“How many are missing?” Rutger the Sheriff asked, calm settled the others.

“We don’t know,” the dispatcher replied, “four maybe five.”

Iggy’s head whipped to the scanner. She would never buy that, he thought, though all was chaos and music. The number repeated in his mind. “Oh GOD,” he staggered back, “IMPOSSIBLE.” He grabbed the door, unable to look at his mother. Never had she come to see him. Miss Ruffo never called or wrote, though he had written every week. So many words he had promised, but none came now. Nothing of him remained, and one would think she had been childless. Out the door he stepped. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but he felt too little to lie.

Beyond the yard’s edge, Page and his friends stood. Upon their brows were the symbols like trees of pain. They burned in the night. Iggy’s hand slapped over his right eye. Image of them, the crossroads, played over the darkness behind the palm. He drew in a sharp breath.

“What is happening?” Page wept, touched his forehead.

“We have to go,” the Guitarist rushed past.

“To where,” he ran after him.

“The crossroads,” Iggy moaned.

“We don’t’ go there!” Page stopped.

He paused, turned back, “I have to go, man.”

“We can’t go with you there!” he looked to the shadowy figures.

The intersection at Nottingham Knob was avoided, even to this day. Don’t go whistling past the crossroads, people of Lear say, unless you want to call up the Devil. People still came here for foolish wishes, desperate or fools. At such places, where the world was thin and spirits thick, one could find many things beyond the Veil. A few blame the La Voison Women, who were said to pray to an Uroboros. Iggy had carried more about Jimmy Johnson.

Although left forgotten, the forest never reclaimed the crossroads. Iggy saw them, and another bolt of pain shot through his eye. Past upon the present, he saw his friends over the five boys. No sigil was carved into their heads or throats cut. They shifted as if in the grip of nightmares. Iggy glanced about the earth, tripped, but scrabbled at the rope. The boy’s eyes sprung open with restraints gone. As the teenager bolted, he turned, to see the Guitarist untying another. Both worked on the others, until all of them were free. They ran.

Deeper the migraine dug. Only music remained, which played over the image of Page, Mickey, Josh, and Brandon. The Tree of Pain was carved into their brows, above sliced throats. Last midnight he had come to make a deal. Memory of seeing them turned to white; the blow came, where he now sat. Ghost of the pain passed, headache gone.

I don’t know, cursed Iggy, I still know nothing! The sound of the boys was devoured by the night. Music that played inside swallowed the world; but it battled another that lingered on the air. The low, wet rot of the Blackberry Bog came. Persistent inside was the tobacco of a hand rolled cigarette. Each puff was punctuated by the strike of spurs. The Guitarist frowned, for these were no phantoms of memory.

Along the road another set of boots tread. Hairs rose on Iggy’s neck. Warmth brushed the neck. His heart played a dervish, rhythm smooth in spite of speed. Through the tears and terror, the chords upon the wind called to him that never stopped playing. He stood, followed the strum of guitar, which beckoned, promised.

The chords ensnared and entranced; his mind seized upon them and their melody. His gait shifted to the rhythm. Listen to an artist long enough and one would see their signature, unique to the soul. Iggy followed hands trembled, needed to hold Paganini, but whoever played could have seen the kidnapper. Another part, a deeper one, had to know the player. Artists were the only one who could ever understand another of their kind, the rapturous obsession and joy.

Each step made the other’s song grow. When he stepped past the edge of the wall of willows, the house towered over the immaculate yard. The paint was a pure-white, trimmed in gold, and shocked the eye. No decay touched its perfection. Through the beauty, windows glared down upon this hidden kingdom. An old preacher lived in these woods, Iggy recalled.

A classic car sat out front, and the Guitarist recalled it belonged to the man from the mall. He was unable to recall his face or name. Music rose, accompanied the pound of his heart. Between him and the source of the dire notes was a black truck with blacker windows. Hairs rose along his spine. I had followed them that day.

The door to the house opened. Iggy came as in a dream or nightmare with every note resonating in the world. Ecstasy of playing was within and without. Nothing was outside the song. Page had asked him to make music of their games, captured the life of emotion. Whoever played, hellish chords relentless, raised the spirit beyond flesh.

Like a Faberge egg, all its beauty was skin deep. Black paint was slathered over the furniture, walls, ceiling, and floor. Statuettes were destroyed. Crosses were snapped, cast about. A bible, shredded, was thrown upon the ground. Where these had set, sheets of music were everywhere of different music. All these had the Tree of Pain scribed upon them, stains dark as blood. Among these were songs, none finished, all by the same hand. Still the song came, darkly sweet refrain.

Beside a book with newspaper clipping, a man sat with a guitar in his lap. His foot tapped; jingle of steel spurs mixed with the song. Dark clothes were well-worn from travel, and boots were like Iggy’s pair. A hand rolled cigarette drifted smoke up. The song ended, and for the first time in memory, he heard nothing but his heart. Below a slouch hat, the musician regarded him. Flames swirled deep in his eyes. The smell of sulfur bled into the air, when he smiled. Iggy’s eyes went to the instrument he played. Strange symbols covered it, which were inlaid by the player. The man was familiar, but the Guitarist knew his instruments.