Eddie begins to sing, but his voice sounds unexpectedly distinct from the track I’m used to.
“I thought I was lost! Thought I had wasted time and learned the cost!” he croons. “I thought I was gone! Figured I’m dead to rights, the one who’s wrong!”
On this particular version, Eddie’s voice sounds doubled. Instead of a single take running right down the middle of the track, there’s an odd second vocal that dances playfully along, bobbing and weaving around the original notes.
I step forward again, then stop as the voice grows louder.
“I thought I was nobody, but that feeling didn’t last,” the singer continues to belt, his words confidently filling the diner. “And when I’m not around, everyone asks where I’m aaaat!”
The final word of this phrase carries on and on as the piano fades away, a cheeky little pause before the whole band kicks back in and launches into their first chorus.
I catch a visual shift and swivel my gun slightly, but before I get the chance to fire, my trigger finger is stiffened by an unexpected feeling of utter, dumbstruck shock.
A figure has sprinted from around the corner, running and sliding across the smooth tile floor to end up directly in front of the jukebox with his arms wide in amajestically vaudevillian pose. His outfit shimmers under the flickering diner lights, thousands of sequins reflecting the gold-and-white stripes of his jumpsuit. The few places that don’t shimmer are covered by distinct splatters of dried blood. Dark sunglasses from the gift shop cover his eyes, and below them is a wide, toothy grin pulled back just the slightest bit too far, showing more pale gums than one might expect. His skin is almost as white as his hair, appearing nearly translucent thanks to the bluish veins that zigzag below the surface.
Standing before me is Eddie Michaels.
Follow for Follow
The sudden thought that I might be dreaming comes roaring to the forefront of my mind, but it changes nothing. All I have are the choices ahead of me, and right now I choose to keep my gun trained directly on the chest of this singing, dancing superstar corpse.
“Be … cause … the,” he starts, slowly ramping up the volume as he takes two steps forward. When the song kicks back in he puts his hands together cutely, creating a symbolic globe with his fingers. He tilts his head back and belts along with the recording, confident and self-assured despite the presumed lack of a heartbeat. “… world needs a star like me! I said the world needs a star like me! I’m one of a kind, I think you’ll agree, the world needs a star like me!”
Eddie does a spin and then begins to shuffle and slide down the aisle, the booths framing him on either side.His dancing is distinctly old-fashioned, a kinetic language that would actually be kind of silly if it weren’t so fucking terrifying.
“Stay right there!” I bark as the corpse gleefully makes his approach. My hands are trembling against the pistol grip, something that’s never happened any previous time I’ve been forced to pull my weapon.
I step back, but Eddie’s movements take up much more space in much less time. He’s closing in on me, grooving and spinning through the entirety of this instrumental section. The music thunders with piano-rock bombast, adding a cinematic punch to Eddie’s lurching choreography.
“Get the fuck back!” I scream, eyes wild as spit flies from my lips.
Finally, Eddie comes to a stop no more than five feet away. From here I can see the bruising around his neck and the shards of bone poking out from his skin in a brutal pattern of white and red.
Eddie grins, frozen for a moment as though he’s lost in thought. He closes his eyes ever so slightly, an expression of bliss, and in this poignant break the popcorn scent makes itself even more apparent.
“I want you to remember this,” Eddie finally says, his voice dropping to a lower register as he allows the song to keep rolling past without his vocal accompaniment. Eddie’s grin flattens, his manic joy deflating to reveal the shape of something terrible underneath. “I want you to remember I’m in control.”
Eddie motions toward my handgun.
“Go ahead,” he continues.
I’ve seen this one before, variations of the scene flashing through my mind in a thousand different pop culture mutations. There will always be a ruthless killer to challenge our hero with a gun, a badass villain who shoves the barrel against their own forehead with casual confidence, turning the tables with a steadfast understanding that the hero is not arealkiller. Not like they are.
Fortunately, Eddie doesn’t know me that well.
I pull the trigger.
Instead of a bang, I’m greeted by a quiet metal click. It’s barely audible over the music, but I don’t need to hear it to understand what it means. The bullets have been removed.
A look of amusement springs back into Eddie’s face. “Well, damn! I thought I’d have to ask a few more times than that!” He laughs.
I flash back to running around my truck in a panic, remember frantically searching for the keys that had mysteriously gone missing in all that commotion. If Eddie—if thisthingthat was once Eddie—took my keys, he could’ve easily unloaded my weapon and stuffed it back in the glove box.
“I’m just trying to show you that I’m not—” the reanimated body continues, but before he can finish I reach into my back pocket and pull out my extra clip, the one Ialwayskeep on me for deliveries.
I move in one swift motion, letting the empty magazine pop out and replacing it with my other hand. I slam the fresh bullets into their chamber so fast the empty clip hasjust barely hit the ground—a maneuver you might see from someone with extensive military service or, in my case, obsessive visits to the firing range—then I lift the gun to Eddie’s face and pull the trigger.
Bang!A blinding white flash erupts across my field of vision.
