As soon as I was outside, the visionsdisappeared. I fell to my knees, the residual sadness finally weighing me down.I cried for all the people, real or not, that had invaded my consciousnesswhile I was in that house. I felt gutted, but eventually the tears dried up andI returned to my car.
I drove in a daze, my eyes constantlymoving to the journal. I waffled between thinking it was my way out of the messI was in, and thinking it was going to seal my fate. It hit me that if I wenthome, I just might put the book down and play a record. The thought jarred meand I pulled into the first parking lot I saw, ironically it was a boarded-upStrawberries record store. A bad omen, I thought.
I reached for the journal with shakyhands. It’s just a book. It felt hot in my hands and I told myself itwas just from being in the car. Sure, and the thing at home is just an oldrecord player. The first entry, in ink so faded it was barely visible, wasfrom June of 1929. It was written by my newly-made acquaintance, Julian Black.He described his life in somewhat mundane terms and I skimmed ahead. In theearly 1930s, Black fell ill and his entries became hard to read, not only dueto the trembling hand he must have written them with, but because of theircontent.
Black spoke of his sudden, though givenhis condition not unexpected, interest in life-after-death and earth-boundspirits. His entries went from the pseudo-scientific to fever-induced madness.My throat tightened when he mentioned the Victrola. He described insaneexperiments and his mood went from manic when he perceived things going well,to near-suicidal when another of his lunatic ideas failed. His final entry wasdated June 21, 1934: “I’ve done it.”
I swallowed hard and licked my lips witha dry tongue. I flipped ahead a few pages and was shocked to see more writing.The dates were in the 1940s. I looked closer, noticing a difference in thewriting. Could he have recovered? Then I saw the signature. Someone elsehad continued the journal, not Julian Black.
These entries were signed by FrederickGainsborough. He picked up the Victrola at an estate auction, and almostimmediately began experiencing what he called “fugues.” Gainsborough spoke ofentire nights that he had no memory of, and the disappearance of friends andfamily members. I gulped in shallow breaths as I read on. In Gainsborough’slast entry, he outlined a plan to seduce a woman he’d had his eye on. Hismethod? A nice bottle of wine and some soft music on the Victrola.
I turned the pages of the journal, sweatdripping from my brow. The names changed over the years, but the story wasalways the same. The last completed pages of the journal were dated October of2007. The author was Francine Jacobs. Her entries were filled with the samepattern: amnesia, missing friends, and the damned Victrola. Francine’s lastentry was different than the others – her husband was going to try to make hersell the thing.
I closed the journal and leaned my headon the steering wheel. I knew if I researched Francine Jacobs, her last addresswould be the house I just came from. I also knew that she killed her husbandthen committed suicide on the day I bought the Victrola at their yard sale.What I didn’t know was when that happened. For me, it was last weekend,but the date in the journal was ten years ago, and the house certainly lookedlike it had been vacant for a long time.
I flipped back through the journal andfound the same gaps in time between each of the previous owners. It didn’texplain anything, but it fit a pattern. A crippling sense of resignationovertook me. Twenty bucks was what I sold my life for? My soul? I started thecar and headed home.
I arrived forty-five minutes later tofind a police car parked in front of my house. A cop was walking toward the cruiserfrom my front door. I grabbed the journal, feeling its heat, and stepped out ofthe car. My shirt was soaked with sweat and I felt like the word “guilty” wasstamped on my forehead. But guilty of what? Images of Jay and Angieflickered in my mind. “Can I help you, Officer?”
He looked up, then back at his notes.“I’m Officer Tobin. Are you Mark Armstrong?”
“Yes, I live here. Is something wrong?” Ofcourse, something’s wrong, two people you know are missing.
He looked at his notes again. “Do youknow a Jason Schmidt?”
I always wondered why cops always addedthe “a” before the name they were asking about. I smiled, but it didn’t feelright. “I’ve known Jay forever. Is he in trouble?”
The cop stared at me for a long minutebefore answering. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Fucking Colombo. “Tell you what? If he’s in trouble?”The cop stared and I wondered if this tactic ever worked. Did criminals justwilt under a cop’s gaze and confess everything? This time my smile was real andthe cop frowned at me.
“Mr. Armstrong, when was the last timeyou saw Jason Schmidt?”
“Last weekend. We hung out herelistening to music and having a few beers.” The idea of inviting the cop in andputting on a record was hard to resist. “I’ve been trying to get in touch withhim all week. Listen, do you want to come in and tell me what’s going on?” Imotioned toward the house. What are you doing?
“I think that would be best.” He steppedback and let me go first.
I entered the house and immediately myeyes locked on the Victrola. Whatever shit I was in, this wasn’t going to getme out of it. I put the journal on the coffee table and motioned to the couch.“Have a seat, if you like. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you. I just have a fewquestions… Hey, does that thing work?”
I felt my lips curl into a smile. “As amatter of fact, it does.” Tobin had stepped over to
