Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Crescendo of Darkness

Today I turn my blog over to the amazingly talented and seriously awesome folks at Horror Addicts.net I hope you guys enjoy the following teaser as much as I did. 


Music has the power to soothe the soul, drive people to obsession, and soundtrack evil plots. Is music the instigator of madness, or the key that unhinges the psychosis within? From guitar lessons in a graveyard and a baby allergic to music, to an infectious homicidal demo and melancholy tunes in a haunted lighthouse, Crescendo of Darkness will quench your thirst for horrifying audio fiction.

HorrorAddicts.net is proud to present fourteen tales of murderous music, demonic performers, and cursed audiophiles.

Please enjoy an excerpt below from Crescendo of Darkness.
“The Legend of Crimson Ivory” by Sarah Gribble
An audiophile finds a legendarily sinister demo at a used record store
and decides to play it, despite his friends' warnings.

If creativity had a smell, it would be that of a used record store. Opening the door to a record shop and smelling the presence of the creative soul was Cash’s favorite part of his Saturday morning ritual. Sure, there was the tangy body odor and sweet pot smoke of the present. But underneath was the smell of writing lyrics locked up alone, the dust and sweat, the hopes and dreams, all wrapped up in plastic-lined discs. The smell was his heaven.
He very rarely looked for anything specific, preferring the monotony of flicking through the stacks, sometimes stumbling across a rare gem, a diamond in the rough, one piece of history that got his blood pumping and adrenaline up. It was his high, his treasure hunt.
That particular Saturday was the same as any other. He performed a preliminary walkthrough of the place, to see if his eyes caught on anything. His fingers trailed over the thin, cracked spines as he walked.
He didn’t go near the hipsters as they jostled over Zeppelin and Bowie and Dylan, lamenting over their parents’ decision to sell their copies for fifty cents a pop at a garage sale twenty years ago. He preferred to settle in a darker corner of the shop where he could flip through uncased 45s and obscure EPs in peace. He was there for the unknown, the artists who never made it despite years of trying; the bands that broke up after one recording session, and the singers who tragically died before their music could vibrate too many eardrums. Those tragic instances of missed fame and forgotten history were the bulk of the collection in his basement. He appreciated every one of them, even those few that made him cringe when the vocalist hit the wrong note.
His favorite find was a demo. There was something about the raw music, the childlike quality of the uninitiated bands, which took him over. In five years of haunting used music shops, he’d only found a handful of demos. One, he’d scratched beyond repair by a dull needle when he was first learning how to care for records.
A handful of bands had earned legendary status in the online collector community with their demos. Some were simply rare finds from big bands. Those were normally auctioned off at more than Cash could afford on his Burger King paycheck. Some were unknown artists whose only record of existence was a few songs recorded during paid time at a studio. A story would become attached to the recording, sometimes creepy, sometimes sad, but always a tall tale.
Cash sat cross-legged on the floor, a stack of vinyl in front of him, enjoying the hypnotic thwick, thwick, thwick as he slid each record from the pile and moved onto the next. He stopped when he saw one with a handwritten sticker, the title and band name etched almost angrily into the paper with pencil. The years had faded the writing. He had to hold it up to his nose and adjust his glasses in order to get a good look. What he saw made his heart skip a beat.
Written in large, block letters was the band name CRIMSON IVORY and scrawled below in a tight cursive so worn he could barely make it out, the tracklist:
Pulling the record to his chest, he cast a glance around the shop. No one was looking in his direction. A slow smile spread over his lips. He got up and meandered as casually as possible to the checkout, his heart hammering in his chest. A couple bearded guys raised an eyebrow at him as he passed the bins, no doubt curious as to what was precious enough to be clutching against his chest. They followed him to the checkout and he felt their breath on his neck as they leaned in to get a glimpse of the record. When he handed it over to the clerk with shaky hands, they snorted, rolled their eyes, and went back to searching the bins. He smirked. If they only knew what he held in his hands.

To read the rest of this story and thirteen
other horror music shorts, check out:

Direct link: https://www.amazon.com/Crescendo-Darkness-Jeremiah-Donaldson/dp/1987708156
Edited by Jeremiah Donaldson
Cover by Carmen Masloski
HorrorAddicts.net Press

Let music unlock your fear within.

Crescendo of Darkness

Today I turn my blog over to the amazingly talented and seriously awesome folks at H...