Lucinda Laughs by Selene MacLeod

Lucinda Laughs

by Selene MacLeod

Nigel never liked watching himself on the telly. The reality show had done a hatchet job.

“I look like an asshole.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Eugene—Nigel’s sometime lawyer/tour manager--asked. “Too late for an injunction.”

Nigel's living room looked every inch the site of a three-day binge. His coffee table was littered with record sleeves dusted with white powder, overflowing ashtrays, half-emptied highball glasses, and a couple of charred pipes. Two empty pizza boxes had been shoved under the couch, which was missing a cushion. Nigel sat in the easy chair and Eugene claimed the couch to watch the show. The ringer was off and the answering machine turned down, so Nigel could avoid people the way he had been for nearly a year, especially the journalists with their leading questions and quick editing. They made it look like Lucinda's suicide had been his fault.

“You know it wasn't because of me, right?” Nigel asked Eugene, who shrugged.

“She was hot, but that chick had problems.” He'd told the TV people the same thing. And the cops, when they'd come to his door that night. His number was the last she'd dialed, and they found a letter to him among her personal effects.

Nigel Vincent, singer, ex-lover; the words rolled across the bottom of the screen, while his image talked. He tossed his processed hair. He giggled like a schoolboy when he said, “She had a good body, great in bed, ready for anything.”

Cut to a shot of Joanne in tears.

“Trust them to edit out the part where I said I'm sorry she's gone.” Nigel tossed the remote to Eugene in disgust and bent to cut two more lines. He snorted and handed the mirror and straw to Eugene.

“Or that none of it was my fault. I barely knew her, for chrissakes.” Nigel tilted his head back, allowing the drip to run down his throat. His eyes and nostrils burned with the high-quality drug. Eugene greedily snorted the rest of the coke and followed it with a tip of whiskey. They settled back to watch the rest of the reality show. Footage of Lucinda as a girl, holding a picture book, Lucinda Laughs. She'd taken her stage name from the title, which Nigel didn't know. Like thousands of pretty girls, she'd gone to high school in the Midwest, then come to L.A. to break into movies; to pay the bills, she'd started stripping and then porn. Then the conga line of humiliations: bad relationships. Drugs. Rehab. Hollywood parties. She'd gotten a part on The Real World or one of its imitators. She'd dated anyone who might help her visibility in the industry, including Nigel. There was a picture of her sitting on his lap at some event or another; Nigel didn't even remember when the picture was taken. He suspected it might be Photoshopped.

Nigel reached out to the stand beside him and pulled the Martin from its base. The Martin acoustic was his preferred guitar for at home, while he preferred the Taylor on tour. He didn't know why. Every guitar was a finely-crafted, delicate configuration of vibrations on wood, even the cheapest ones, and Taylors and Martins had the most beautiful sounds. But different, each with its own personality. He'd paid for these, but it was ironic that he had a few guitars the manufacturers had given him as promos. As struggling up-and-comers, most metal guitarists would kill for nice instruments; by the time they made it, the companies gave them the guitars for free. His hands practiced a basic blues riff, over and over, as he watched the show.

Once Luce had stopped calling him, he'd lost track of her. It was only through news reports and the investigation that he'd known anything. She'd been, according to Joanne, inconsolable after Nigel dumped her. She'd gone into a tailspin, destroying the work she'd done in rehab and bingeing on pills and vodka. Then one night, she'd taken her white convertible for a drive. It was foggy and she'd had a few too many. She'd gone through a barrier and flipped the car. It was ruled first an accident and then, after they found the note, a suicide.

“Dead at 22,” the caption read, over a tabloid photograph of Lucinda's destroyed car.

“What a waste.” Eugene shook his head. “So young.”

Nigel shrugged. “She made her choices.”

“Got any more?” Eugene asked hopefully.

Nigel rolled his eyes and picked up the phone. Luckily Pablo, Nigel's dealer, delivered.

Pablo always made noises about coming to Nigel's neighborhood, a quiet residential area at the end of a cul-de-sac. Too visible, he said. Nigel always gave him a big tip for his trouble.  

After the glitz of the Eighties gave way to grunge and the Nineties recession, Nigel had scaled back his lifestyle considerably. This included selling his mansion at a loss, but at least neither of his ex-wives could take it. This house, with one bedroom, a small kitchen and living room, and its basement studio suited Nigel fine. He kept his guitar collection and his memorabilia—photos of himself with rock stars, his gold records, a couple of boxes of tour souvenirs—in the den. The backyard was being landscaped, a large hole dug and concrete poured for a swimming pool. With nothing to tempt thieves or gold-diggers, Nigel was left alone, and that's the way he liked it. He'd produced a few demos for local bar-bands who were on the brink of making it, and the more he learned about the studio, the more it intrigued him.

One such band featured his current girlfriend, Roxy, real name Gina. Her band had gotten a ton of local airplay and been written up in a couple of metal and guitar magazines. Roxy had sex appeal, and she was a great songwriter.

“Eh, mind if I ring up Roxy, mate?” The British accent was a fake—Nigel was about as English as a grocery store muffin.

Eugene waved a hand. As the credits rolled, he flipped over to watch Jeopardy!

Nigel called Pablo, then Roxy. He could hear her usual chaos in the background. She had a young son whom she doted on. Roxy's apartment, despite the noise and the mess that went along with kids, always felt warm and welcome when he went there. He hadn't spent the night there yet, because Roxy didn't want her son to be confused. She usually came to Nigel's place, leaving Ryder in the care of her mother, who lived nearby.

“Wanna come over, love?” Nigel asked as soon as Roxy picked up.

“Hi, hon, gimme a minute.”

Roxy yelled something over her shoulder and the noise quieted. “What's that?” she asked when she came back.

“I said, wanna drop by for a bit?” Nigel used his best honey-coated tones.

Roxy made a throaty chortling sound. “What's in it for me?”

Their flirtation went back and forth for a few minutes, but Nigel knew she'd already been convinced. Roxy knew where her bread was buttered, and being seen in public with Nigel Vincent was good for business. Her demo had sold well, too, ten thousand copies between airplay and touring, including a month-long run as an opener for the Nigel Vincent Band. There was a definite “buzz,” and good things were happening. She'd be a fool to say no to Nigel.

Of course, she was no fool. Nigel hung up the phone and grinned.

“Roxy will be here in a bit,” he told Eugene.

“Did she say she'd bring a friend?”

“Naw, I didn't ask.”

Disappointment flickered across Eugene's face. Nigel doubted his manager could get it up anyway, with all the coke running through his system. Nigel poured himself another drink and settled back to wait. He'd have to make a booze run soon, too.

* * *

Through a year of psychotherapy and painful physio, Nigel would turn over the night's events like an egg, looking for the cracks and finding nothing but a smooth shell. No one to blame but himself for Roxy's death, but it wasn't his fault any more than Lucinda's. Fuck what his shrink said. He'd driven plenty of times in worse weather conditions, with much more booze and dope in his system and made it home fine.

He remembered Roxy arriving, with her good smells of musk perfume and hairspray, top cut down to here and skirt up to there, good-naturedly fending off Eugene's limp-dicked advances. Pablo stopping by, looking jittery during their exchange in the backyard, under the wood slats that supported the upper deck. Pablo leaving amid a light scatter of rain. A brief argument with Eugene, then taking Roxy in his Honda to make a booze run.

And then noise. A tire shriek. Pounding and bright lights in his head, swirling blue and red and the ambulance siren. All jumbled together into a puzzle. His shaken brain couldn't put the pieces together very well. His leg was shattered, put back together with pins, humpty dumpty man.

And Roxy was gone, already silent when the police and ambulance arrived.

He remembered Ryder's face, dirty except for the streaks left by his tears. Roxy's mother's fury at him like a tornado, battering and screeching while he said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He received probation and did some PSAs for a couple of the music channels. Then it was all over except for the dreams.

For months, he dreamed of fresh-turned earth, dark figures spider-creeping forward in shadow, and a thin keening wail. He'd wake up before he could see what was coming for him, clutching at the bedcovers and cowering from the shadows, his heart pounding a heavy bass beat. With time and whiskey and painkillers, even the dreams were silenced. Eventually, with his insurance nearly gone and the bills mounting, Nigel went back to work in the studio. The label was clamoring for a new release, despite taking a financial loss with the rise of music file sharing.

Nigel didn't like this new online Napster world. Everyone wanted something for free, yet everyone still expected to be paid, with no inkling where the money was supposed to come from.

And nu metal sucked.

With a sigh, Nigel hit the “talkback” button and told the singer to take five. The lad had been bellowing and whining out his shitty lyrics for the past half hour, trying to get the tracks down before their deposit ran out. Nigel hated the band on principle, with their stupid, misspelled name and their lame music, trying to cash in on the trend. What the fuck was nu metal anyway? He'd pored over the band's bio and basement CD until it gave him a headache. In his day, it was all just metal. Now there were a hundred different riffs on the same theme, and God help you if you got it wrong.

Maybe it was time to pack it in, after nearly twenty years. Let the young pups have it.

When the session was finally over and everyone was gone, doors locked behind them, Nigel dragged himself to the kitchen for another drink. His leg was killing him, and the stairs didn't help. Grabbing snacks and the bottle of whiskey, Nigel went straight up to bed. He'd watch a movie until oblivion set in, maybe work on a song.

He popped an old disc—Dracula, the Gary Oldman one—into the DVD player. He took the Martin from its stand beside his bed and noodled, trying to find a riff that didn't rip off hundreds of others. Basic 12-bar blues didn't change. Hadn't changed, in 50 years of rock 'n' roll. The real genius was the repackaging and selling to each new generation.

“Nu metal, shit,” Nigel muttered. He paused the DVD and set the Martin back in its stand.  Stripped down to his skivvies and slid between the sheets, thinking about Roxy's warm figure; while they hadn't been serious, he had to admit he missed having someone beside him. He rolled onto his back, grabbed the remote, and propped himself up to watch Harker get mouth-raped by the vampiresses.

“Yeah, that's the stuff. Been there,” Nigel said, amping up the Cockney for his own amusement. His eyes grew heavy until the movie was just a blur of reds and browns and teeth, and he drifted into righteous sleep.

Something woke him. He sat up, dug for the remote, and turned off the DVD's menu loop. The screen, with no signal to it, cast a blue light in the room. He lay back down to listen. Nothing. Hit the TV's Off button and rolled over, trying to find a position that wouldn't pain his leg. He paused.

At the threshold of his hearing.

There it was again, a skittering sound. A shiver ran down Nigel's back, what his mother called “the vapors.” That's all. He turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“Niiiigellllll...”

Nigel sat up in bed. He swung his legs over and walked to the patio, pulling aside the heavy glass door with a scrape. The moon was high over the city, which stretched as far as he could see, lights twinkling, ground-stars to make up for the sky-stars obscured by smog. A quiet lapping sound as something moved near the pool.

“Anyone out there?” Nigel shouted. No answer. He heard another lap, probably an animal. He shook his head and went back inside, being sure to lock the door. Must have been hearing things.

Nigel settled back into bed, the shadows from the street forming creepy fingers across the ceiling. More patterns: leaves from the hanging trees over the patio, the swish of headlights as a car drove by, his jacket slung across a chair looking like a huddled figure. All familiar.

Movement at the corner of his vision. He turned his sleepy gaze toward the closet door.

A woman's giggle.

“What the fuck? Who's there? Hello?” Nigel sat up. He swung his legs, tangled in the sheet and set his feet on the floor, his heart pounding in his chest and the hair raised along the back of his neck. He cocked his head to listen. The doors were locked and the alarm set. If anyone broke in, he'd know.

The house settled silently around him. He was too tired from the recording session and good whiskey to care. Let them take it. Less to dust.

A cold hand gripped his ankle. Nigel let out a yell and pulled away from its grasp, rolling instinctively back on the bed. Drew himself toward the middle and watched, jaw slack, as a white hand patted the bed, searching. He shut his eyes tight and shook his head. He was seeing things.

The unmistakable weight of someone pulling themselves up. The creak of bedsprings. Nigel opened his eyes, jaw dropping at the creature who joined him in bed.

It smiled—leered—at Nigel, one side of its face charred down to the bone. The other half of its mouth hung in a flap from dirty, brown teeth. Below a fringe of platinum hair tangled with dirt and moss, its eyes glittered preternaturally in the dim light. Nigel tried to back away, but the thing's weight on the sheet kept him down. He was dimly aware of wet warmth spreading at his crotch as he pissed himself.

“Boo!” The thing said with grim good humor.

“Jesus!” Nigel whispered.

“Guess again.” A thin, reedy voice like the buzz of an insect. For a minute, Nigel thought the thing in bed with him was speaking with its mouth shut, then he noticed a hulking shadow over the bed. At its foot stood another dead creature, humped and twisted. Its head turned askance on its neck, which had been broken and badly repaired. There was something familiar about the miniskirt the thing wore.

“Roxy?” Nigel whispered.

The Roxy-thing tried to grin but seemed to have forgotten how. It held out a white hand. The nails had been torn off and the skin around them was purple and pulpy. The fingers looked chewed.

He felt the cold grip of the thing in his bed groping at his crotch. Still pinned under the sheet, Nigel tried to crawl away, moving nightmare-slow, as if underwater. Unable to speak or catch his breath, Nigel reached out to the phone on his nightstand. He knocked it from his cradle. The dial tone buzzed, then blatted its “off the hook” signal.  

“Wassamatter, Nigel?” The Roxy-thing said. “Didn't you always want a threesome?”

Nigel screamed and tumbled out of bed, desperately kicking at the sheets until they gave with a riiiip along the middle. The Lucinda-thing grabbed his foot as the rest of him hit the floor, and he pulled himself forward on his elbows, kicking at its burnt and ruined face. He felt the bony ridges of her teeth against his heel but she kept coming.

Nigel's heart pounded and a layer of sweat slicked down his back as he crawled. The Roxy creature stood between him and the bedroom door, but the path to the balcony was clear. If he could get outside, he could clear his head and wake up from this mad dream. His overtaxed heart sent a warning through his chest, a pressure like a squeezing fist. Nigel took a deep breath. He dragged himself up onto his feet, his breath ragged from fear and exertion, and stepped onto the patio, his eyes closed. He opened them and looked out at the view. A cloud cover had drifted over the moon and most of the lights on his street were out. He rubbed at the pains in his chest, too afraid to turn around.

A squishing, rubbing noise against the patio door. Nigel moaned and turned. Both apparitions were advancing toward him. Roxy-thing grinned and ran her suppurating tongue mock-lasciviously over her purple lips; they had also been chewed. Lucinda-thing's hands rubbed at her crotch. He took a step back against the creaky railing. He heard something crack ominously. Wake up, he told himself. He slapped his cheek with a sting that made his eyes water. He didn't believe in ghosts.

The Lucinda-thing reached him first, her pale hand stretched out toward his crotch and a grin of triumph on what was left of her face. A maggot crawled out of her eye and began to squirm along her cheek.

If that thing touches me again, Nigel thought. He jerked back violently and the railing gave way with another loud crack and the sound of wood ripping free from its moorings. His heart squeezed a shot of pain like forked lightning across the left side of his chest as Nigel tumbled backward.

He was dead before he could hear the splash.

This story was originally featured in Isssue #5. Get the whole
print issue here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/675468353/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-5


You can see more of Selene MacLeod's work here: https://www.amazon.com/Selene-MacLeod/e/B07HPCD8SR/ref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share