a short story by Michael Aronovitz

“In our inaugural volume of MUSIC HELL — from author Michael Aronovitz and illustrator Nicholas Stewart McIvor — Trivium have a close encounter with “The Sculptor.”

Everyone was surprised when Matt’s cell chirped, including Matt. It was his idea to make their war-rooms no-phone-zones, and he thought he’d turned it off. They had shit to discuss, important shit, and he didn’t need the outside distractions. Opening for Volbeat tonight at the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia was no joke, and he wanted to change the set around, starting off with “The Sin and the Sentence” instead of relegating it to the three-hole. He needed quick confirmation so he could inform sound and lighting. He also wanted to return to the version of “Pull Harder on the Strings of Your Martyr” where he sang the whole thing traditionally instead of the scream-verses. Of course, it was his vocal, but they decided things as a group for a reason. And housekeeping wanted to get in here, they’d knocked twice already.

Matt stretched out his legs, reaching into his pocket to yank out the device. He stared at the screen. Then he cupped it in both hands and sat forward.

“Holy fuck.”

“What?” Corey said.

“I’ve got a ghost in my phone.”

“Say again?” Alex said. He was tapping his sticks on his knees. Took those sticks everywhere.

“A ghost,” Matt said.

“The ghost?” Paolo said, eyes narrowing. “That’s an old wives’ tale. An urban legend.”

“Look,” Matt said. He turned the screen around. Corey and Paolo leaned in. Alex stopped drumming on his knees. There on the cell phone before them was the graphic they’d heard about, the spotted skull with steel teeth, one reddened eye, and a Harley bandana.

“It’s the sign of The Sculptor,” Corey said, crossing himself. Normally the guys would have broken his balls for it big time, but no one was laughing. No one asked to touch the phone either.

“Isn’t he the one who stalks musicians?” Alex said. “Using their lyrics and videos to create statues of death? Like blood puzzles?”

“Yeah,” Matt said hollowly. “He forces the song-writers to figure out the riddles. Makes them accomplices. Then they go triple platinum.”

Paolo shook his hair out of his face.

“Then why’s the ghost in your phone, Matt? If he’s so up on things, wouldn’t he know that I wrote the lyrics this time around?”

Matt frowned.

“I’m the one that found the head-space to voice it, so I’m your interpreter. He wants me to be his. Same as he did to the others, really.”

“Like who specifically?” Paolo said, still skeptical. He reached for the room service menu on the table, flipped open the top cover, looked absently and then closed it. Corey swallowed hard, you could hear it.

“Like Ian Lord,” he said. Paolo sat back.

“Ian Lord?” he said. “The singer in Rat Pelt?”

“Same.”

Paolo laughed.

“How do you know? He doesn’t do interviews anymore.”

“Exactly,” Corey said. “And why would he? It’s common knowledge that the dude thinks of it as being “chosen.” The entire Impact of Paradox record is about it, you just have to read between the lines.”

“Guys,” Matt said. “It’s changing.”

They all pushed out of their chairs to gather behind him, and the image of the skull dissipated in what looked like an explosion of pixels. Matt’s home screen was beneath, with the message icon adorned at the corner with a small “1” in a circle. He touched it and looked at the text.

“Matt Heafy. If you do not follow my directions, a female in your life will die, someone you care about, someone young. Go to Cianfrani Park, 746 Fitzwater Street. Figure out the riddle of the sculpture there. You have thirty-seven minutes. Do not think your phone will yield evidence. I am ahead of law enforcement by thirty years in terms of technology. My messages don’t leave traces. And crime scene forensics are useless.”

Someone put a hand on Matt’s shoulder. He craned his neck and looked back.

It was Paolo.

“Better get going,” he said.

Click here to read the rest on V13.net →

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Samantha Willman is co-founder of Romanticon, a literary magazine reviving Romantic thought for the modern moment. She talks building community from scratch, why sincerity is the counterculture now, and what poets like Rilke can teach artists about creative survival.

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