, and go back to what we’re supposed to be doing?”

            Regan’s eyes flashed over in Jane’s direction. “I bet you think the same, don’t you Strangelove? You think you’re better than me.”

            “Do I think that I have a better work ethic than you? Yes I do, one hundred percent. But do I think that one of us is better than the other? No.”

“Bullshit. You think you’re better than me, and you’re nothing but a Max Ratched fangirl.”

Jane tensed. “Watch it.”

            Regan stood almost an inch in front of her, and Jane could smell the booze on her breath. “Oh! I’m sorry, did I hit a nerve? Are you upset because I brought up your hero?”

            “Leave her out of this.”

            “She’s dead. Move on.”

            “Ratched helped shatter the glass ceiling so all of us in this room could be where we are today, including you. She’s right up there with Gaye Advert, Joan Jett and Suzi Quatro. So show some damn respect.”

            Regan paused. “I think I figured out what the problem with the sound is.” She said. “And it turns out that it leads right back to you.” She pointed at Jane’s chipped apart bass. “It’s that piece of shit you still carry around. You either need to turn down your amp until we can’t hear you at all, or you need to throw it in the trash.”

Jane pulled the bass’s body tighter to hers. “I’m not going to get rid of it. It sounds just fine.”

“Well, if nobody else is going to get rid of it, I guess once again I have to take charge.” Regan grabbed onto the bass, and ripped it off of its strap and Jane’s grasp. She raised the guitar up in the air, and slammed it down into the floor. The instrument cable disconnected from the bass, and the amp hummed and sputtered static.

“Regan! Stop!”

Hyde jumped over their drum kit, and grabbed onto Regan from behind, pulling her off balance. Carmen continued to observe. But nothing could stop the woman as she banged the instrument into the floor over and over again, pieces flying up through the air until nothing was left in her hands but part of the rosewood neck and headstock. 

Tears of fury filled in Jane’s eyes. But she refused to let them show. She refused to give Regan the satisfaction of a response.

 “The album can wait. Practice is canceled until you get a better bass! No god damn flea market shit! Get a McCartney pussy bass for all I care!  Just something that’s not shit! Use Todd’s credit card.” Regan threw the neck and headstock backwards.

Carmen moved away just in time before the remnants could hit her, and during this they had just missed her guitar. Her nonchalant face flipped into rage. She rushed up to Regan. “You just about hit my fucking guitar, you bitch!” She raised her hand up and as soon as Regan turned towards her, she slapped her with a hard smack.

Regan rubbed at her face. “Oh you motherfucker!” She pushed Carmen, but was unable to move her as Carmen pulled her hair. Regan screamed.

Hyde grabbed onto Jane’s arm and pulled her towards the door. “That’s our cue to get the fuck out of here!” She said, as they both exited out of the studio, snagging Todd’s credit card from him in the process. They were able to escape with very little blood on their clothes.

Jane dragged her white sneakers along the concrete New York City sidewalks while she rubbed her hands over her bare arms, which only had a few tattoos on each. She was wearing a black muscle tank with ripped jeans and a studded belt. Her wrists were adorned with leather cuffs. A white fedora was placed over her short black hair. “I can’t believe she destroyed my bass. I’ve had it since I was twelve.”

Hyde kept an even stride with her, the smoke from her cigarette wafted between the two of them. She was in a white tank top with a black bra underneath and shorts for bottoms which showed off the hair and artwork on their legs. “I know. But maybe it was for the best. You’ve outgrown that bass, it was time for an upgrade. You get used to getting over broken instruments. I can’t tell you how many drumsticks and drum heads I’ve absolutely destroyed.”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“For what it's worth. I do believe that one of these days, you’ll have Ratched applauding you right from her grave.”

Jane smiled. “That is the dream.”

They both stopped and looked at the sign hanging over the hole in the wall store, it read “Down To The Amplifier. New York’s Favorite Music Store!”

Jane shrugged. “That’s debatable.”

“I’ve been here before, and they had some really cool drum stuff. These are the best places to find cool stuff. Rather support the little people than go to Guitar Center any day.”

Jane opened the door, holding it out for Hyde. They were met with the distorted and painful sounds of electric guitars from people sitting on stools and toying with the knobs on the available amplifiers. The players, mostly men, looked to be either shredding down the fingerboard, or were playing around with chords. Off in another room, the beating of drums drifted towards them.

Jane glared at the racks of guitars which hung on the walls, only seeing a few four stringed instruments in the corner. “Why is it that most stores have endless racks of six strings, but then only one rack or so of basses?”

“I’m sure there’s something here that you’ll like. I’ll go look around in the other rooms, maybe find some more drum stuff for me and bass stuff for you.” Hyde strolled past the other customers and disappeared around the corner.

Jane asked herself if she should be watching Hyde, but decided that they wouldn’t be able to get into too much trouble in such a small store.

She maneuvered herself past the other patrons sitting on the stools and headed to one of the walls to glance at the few bass guitars which were hung on the racks in the far corner past the regular electric guitars. Each of them were from a different company, and had various shapes and colors and finishes and pickups, but none of them screamed to her in the way she wished they did. She did spot a violin bass, a type famously used by Sir Paul McCartney, and thought back to Regan’s comment about it. Paul McCartney was not a pussy.

That’s when she heard what she had been looking for. It was a low frequency thumping which cut through the distorted chaos of the electric guitar orchestra that was taking place in the room, and the vibration of it gave her goosebumps. It was a beat which was alluring to her trained ear, and a pattern of notes that were familiar to her. She studied each of the men again, but none of them were playing a bass guitar, in fact, none of them even seemed to have heard or felt the sound that was mesmerizing Jane.

She honed in on where the sound was coming from, and followed it. She stopped when it led her to the front counter. No employees seemed to be around, the wooden counter which was carved with graffiti only had on it an iPad connected to a cash register, and a laid out guitar, its companion hard-shell case leaned against the side. Past the counter, where the bass playing was still in a groove and at this point seemed to be crying for her, was a black curtain with a staff only sign taped to it. Jane couldn’t help herself, so she stepped on through to the other side. 

The room was dimly lit, with only a few flickering light bulbs which hung like uvulas from the ceiling. Specks of white dust dotted the air and floated in Jane’s vision. No one was back there, and there were no bass guitars either. There were only an excess amount of six string guitars and amps which were broken and being repaired on the various grime covered tables. However, the bass playing continued. It was stronger and shook the floor. Jane was addicted to it.

“Hey, what are you doing back here?”

The bass stopped.

Jane turned towards the voice and saw a man, who looked like he could have been a retired member of The Beach Boys. His white hair was receded and he had a matching thin mustache on his upper lip that resembled a worm. His body was thin and covered by his buttoned up orange Hawaiian shirt.

“I’m sorry, I did read the sign. But I heard someone playing a bass, and I just wanted to see for myself.” Jane said.

“If nobody is playing a bass out there, then nobody is playing a bass back here.”

“But I heard it, it sounded amazing, it was coming from back here.”

“Well you were wrong. Do you see any bass playing ghosts?”

Jane pursed her lips, watching the man’s eyes shift around. She followed his eye out of the corner of hers, and saw a display case on the far side of the room. In it, it held a four stringed instrument, right next to a framed photograph of someone who looked familiar.

Jane gravitated towards it. “No way.” She said.

The man followed after her. “Now wait a minute, don’t get too close!”

She eyed every detail of the bass guitar. It had a maple fingerboard and a dazzling metallic bright apple red finish. The black pickguard on it was vigorously scratched, with mild dings around parts of the body. The silver tone knobs and tuners on the headstock were lively against the dim light. She looked back at the photograph again. Sure enough it was her role model, bass player and singer of the band “Ratched”, Max Ratched herself. In the photo, she was an older woman with a body covered in tattoos and wild long black hair with a few slivers of white. Most likely taken during her last show a few years back. She wore a leather vest that cut just above her breasts, along with tight leather pants and combat boots. Her fierce eyes were surrounded in black panda makeup. Her wrists and neck were shackled with long silver spikes. She was screaming into the microphone while strumming on her bass guitar. The same one in the display case.

“I knew it. That song I was hearing, it was Ratched’s bass part from her song Days End and Die from her band’s first self-titled album.” Jane was practically drooling. “This is insane. How do you have Max Ratched’s bass? She was supposed to have been buried with it. This was the only bass she ever used during her entire career, she used it on stage and recorded all her songs with it. This thing should be in a museum somewhere, in the Rock Hall of Fame! In a Hard Rock Café at the least.”

“You’re telling me like I don’t know this instrument’s history.” He said in his gruff voice. “I acquired it some years ago from a member of the family. Ratched was found dead with it. Nobody knows how she died, as you probably know. Although personally, I feel it was just old age and bad lifelong habits. The family said they couldn’t find anyone willing to take it after her passing, said it gave off bad vibes, so I took it, and it’s been back here since.”

“I can’t believe this! You have Max Ratched’s bass in the backroom of your  store in Queens, and you’re not telling people, telling them it’s here to see? If you’re not going to let people see it, at least donate it, sell it, to places where people can. That’s fucked up dude.”

“You don’t understand. This bass can’t be seen by anyone, or sold to anyone. Believe me, I’ve tried. No one other than Ratched can play this bass, or even touch it. Bad things happen when they try. Bad things happen when people even think about this bass.”

Jane was stunned. “You can’t be serious. It’s all I can think about right now, and nothing bad has happened.”

The man made a sound that projected like a growl in his throat. “People have tried to play this bass. Nobody can, they don’t get the chance. They lay one finger on it and bad things happen. Before I acquired it, so many lives were taken because they tried to play it. The day I put it in the glass, all the guitar racks out there collapsed. Signs fell to the ground. Amps blew out. I had a customer sit down to play it, and they collapsed from a fatal heart attack. Another customer strummed on it, and as soon as they walked out, they got shot in the back. I don’t know what’s wrong with this bass, but for as long as I live, this is where it’ll stay. The cycle breaks with me.”

“I’m sure those were just coincidences. You have to let me at least touch it, let me play it.” 

He shook his head at her.

 “You don’t understand, my whole life I’ve been striving to have a career just like Ratched’s. My band has been touring, we got a record deal, we’re working on an album. I need the perfect bass to use. It would mean the world to me if I could use hers.”

“I’m sorry, Strangelove. But the bass stays here.”

Jane peeled her eyes away from the instrument. “How did you know who I was?”

“Word gets around. Jane Strangelove is a name that’s hard to forget.”

She tapped her foot against the floor, her eyes glued to the bass’s glittery finish which ominously glowed under the small amount of light. “You know, you’re right. Word does get around about things. It would definitely be a shame for you if somehow word spread that you had Max Ratched’s bass in your possession. I can see it now, hounded day and night by fans and rock collectors everywhere. You won’t get a moment's rest for the rest of your life.”

“Are you trying to threaten me, Strangelove?”

This felt wrong of her to do. But also so right. “No, not at all. I’m just saying that something like that happening to you would be a shame. And I just happen to have our manager’s credit card. There’s usually a price for everything, and I’m sure there’s a price for your peace.”

The man’s eyes grew wide, his hand clutched the table the display case was on. He seemed to be in a daze that lasted for several minutes, and Jane considered the idea that he may have been ill. But he shook his head. ““Fine. Fine. You have a death wish, clearly. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if my store gets destroyed again, it’s going on your tab.” His fingers curled around the little knob on the front of the glass, and he pulled it away. “I’m not touching it, not again.”

Jane gave him Todd’s golden credit card, which the man took straight away without a second thought. She smiled as she outstretched her hands, and grabbed a hold of the bass’s glossy neck.

The man shielded himself and winced.

She pulled the bass out of the case, and moved it around in her grasp. The neck was smooth and allowed her hand to glide. The back of the headstock read a serial number and a small made in America message. “This really is the bass.” She said. “It’s beautiful.”

The man glared at her.

She was unable to contain her excitement as she strummed on the thickest string. “See? Nothing bad happened. I’m still here, and holding Ratched’s bass.”

“Nothing bad has happened yet, Strangelove. But all things come with time.”

“Right. Well, my friend and our drummer is around your store somewhere. I’m going to go find her, and we’re going to pay for this. It’d be great if you could also throw in a nice case, even better if it’s the original that belonged to Ratched. We’ll be on our way then.”

“I won’t be at your memorial.” He said as he went back through the black curtain, and left her standing there with the bass in her hands.

He did what she asked, and watched the two leave his store through the little side window next to the register. 

Behind him in that backroom, there was a splitting shattering sound.

He hustled towards it. There on the table, where the display case and framed photograph were positioned, were shards of splintered glass. The picture frame fell forward, its front broken.

He placed a hand against his pounding heart, and smirked. “Long Live Ratched.”

Over the course of a three year period, Jane and her band had made it to the level of fame and recognition of which they desired. But for Jane, it truly came at a cost.

Jane, now twenty-seven years old, held a lit cigarette in her mouth as she streaked black paint across her cheekbones and under the bottoms of her sunken eyes. She studied her make-up in the large mirror in front of her while she got ready for her stage performance in her private stadium dressing room. Over the years, along with the fame, her skin rapidly wrinkled and grew covered in tattoos. They dressed her hands, her arms, her legs, her chest, her back, all the way up to her neck. She swept those hands across her jet black hair, which had grown past her shoulders. In the front of her hair were sharp streaks of white.

She tapped her heeled black boots. “I know you said you like the song as it is, and I agree, but I also feel like it could be even better if it was down tuned instead.” Jane said as she rushed her hands over her tight leather pants, where her bulge was prominent. “No? You don’t think so? Yeah, it’s good as is.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth, and blew out a puff of smoke. She looked behind her to see both a couch and a chair, still finding them to be empty. “I know it’s not here, I don’t know where it is. But I can hear it, it’s close. I can hear it as loudly as I can hear you. They know that I need it with me at all times. I’ll handle it right now, before we both upset ourselves.” She stamped the tip of her cigarette against the pink of her tongue. It burned in a way that she thought pleasurable. She dropped the entire cigarette into her mouth, chewed with her yellow teeth, and swallowed before exiting her dressing room.

She ripped the door open, and glared at the production crew bustling around equipment in the dark backstage area. She stomped towards the first one that caught her eyes for longer than a second, and pushed her finger into his chest. “Where the fuck is my bass? It’s meant to be with me at all times.”

“Yes, we know about your wishes.” The man said, adjusting his glasses and looking down at the papers on his clipboard. “However, at the request of Mr. Todd Bates, we were told to keep your bass in storage, and for you to use some replacements for tonight.”

She backed away “What?” Her hands went up and covered her ears. “I can hear it. I know it’s here.” She said as she walked down the hallways. The crew gave her curious glances as she ran past them, talking to herself. The spikes hanging down from her neck clinked together.

She stopped and placed her ear against one of the doors. “I hear it, it’s screaming at me.” She pulled the door open, and was met with numerous amounts of audio equipment. But on the bottom shelf, there was the hard shell case which belonged to her bass.

“Thank God. I heard you. I heard you crying for me. I told you I would find it. I told you.” She pulled the case off of the shelf, and lifted the instrument out of the black cushion. 

“You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

She turned to see Regan leaning against the doorway. She was plastered in face makeup, along with a pink leather bra and a skirt and pantyhose. Her blonde hair was cut into a pixie. “This is unhealthy.”

“Your brother wasn’t the one who tried to take it away from me, take it away from us. It was you. I know that. You know that this bass is everything to me. You’re trying to destroy me.”

“You’re exaggerating, Jane. Changing the bass you use for one night isn’t destroying you, or else you weren’t very good in the first place. This is an intervention. I know we’ve had our differences, but you’ve changed, and I know that bass has something to do with it. It’s always had a bad vibe.”

“I’ve changed? We’ve changed. We’re better, we’re bigger. We’re at a high.”

“You’re the one that’s high. Look at you, you’re a mess. You talk to yourself all the time, you never let that bass leave your sight, you protect it, you cradle it, I wouldn’t be surprised if you have sex with it. You need to get rid of it and get help.”

Jane looked down at the bass, pulling it closer to her leather vest and chest. “Of course I would never agree to that. I would never get rid of you. I would never destroy your legacy.” She said.

“Who the hell are you talking to? See? This is what I’m talking about. I’m the only one other than you in this room right now.”

“That’s not true. Ratched is here. She’s always here with me, with this bass. This bass had belonged to Ratched for her entire career, and now it’s going to be with me for mine. We’re together for life. You think you can take it away from me like that piece of shit you busted up years ago. That was the best thing you ever did for me. We thank you for that.”

“Tonight is the last night you’re playing it.”

Jane’s face changed into one devoid of any expression. She shifted her eyes as she walked closer, raising two of her fingers and grazed them across Regan’s cheek. One of the spikes on her wrist scraped her chin. “No.” She said after a pause. “No. It’s you actually, this is going to be your last night performing.”

Regan slapped Jane’s fingers off her face. “What are you talking about?”

“Ratched doesn’t like you. She never has. She wants you to die. That also means I want you to die. So, you’ll die tonight.”

Regan laid her hand against the door. “Either get rid of it and get help, or you’re fired.”

“That’s bullshit! You can’t fire me! You can’t make such demands! We made this band what it is! We’re the best!”

Regan shrugged. “I just did.” She said as she closed the door, leaving Jane standing there with the bass, as another figure loomed behind her.

The crowd screamed at them on stage, the music from their instruments and amplifiers blared throughout the stadium, and the colorful stage lights pointing down at the band emitted a scorching heat. Normally, Jane would be bouncing around the stage, strumming on her bass. But tonight was different, she stood still in front of her microphone. The crowd didn’t notice or care, but her face was in a deep scowl, with violent eyes shooting directly at Regan, who didn’t seem to notice as she sang and played on her horned white guitar.

Regan stopped singing, as the song made it into its guitar solo. Carmen was on the other side of the stage grabbing the audience’s attention with her tricks as her fingers danced on the guitar’s fingerboard. Jane didn’t miss a note on her bass as she continued to lock into Hyde’s drumbeat. Sweat rolled down her forehead. Her face twitched, and she brought her mouth up to the microphone. The voice that projected out was seething and unnatural. “There are people who come into your life that will treat you like shit. They will try to take away all that you care about, all that you worked for. Rip you apart from the inside out. But don’t fucking let them. Don’t let them ever.”

The crowd roared. They adored her. The bandmates looked at each other with concern, but none of them stopped playing. 

Regan’s fingertips on her strumming hand began to bleed, rolling droplets down the white coated finish of the guitar. When she looked down and saw what was happening, she found her hands unable to stop playing. Stuck in the musical pattern. 

She tried to take a breath, but she tasted a thick tang of cooper which bubbled and filled her throat. She choked on it. The vileness came up and dripped out of her mouth. She dashed to the front of the stage and leaned over, hurling blood down on crew members and screaming fans, who gladly swallowed the blood which found it’s way into their own mouths. Her eyes glassed over, she dropped over, and fell into the pit below, where her body convulsed.

Stage lights from above and below blew out and shattered.

The audience only thought it was an act and continued to cheer.

Until Regan’s body exploded.

The band stopped playing except for the strumming of Jane’s bass. Blood, milky brain matter, guts, and bone rained down on all of them in the pit along with the fans in the front rows. The audience screamed for a different reason as medical and police teams arrived on the scene and a voice on the intercom told everyone to evacuate in a swift and safe manner.

Jane only stopped playing when her head began to pound. The remaining lights now felt too bright and too hot for her as she unplugged the bass, shuddered and ran off the stage, pushing people away as she made it back into her dressing room, and locked the door behind her.

She pulled the bass off of her and placed it on the chair. She stared into her mirrored reflection, her face sweaty and red, beads of it rolling down her cheeks and smearing her makeup. She took a towel off the counter and rubbed her face against it, smearing the makeup even more. She threw the towel at the mirror and backed up, her hands covering her eyes as she shrieked in agony.

“Why did we do that? How did you make me do that?”

Firm tattooed hands wrapped around her arms, and pulled them back down to her sides. An old smoker’s voice spoke. “She was going to take everything that we worked for, you know that.”

“She didn’t deserve to die. That was disgusting what you did to her. Everyone that came to see us is going to be scarred for life, and not in the way that I wanted.”

“It was we who killed her, not just me.” 

“It was you.” Jane twisted around and met the figure’s gray eyes which were rolled up in her head and surrounded in black messy eyeliner. The wrinkles in her cheeks looked like lightning bolts etched deep into her decaying skin on her thin skull-like face. The figure and Jane were nearly dressed identical. “I will always respect you for what you’ve done when you were alive, Ratched, but I can’t go any further with this.”

Ratched stood there looking at the woman, her dry cracked lips in a Billy Idol snarl. “I gave you everything you wanted since you claimed my bass as yours. You agreed that we were in this together.”

“I was doing fine before you showed up. I could have got us, my band, here without you. I want out of this agreement! I want you gone, Ratched. Just die already.”

“If you want to back out now, fine, but you just remember something, kiddo.”

“What?” Jane asked.

In one swift motion, Ratched raised her spiked wrist and impaled Jane’s neck with the sharp ends. Jane gurgled, blood squirted out of her mouth and the wounds. Her hands shook as she wrapped them around Ratched’s.

“You wanted to be just like me, Strangelove. Well now you got to go all out.”

Jane’s body slumped down onto the couch.

She would be found an hour later in the same position coated in her own blood and declared deceased. Possibly marked down as a suicide by the coroner.

The red bass was nowhere to be found.

In Queens, New York, at the “Down To The Amplifier” music store, the man in the Hawaiian shirt eyed the young twenty-something musician who was standing in front of the glass display case which sat right next to a framed photographed image. Behind the glass, was a dazzling red Bass with a maple fretboard, scratches raked across the black pickguard.

“I can’t believe it!” The musician said. “How do you have the bass that belonged to Jane Strangelove? Strangelove was my hero! I thought she died with it after the incident?”

The older man coughed. “You see, I acquired this bass after her death because nobody else wanted anything to do with it. So I keep it in this room, locked away. Because bad things happen when people think about this bass, and I wish for nothing more than to break the cycle.”

“Can’t you let me just play on it for a little while? I swear, I heard it playing earlier. It sounded like Strangelove’s part in the song Daily Eulogies Accompany Damages. It was like it was calling for me, crying for me. Screaming.  I need a new bass, and I would love to use Strangelove’s.” The musician begged.

“I’d rather not. But I’ve never seen such enthusiasm out of a person for a single instrument. I’m going against my better judgment, but I’m sure we can work something out. For a price that is.”


{Outro Music}


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