Chapter 17: The Devil's Vinyl Part 1

AN: A big thanks again to Vumanchu for helping write character reactions.

We are outside a modest studio - in 1938 the building is alone on the block - in Memphis' colored section. A fancy 1938 era car parked out front. A modest black couple strolls past.
Bluesman Willie Cole (60s) tunes his guitar. Judging by his rings and fancy suit, he's done well. It's hot; thermometer is pushing 90. But oddly, Willie is shivering, chilled, and he looks under the weather. Marcus Mooney (20s, white) sets up a Presto audio recorder, getting ready to record a vinyl acetate at 78 rpms. The words "WILLIE COLE - 6-18-38" handwritten on the blank label. Marcus nods to Willie

"All set, Willie. Gonna be a good one tonight." Marcus told Willie.

"Best record yet." Replied the musician.

"You look pale. You feeling okay?"

"Might have a touch of fever."

"Well I know ya'll like to sing alone, so I'll leave you to it."

"This is where someone dies." States Snart.

Marcus turns on the Presto, leaves. Willie sips from a glass of sweet tea. Strums his guitar, singing an eerie lament, "Sun come sinkin' low, shadows gonna rise. Reaper man come for everyone. Crows are gonna fly, bitch dogs gonna howl. Reaper man come for everyone" Suddenly, the lights flare as the playback equipment blares out deafening sounds. Then everything dies. Except for the Presto Recorder. Willie shivers, his breath visible. "Hello?" he calls out. The wall thermometer plunges well below 20 as Willie's tea freezes and shatters. Then the control room partition ices over. "No! It's not my time! You promised me! You promised!" Abruptly, the darkness closes around Willie, crushing him. And as Willie's screams reach a fever pitch, we see the iced-over glass partition as blood spatters across it.

A couple audience members flinched as the blood splattered and the screams died out.

"That's... a horrible way to got." Kendra mumbled as she leaned into Carter.

Sara winced, muttering, "always have a backup plan if the deal falls through."

We move outside. Time speeds up as the studio ages. Lights fade out, Willie's elegant ride vanishes, and boards cover the windows. Buildings appear to the left and right, the Memphis skyline grows as the studio mural fades and vegetation grows on the building. A 70's car pulls up out front and two 70's era hookers run to the car. They fade away and headlights flare the lens. This is Jasmine's present day car.

It is now 2014. The studio is now derelict, graffitied. Jasmine leaves her car and approaches, attractive, drawn. She's been crying. She looks at her phone; a photo of a girl (Julilah). Steeling herself, Jasmine forces the front door with a crowbar. Jasmine enters, uneasy. She turns on a flashlight, revealing decades of trash. It's cold here. Jasmine shivers, putting on gloves as her breath becomes visible. As she ventures further in we hear a disconcerting thump-thump up ahead.

"Zombies?" suggested Ray. He got a look thrown his way.

Jasmine's flashlight washes over fly-ridden dead animals, all desecrated. A rotting dog has a cross jammed in its carcass. Squirrels are nailed to the wall to make eerie designs. A "Devil's Trap" has been spray-painted on another wall; a circle with Latin inscriptions and a scorpion trapped in the middle. Jasmine heads deeper, eventually coming upon a white-tail deer. Bloated, tongue hanging out. As Jasmine tries to step over it, the deer suddenly kicks violently, not quite dead. It is the source of the thumping. Jasmine gags, heading into the back room.

"So, no zombies." Ray says with slight disappointment.

"No, a zombie deer." Jax joked as he tapped Ray lightly on the shoulder.

Len raised an eyebrow, thinking aloud, "Isn't there some old Native American Ghost story about zombie deer's? What's it called? Wendilo? Wendalo?"

"Wendigo." Rip corrected.

Overhead pipes have frozen and burst, dripping with icicles. Jasmine locates a false wall and attacks it with her crowbar, revealing a hidden cache. Crosses jammed inside, surrounding an object wrapped in canvas, coated in ice. Jasmine finds a King James Bible within. Anxious, she opens it, discovering the original acetate Willie Cole made the night he died. She takes it and leaves.

It's after hours as Jasmine is buzzed inside the recording facility. She finds Bernie Reed, an old-school British music producer.

John smiled slightly at the sight of his old friend before remembering what happened to the producer.

"Thanks for seeing me, Bernie." Jasmine tells her partner.

"No worries, darlin'. Can I fix you something? Spot of tea? Shot of tequila, perhaps?" He can tell something has her on edge.

"I'm good. We alone?" She politely declines his offer as she pulls out the acetate. We note she's still wearing gloves. As Bernie reaches for it she stops him, "Wait. You should put on gloves. The acetate is old. The oils from your fingerprints could damage it." She offers him a pair of cotton gloves.

Bernie shrugs, slipping on gloves. He notes the Moonrise Records label on the acetate, then shivers involuntarily, "It's freezing. You keeping it inside an icebox?"

"Just run the spectrum analysis. I need to know if it's genuine. And whatever you do, don't actually –"

"- listen to the damn thing. You made that clear."

"Not clear enough it seems." John commented.

"Promise me, Bernie…" Jasmine's phone rings, photo of Julilah on screen.

"Hear no evil, I swear. There's coffee behind the glass. I'll get you when I'm done." Jasmine leaves for the call as Bernie starts the record, studying the strange waveforms on the analyzer. Mesmerized.

Jasmine is on the other side of a soundproof window that overlooks Bernie in the studio. Wrapping up her call, her back to the studio. "I'll be home soon as I can, honey. Your Mama loves you, okay?" Jasmine hangs up and slips off her coat. She reaches in her purse and removes a parchment document, written in archaic symbols, most of them faded. While Jasmine watches, a letter fades. Only a few left...

Stein sighed muttering, "The sins of the father shouldn't be passed down to the son like that."

"Sometimes we don't get a choice, Professor." John lamented, lazing into the seat.

While Jasmine's turned away behind the soundproof glass, Bernie watches the waveforms, hearing Willie Cole's tinny voice coming from some headphones he forgot to unplug. Unable to resist, Bernie puts on the headphones. We hear – "Reaper man come for everyone. Reaper man come for everyone" Then, an inhuman voice intrudes on the track. Bernie squirms in pain. He tries to pull the headphones off, but they chill with frost, cold burning his head. He shrieks, his breath icily visible. He finally tears the headphones off, but pulls the plug from the jack, so the acetate now plays in the studio. His agony doesn't stop.

Even though this had already happened, John couldn't help but mutter, "Take it off, Bernie. Take the headphones off."

While Bernie writhes, Jasmine is lost in her thoughts. The soundproof glass blocks Bernie's screams.
Bernie can still hear the voice. Frenzied, he grabs a short, pointed screwdriver on his desk and rams it in his ear, deep into his brain. He lunges forward and slams on the glass as he dies, blood spattering the glass.

"Why was there a screwdriver in a recording studio?" Jax wondered.

The pounding jolts Jasmine, who turns and reacts in horror as Bernie slides down the glass. She races back into the studio and finds Bernie slumped dead, his face covered in frost. Acetate still spinning, "CHK CHK CHK" as the needle scrapes the run-off groove. Panicked, she grabs the record and runs.

"Chilling." Snart sarcastically drawled, trying to keep his mind off of what occured.

End Chapter

Quote:

Me: "What time is it?" *Looks at calculator to check time*

AM: "What's the type?"