{"id":3035,"date":"2009-12-10T23:00:40","date_gmt":"2009-12-11T06:00:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.candlelightstories.com\/?p=3035"},"modified":"2009-12-10T23:15:47","modified_gmt":"2009-12-11T06:15:47","slug":"weird-tales-atilanos-blues","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/2009\/12\/10\/weird-tales-atilanos-blues\/","title":{"rendered":"Weird Tales: Atilano’s Blues"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"CandlelightWeirdTalesLogo\"By Bill Ectric<\/strong><\/p>\n

Bill Ectric<\/a> has been featured on the web by Literary Kicks, Dogmatika, Mystery Island, The Beat, Syntax of Things, Empty Mirror Books, 99 Burning, Lit Up Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee,<\/em> and Minnesota Public Radio<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Bill\u2019s first novel, Tamper<\/em><\/a>, is the rollicking story of two young fans of unexplained mystery and arcane history. The story follows these aspiring paranormal investigators, Roger and Whit, from summer treasure hunts and dark autumn secrets, through estrangement and drug-induced psychosis, to the island of Malta, where, according to an actual 1940 National Geographic article, a field trip of children and their teacher disappeared without a trace in the ancient Hypogeum catacombs.<\/p>\n

He lives with his wife in Jacksonville, Florida. By day, when not writing, Bill mows the lawn and complains about the heat. By night, he sneaks around in the back yard, convinced that the garden gnomes are \u201cup to something.\u201d<\/p>\n

Read Bill Ectric’s full bio and more stories on his Weird Tales author page<\/a>.<\/div>\n

Atilano’s Blues<\/h2>\n

a short story<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know if my nightmares are from fear or guilt. I should have done more for the child when he called on me for help. What would you do if this happened to you? On a deserted stretch of Arizona highway, a faded sign on a sun-parched cabin said, \u201cGifts, Souvenirs, Curios \u2013 Cold Drinks, Ice Cream, Snacks, Coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n

I steered the car into the unpaved parking area. A cold, quenching soft drink would hit the spot, I thought. Dust floated up around my car when I stopped a few feet from the entrance.<\/p>\n

A little bell jingled over the door when I walked in.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A hefty, grey haired woman sat behind the counter, reading a magazine. When she stood up, I saw she was wearing a colorful Mexican dress, its festive design faded and shapeless over her bulk.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood afternoon, sir,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Souvenirs and gifts surround me, on tables, display stands, rotating pedestals, and wall shelves. What stood out the most, however, was behind the woman. A big bleached steer skull, minus the horns, sat on a shelf beside a metal oscillating fan, surveying the room through empty bovine sockets.<\/p>\n

\u201cI like the cow skull,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is a Brahma bull,\u201d said the woman. \u201cNot for sale.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d I said, walking over to a refrigerated cola display case. \u201cWell, it sure adds atmosphere to your shop. What happened to its horns?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople use them for arts and crafts. They take the horns and leave the skull.\u201d<\/p>\n

I picked out an ice-cold orange soda and approached the counter to pay for it.<\/p>\n

High, sustained guitar notes bloomed from the back room like yin-yanging creeper vines. Electric blues licks.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow,\u201d I said. \u201cSounds like Jimi Hendrix back there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s my grandson,\u201d the woman smiled. \u201cMy daughter\u2019s son. He is always practicing that guitar.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t want to tell her I was a talent scout right away. No use getting her hopes up. But the kid was riffing like crazy and it sounded great. Perfect tone and good technique.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s good,\u201d I said. \u201cHow old is he?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNine,\u201d said the woman. \u201cHis father taught him the basics.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWow. Is his dad a professional?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe passed away two years ago,\u201d she said with a quick sign of the cross.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry for your loss,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n

The little bell over the door rang again. In walked a young, twenty-something Mexican girl.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom,\u201d she said rather sternly to the older lady behind the counter. \u201cI hear guitar\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told him to do his math first,\u201d said the grandmother, her English breaking from nervousness. \u201cHe start playing while I\u2019m occupied with the customer. I cannot be to two places.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d said the girl. Then she smiled pleasantly at me and said, \u201cHello.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHello,\u201d I said. \u201cIs that your son jamming like Santana?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yes,\u201d she said. \u201cHe plays good but there is a time and place for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s his name?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

There was an uncomfortable silence. The women looked pensively at each other. The young mother looked at her watch and sighed. I took a drink of my orange soda, thinking, these women probably see all variety of highway travelers stopping here. They don\u2019t want to give out personal information to a complete stranger.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s none of my business.\u201d<\/p>\n

In an unnecessary and meaningless effort to excuse my nosiness, I slid a business card from the wallet I had been holding absentmindedly after paying for my orange drink.<\/p>\n

Offering the card to the young mother, I said, \u201cI\u2019m an A&R guy for Conundrum Records.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t believe the extremely negative reaction to that information. The young woman\u2019s eyes narrowed into angry slits that she fixed accusingly on her mother.<\/p>\n

\u201cMother, how could you? What have I told you about this?!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI say nothing!\u201d cried the grandmother. She looked at me for corroboration of her innocence. \u201cI did nothing!\u201d<\/p>\n

After a speechless moment I said, \u201cIt wasn\u2019t her fault. I\u2019m the one who brought it up. I didn\u2019t mean to upset you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d said the young mother. \u201cIt\u2019s a long story. I\u2019m sorry, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I\u2019ve got to get back on the road,\u201d I said as casually as possible.<\/p>\n

\u201cMomma!\u201d said a muffled child\u2019s voice from the back room.<\/p>\n

The music had stopped and the door to the back room was swinging open.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m coming, Atilano,\u201d said the child\u2019s mother, hurrying to the boy.<\/p>\n

Was she eager to see her son, I wondered, or had she rushed to block him in the doorway? To prevent him from joining us? I tried to see the youthful guitarist but his mother stood in front of him, speaking in a low voice. What was she saying?<\/p>\n

As the two of them disappeared into the back room, the boy started crying.<\/p>\n

\u201cMomma!\u201d he sobbed. \u201cI want to go outside!\u201d<\/p>\n

Then the old grandmother got strange on me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe have to close now!\u201d she told me. \u201cWe are closing, sir!\u201d<\/p>\n

Another dust cloud swirled in my rear view mirror as the tires gripped the blacktop, spinning miles of highway between me and the peculiar family store.<\/p>\n

I was eating breakfast with singer\/songwriter Pete Vrees in Blythe, California, just over the state line from Arizona. Pete had met me here in the lobby of the hotel where I spent the night. The other members of Pete\u2019s band were already laying down instrumental tracks in a Los Angeles recording studio, where we would meet them later today.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long will it take us to get to L.A.?\u201d he asked, trying to wipe an accidental jelly smudge from a page of his Egyptian Book of the Dead (deluxe hardcover edition).<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe three hours,\u201d I said, putting an ice cube from my water glass into my coffee so I could drink it faster. \u201cIf we hurry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood,\u201d he said. \u201cWhen we get there, I can take a nap before the session. I was up half the night reading this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood reading?\u201d I asked Pete as he shoved the last bite of toast into his mouth and turned a glossy page of the Book of the Dead.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d he said distractedly.<\/p>\n

Pete dabbled in mysticism and the occult. It was part of his image, in the tradition of Jim Morrison and Jimmy Page.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet this,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m gonna copy some text from this book onto a sheet of paper, then cut the paper into strips and tape it back together all mixed up.\u201d<\/p>\n

My cell phone rang while I gulped coffee.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I answered the call.<\/p>\n

A muffled little boy\u2019s voice said, \u201cI want to play guitar for audiences.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHello?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said I play good. I play my father\u2019s guitar.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho is this?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cAtilano,\u201d said the child.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAhh- tee- LA- no!\u201d he elucidated impatiently. \u201cI play guitar!\u201d<\/p>\n

He must have found the business card with my phone number on it.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, I remember you,\u201d I said. \u201cBut did you ask your mother if you could call me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe locks me in the room,\u201d said Atilano. \u201cAll the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

A woman\u2019s voice interrupted the boy. I believe it was his mother, scolding him. The boy\u2019s subsequent wail was cut off abruptly by a click of the phone and the line went dead.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomething is wrong,\u201d I said to Pete, and told him about the incident at the gift shop. \u201cWe should call Social Services or the Police or somebody.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d said Pete. \u201cIt might be nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n

The recording session went late into the night. I slept most of the next day and met the band again Sunday evening for another all-night session. Monday, around noon, Pete Vrees woke me up with a phone call.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I yawned into the phone.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m worried about that kid at the gift shop,\u201d said Pete.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cI should have told somebody.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI did, Bill. Jerry\u2019s dad is a State Trooper!\u201d<\/p>\n

Jerry plays drums in Pete\u2019s band.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did the trooper say?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe wants to go check it out, but I don\u2019t know where the gift shop is. You\u2019ve got to show us.\u201d<\/p>\n

A few hours later, Pete and I pulled into the unpaved parking area in front of the gift shop, followed by an Arizona Highway Patrol car. My car had barely stopped moving when Pete jumped anxiously out of the passenger side. The tall police officer approached us sullenly in his mirror sunglasses and gray trooper hat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy don\u2019t you guys wait outside a couple of minutes,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll go in and speak to the proprietor.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAlright,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

Pete put his hands on his hips impatiently and looked up at the gathering gray storm clouds, which darkened the evening sky.<\/p>\n

Watching the cop enter the shop, Pete said, \u201cI\u2019m going around back in case somebody makes a run for it. Is there a back door?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow would I know?\u201d I said, following Pete around the corner of the old wood frame building. \u201cI stopped in for a soda.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was, in fact, a back door. We stood there, looking at it.<\/p>\n

A fat drop of rain splattered on the top of my head. Pete watched more raindrops collecting on his upturned palms.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell?\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s not supposed to rain.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt almost never rains out here,\u201d I agreed.<\/p>\n

A deafening peal of thunder announced the full-blown downpour.<\/p>\n

We squinted up at a swirling phantasm of black clouds, rain stinging our faces like darts.<\/p>\n

Pete tried the doorknob, instinctively seeking shelter. The back door opened and we went inside.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe freakin\u2019 four horsemen are sliding out of their saddles,\u201d said Pete in a low voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe shouldn\u2019t have come in this way,\u201d I said. \u201cWhat is that noise?\u201d<\/p>\n

We heard a low electric hum.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook!\u201d said Pete in a loud whisper.<\/p>\n

A beautiful sunburst electric guitar stood upright in its stand, next to a vintage leather-covered Supro amplifier. The escalating drone of feedback meant that someone had left the guitar plugged in and powered up.<\/p>\n

\u201cCheck it out,\u201d said Pete, lightly touching the guitar strings to stop the hum. \u201cClassic1957 Fender Stratocaster, maple \u201cV\u201d neck, and a tube amp, probably from the same year.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat must be what the kid was playing,\u201d I said, stating the obvious. \u201cBut where\u2019s the kid?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t touch anything!\u201d said the State Trooper, standing in the doorway from the front room. \u201cWhat are you doing in here, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s pissing buckets out there,\u201d said Pete.<\/p>\n

I finally noticed how wet Pete and I were.<\/p>\n

A moan came from the front room.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s an injured woman in the gift shop. A senior citizen. I called for an ambulance. You guys need to come up front.\u201d<\/p>\n

Someone or something had wreaked havoc in the gift shop. Rotating display stands were toppled over. Tables with broken legs tilted, spilling ceramic knick-knacks, rubber scorpions, and little wooden outhouses onto the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt looks like a cyclone hit the place,\u201d said Pete.<\/p>\n

Lying on the floor amid broken merchandise, the gray-haired grandmother muttered incoherently. Blood soaked the shoulders of her colorful Mexican dress.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened?\u201d I asked the Trooper.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wish I knew. I called for an evidence van as well as an ambulance. She has the teeth marks of an animal on her neck.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pete knelt beside the woman, listening to her words.<\/p>\n

\u201cAy\u00fademe, Dios. Ahhhh, Dios.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pete translated.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe is saying, \u2018Help me, God.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Upon hearing Pete\u2019s voice, the old lady\u2019s eyes opened wide.<\/p>\n

\u201cEll cr\u00e1neo que chilla!\u201d she said hysterically. \u201cEl cr\u00e1neo de la calamidad!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did she say?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

Pete stood up, his face pale as a ghost.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, man!\u201d he said. \u201cScreaming skull. Skull of calamity.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSkull of what?\u201d I asked impatiently.<\/p>\n

The grandmother seemed to be getting a second wind.<\/p>\n

\u201cEl cr\u00e1neo que chilla!\u201d she cried. \u201cCalamidad, oh Dios!\u201d<\/p>\n

Pete looked at me seriously and asked, \u201cHave you ever heard of the Screaming Skull legends?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMost of the stories come from England,\u201d he said. \u201cOne of the best documented accounts took place around 1790 at Higher Farm in Somerset, England. The owner of the farm said that when he died, he wanted his skull to be kept in the farmhouse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know, so he could, like, watch over his household from beyond the grave, or something. So his family kept his skull in a cabinet. Over the years, any attempt to remove the skull from the house, to dispose of it, resulted in poltergeist activity, horses going crazy in the stable, terrible thunderstorms, weird noises . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn England, maybe,\u201d said the cop. \u201cThis is the Arizona desert.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cActually,\u201d said Pete, \u201cA guy named Olsen Archer wrote a book about American screaming skulls, which he says are rare because the United States is such a young country, compared to England.\u201d<\/p>\n

For the first time, I noticed the steer skull was missing.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere was a bull skull on that shelf!\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNah,\u201d said Pete. \u201cIt\u2019s always a human skull, not an animal.\u201d<\/p>\n

Subdued guitar notes drifted from the back room.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the kid,\u201d I whispered. \u201cHe must have been hiding somewhere.\u201d<\/p>\n

Pete and the State Trooper followed as I quietly opened the door to the back room. The young boy, Atilano, stood with his back to us, head down in concentration, playing silvery arpeggios on his Fender Stratocaster.<\/p>\n

The life of Atilano\u2019s father, we learned later, was a tragic one. Everyone who listened to his demo tapes called him one of the best guitarists they ever heard. But the problem of presenting this unfortunate soul to the public seemed insurmountable, due to a serious birth defect.<\/p>\n

Little Atilano turned slowly to look at us.<\/p>\n

A combination of pity and horror overwhelmed me.<\/p>\n

The boy had inherited his father\u2019s elongated, bristly snout, flaring nostrils, watery rolling eyes, drooping ears . . .<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

While the boy\u2019s grandmother recuperated in the hospital, Atilano\u2019s young mother retrieved the misshapen skull of her child\u2019s father from where she had buried it. It was the third, and last, time she tried to bury the memory of what happened almost ten years ago. When she was only sixteen, she had wandered into a barn. The barn later became an old sun-parched wooden gift shop, but in those days it was the place where Atilano\u2019s grandparents kept their deformed son hidden away from society.<\/p>\n

The boy still has my business card. I don\u2019t know what I will do if he actually calls me. Maybe it\u2019s time. Atilano has a \u201cNo Fear\u201d bumper sticker on the side of his amplifier. Maybe the world is ready.<\/p><\/div>\n

The End <\/em>
\nAtilano’s Blues<\/em>
\nCopyright \u00a9 2007 by Bill Ectric, All Rights Reserved<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By Bill Ectric Bill Ectric has been featured on the web by Literary Kicks, Dogmatika, Mystery Island, The Beat, Syntax of Things, Empty Mirror Books, 99 Burning, Lit Up Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, and Minnesota Public Radio. Bill\u2019s first novel, Tamper, is the rollicking story of two young fans of unexplained mystery and arcane […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[806,80,471],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3035","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-author-bill-ectric","category-fiction","category-weird-tales"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3035","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3035"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3035\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3042,"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3035\/revisions\/3042"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3035"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3035"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/candlelightstories.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3035"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}