Southern Gods Read Online Free PDF Page B

stars
    Beyond the long black veil
    It whispers in the dark
    Where light and love both fail
    Where do you sleep?
    Where did you fall?
    Beyond the sun, beyond the stars
    Waiting for our call
    Beyond the sun, beyond the stars
    Waiting for our call

    The voice sounded hurt and reluctant. The lyrics repeated until they became a chant, rising and falling over the guitar and beat, rising and falling with little variation other than a growing sense of dread. More than the rhythm, more than the guitar, the man’s voice made Ingram feel like something was wrong, like something was not right with the world and this man’s words were the first outward sign of a deeply buried, world-spanning cancer.
    Whoever is singing that horrible song… he doesn’t want to. Those words hurt him. Jesus Christ.
    The chanting continued, Ingram clenching his fists, grinding his jaws. He reached for his glass and downed the whiskey. He felt like the only way to make this feeling go away was to kill. Phelps or himself, it didn’t really matter.
    Behind the man’s voice Ingram perceived another voice, a voice singing the same words in a harmony that made a mockery of any song that came before, that mocked any idea of love, or light or warmth.
    He brought is hands in front of his face, tried to lower them, but they seemed to have a mind of their own. He turned toward Phelps.
    A hiss started building, static in the signal, and Ingram heard the recording-Phelps cursing, adding his own chant. “Goddamn. Goddamn. Goddamn.” The music crescendoed, the guitar fluttering and buzzing higher and higher, the voice (or voices, Ingram couldn’t tell) pitching higher and more frantic, the percussion thumping frenetically like a body spasming on the floor.
    Then silence.
    Ingram breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his hands.
    What was I about to do there? Kill him?
    A voice, a man with polished tones, came on the recording. “That was ‘Long Black Veil,’ by Ramblin’ John Hastur, a fella known about these parts. And a perfect tune to finish the night with. To finish all nights with.” A few clicks and pops sounded, then hissing.
    Phelps turned off the tape machine and looked at Ingram.
    “Kinda curdles your milk, don’t it?”
    “I’ll say. Never heard anything like that before. Don’t know if I ever wanna hear anything like it again.”
    Phelps grinned, showing uneven teeth. “I want you to find out where that radio station is, and who made that recording. I had a couple of fellows come in here earlier today, they’re from Arkansas, and players too, and they’ve never heard of John Hastur, nor heard that tune neither. And that’s a little strange. Blues musicians are about the most unoriginal people to walk God’s green earth. They won’t write their own song if they can play someone else’s, and they know every soul that came within a hundred mile of themselves, I guess from being so vain. Anyway, neither Hubert nor Jimmy had ever heard of the ‘Long Black Veil’ before. Not this version, at least. So I want you to find this Ramblin’ John if you can. Best way to do that is to find out who’s broadcasting him. So find that radio station, and from there, we’ll find Ramblin’ John.”
    “Why’d you want to put that kind of music on a record? Don’t think anyone would want to buy it.”
    Phelps sucked his teeth. “Well, you’re wrong about that. People would buy it. Maybe not in droves, but they’d buy it. Cause it’s powerful, son. It’s got that something. I watched you listening to it. It got to you.” He fanned his hands out, like a child framing the sky. “And someone who can write a song that powerful, well… maybe he’s got other songs… nicer songs.”
    “Or maybe songs that aren’t so nice. But you’re right, it does got something, and it’s something I don’t want.”
    Phelps guffawed, slapping Ingram on the shoulder. “But you’ll do the job anyway, won’t you, son?”

Chapter 3

    “L ook, Mommy! A barn and