The Devil Guitar by Michael Britten

The Devil Guitar

by Michael Britten

It had been delivered.  

I raced up to my lofty apartment with both trepidation and excitement.  I moved through my rooms down towards the back, and there it stood, The Devil Guitar.

It was basically a 335, but with a difference.  Said to be one of a kind. Handcrafted by Mr. Gibson himself for a man who performed the black arts.  The guitar had become a legend.

Its hollow body looked lackluster with its natural, and I might add, unvarnished wood.  This was a request of the customer. It is said that he baptized the guitar with the blood of a human sacrifice, hence the slightly darkened staining.  And it is also written that the tuning pegs were carved from real bone. These I quickly inspected, but they offered up no clue, other than being slightly course to the touch.  

I did not further inspect this stunning curio.  The legend surrounding it and its strange owner was for another day.  What I really wanted to know was if the scary stuff were true. Would its sound live up to the online whispers?  

I physically took a step or two back.  I stared and I trembled at the thought.  So many nights reading all I could about this bastard of an axe.  And now, to have it here, standing before my Marshal stack, was more than I could hope for.

I moved towards it, put my hand around its neck and gripped.  It was surprisingly light as I positioned the strap around my neck.  The soft leather comforted me as I adjusted the length to suit my stance.

In the center of the room, between my twin stacks was my posing mirror.  This was my guilty pleasure, watching myself as I performed my lessons of dexterity.  I slowly plugged up and moved over to the amp.

Now it is said that the guitar is connected by magic, that it is a link to that other world, with its dark designs and altered reality.  And it is said that you can actually hear the voices of lost souls cry out while music squeals forth.

I switched on the amp and heard the familiar his of valves.  This was it.

I took a deep breath and strummed an A chord.  The clarity and the crunch were quite exquisite.  But instantly I detected more than just the guitar’s brilliance.  It was like a kind of feedback was building, only softer, thicker.  It grew like the sound of the wind. And there, clear to my ears, the sound of voices, many voices.  They built in a kind of tormented way, but with an undertone of, dare I say, ecstasy.

I strummed the chord again, fearful that these things from the other side might stop.  But this only stirred them into a chorus of wailing malevolence. They were loud now, louder than the guitar.  And their voices had become united. They verbally writhed together and I could now discern what they were saying.  “Blood, Blood, we need Blood.”

I strummed again, and again.  The voices continued their chant and I was lost in their needs.  This was indeed a link to another realm, and this realm needed to feast.

I had stopped strumming now, but the guitar hum continued as did the wail of voices that grew ever more demanding.  “Blood, Blood,” they sang, “Give us your blood.”

I didn’t know what had happened at first.  I felt hot, far too hot. I was suddenly exhausted and dizzy from the chants that crowded my ears.  But then I looked into the mirror before me.

An E string had snapped, and it had efficiently slashed through the air, and indeed my throat.  I had been so entranced that I had not felt the slice. I quickly put my hands around my neck to stem the crimson gush that poured down my t-shirt and over the guitar.  The voices that were so loud, so magnificently eager, turned to a shrill climax as they gained their prize. I could hear their exquisite happiness even as I toppled forward to embrace my oblivion.

This story was originally published in Issue #6. You can get the whole print issue here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/674614280/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-6