Knock Three Times

11. Mr. Crowley

                LIGHTS FLASHED INTERMITTENTLY AS a rushed crowd of screaming fans and paparazzi swarmed the limousine like insects on a porch light. High above, beaming lights pierced the clouds, moving about like two swords dueling in the heavens, lighting up the night sky from downtown LA. The event had lured countless onlookers and press alike, a monumental movie premier drawing out the who's-who of Hollywood elite and entertainment professionals the world over. The famous theatre's global premier of an A-List blockbuster was a grand event in this city, one which many would sacrifice just about anything to be included, but amongst the renown and desperate alike there was one who felt out of place, like she had no business attending.

    Chelsea had spent the last few days working on her debut album, her voice feeling scratchy and irritated from countless takes of the same annoyingly catchy songs, which had somehow escaped her personal seal of approval. The trauma of the contract signing ritual was still ripe in her mind, but as time snailed by she was beginning understand the double-edged sword of her indoctrination. She had been savagely ravished and abused, and the memories of this event rendered the talented singer less willing to fight for creative control of her own work. Letting go the quality of her craft was nothing compared to what had been taken from her that night, and so she had spent these last few days simply agreeing to anything the producers suggested. Like a beaten horse, there was nothing soulful left in her once brilliant green eyes.

    These were not songs of her own design, but written by the same pop-writers who orchestrate all of the industry's big hits; each melody less like poetry and more of a manufactured synthetic forfeit of creative thought. Every moment spent in the recording studio, there was an obvious ambience of forfeit, knowing each song would have been recorded by another, had her producers not acquired the rights. This is how the modern era produced mechanical music which seemed to sound the same, she was convinced. Still, Chelsea swallowed her pride, selling her soul to the Godfather for outright enslavement disguised as fame and fortune.

    She had put in the work, regardless, sinking herself into her craft as Harris had suggested, and the results were somewhat pleasing but frustrating, as she had not been permitted to record her own songs. The title track of her debut album was the first to be recorded and mastered to perfection. It was an exceptionally catchy song, there was no denying, but it wasn't Chelsea Ellis. Ironically, the song sounded exactly how she felt day-in and day-out, merely a shadow of her former self. There was neither grace nor rectitude remaining in both her music and general demeanor, but merely the callous and apathetic version she barely recognized.

    Though she had never thought it possible, Chelsea found herself yearning for her busking days, as at least the street performance was virtuous and reverent. She could play on street corners with her head held high, unscathed by the sinister men who pulled the strings behind the preverbal curtain of the entertainment industry. As the broken soul watched the paparazzi rush the limousine, there was no virtue in her eyes, only shame and indifference.

    This was supposed to be a time of celebration, but the devilish red eyes of the Shadow Man had been burned onto her psyche like a hot cattle prod. His was an evil she had never known, and for the first time in her life there were monumental questions regarding faith, God and the like; for if the demon had existed before her very eyes, where were the angels and saints to stand guard on her behalf?

    The City of Angels was a tragic irony, as nothing holy could possibly dwell here, she was convinced.

    Harris Hangman sat at her opposite in the back of the limo, her eyes slightly glazed over. She wore a shimmering red gown, the slit so high it exposed her pelvis had she shifted at a particular angle, and matching silk gloves which stretched to her elbows. Perfect strands of blonde locks tickled her collar bones, having sat for the last hour and a half as her make-up and hair specialists went to work, though she had found herself drifting off at her dressing mirror more than once. A relentless yearning to mess up her hair and tear at her clothes took great willpower to thwart, her inner Kurt Cobain relentlessly prodding at her very soul when she caught her reflection in the window.