Anthology.The.Mammoth.Book.of.Angels.And.Demons.2013.Paula.Guran by Anthology Read Free Book Online

legend – either bargaining with the Devil before execution or hanged for the murder, but still so powerfully bad he kicks the Devil out and takes over Hell itself. The real Shelton Lee went to prison. Pardoned in 1909, in 1911 he killed another man while robbing his house. Again imprisoned, he was pardoned a second time, but died of tuberculosis in the prison hospital before he could be released. His fictional counterpart lives on, celebrated in song and literature hundreds of times. In Norman Partridge’s story, Lee pays a demonic visit to a modern musician who has sung “his” song.
     
    Billy Lyons stared at the painted message above the fireplace. The red letters dripped, still wet, trickling down the grass cloth wallpaper and over the white Fender Stratocaster that hung above the oak mantelpiece. He dropped his car keys, took down the guitar, and wiped its polished body with his shirtsleeve. The red paint came off too easily, soaking Billy’s forearm. The few droplets that remained beaded like water on the instrument’s glassy pickguard, trapped beneath the strings.
    The Fender slipped from Billy’s grip; a gunshot crack sounded as it struck the hardwood floor. Red droplets spit through the strings and spattered Billy’s tennis shoes as the instrument bounced once, twice, and then collapsed. He backed away, trembling, not thinking about how much the guitar was worth, not worrying about damage.
    Blood, he thought, and for a long moment that was the only word in his vocabulary. Blood . . . not paint!
    Billy wiped his hands on his jeans and stared at the message. Part of it had been written on the guitar, and now without the instrument mounted on the wall the red letters looked like a puzzle from some twisted game show. But Billy was a winner; he’d been clued in ahead of time and recognized the message well enough. It was the same garbage that had been eating at him for weeks, ever since his recording of “Stackalee” had hit number one.
     
    Where’s my magic Stetson? That’s what the message had said, just like the postcards he’d been receiving. But this was one hell of a lot worse than a postcard – this had rattled Billy to the bone. Without thinking, he’d smeared the bloody writing and touched things he should have left alone, like the guitar, and the cops would be highly pissed about that. He’d probably screwed the whole crime scene. And with his fingerprints all over everything and blood splattered on his clothes and shoes, he might be accused of setting up the scene himself, for publicity.
    The phone rang and Billy snatched it up, expecting to hear the song again, figuring that his tormentors would have their cues planned perfectly. Instead, he was greeted by his agent’s voice: “Billy, where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago for the costume fitting. We’re shooting the ‘Stackalee’ video tomorrow, remember, and—”
    “They’ve been here, Alan,” Billy interrupted. “They’ve been inside my house. This time they stole a page from Charlie Manson’s playbook and painted a message on the wall. It’s about the song again . . . Jesus, I don’t care if it is a hit, I wish I would have listened to those old bluesmen and left the damn tune alone.”
    “Calm down. What’d they write?”
    Billy looked at the wall. The blood was dripping over the mantel, dribbling down the stone hearth. The words that had stared at him from the grass cloth were nearly illegible now, just pinkish shadows. “Doesn’t matter what they wrote. It was written in blood, that’s what matters, and it just dripped away.” Billy sighed. “But it was about the hat again. Just some silly shit about magic.”
    “I want you to call the cops. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
    “I don’t know, Alan. I touched a lot of stuff. I got blood all over my clothes. The cops might think—”
    A sharp series of clicks rippled over the line. Billy heard laughter, then the sound of a needle skating