The Book
"I learned to play electric guitar before I began kindergarten," seventeen-year-old Sean McCullin claimed when he tried out for the lead guitarist job in a local rock band that was on the verge of getting a record deal. "Hell, I was practically born with a Stratocaster in my hand."
"You can definitely play that thing," the lead singer agreed. "I'll give you that. You're still in school, though, aren't you?"
"Yeah, but I graduate in June. That's only two months away."
"When do you turn eighteen?"
"Next February."
"Sorry, but you're just too young. We play a lot of bars and ...."
"I wouldn't be going there to drink," the teenager argued.
"That's true, but there are laws prohibiting minors from working late hours. No, we need someone who can play until two or three in the morning. I'm sorry, kid."
It was not the first time Sean had been rejected because of his young age. Four other bands had already turned him down for the same reason. Although he was currently lead guitarist for a group of teenagers that played school dances, graduations and birthday parties, he hoped to join professional musicians and begin what he hoped would be a lifelong career in music.
By the night of his high school graduation, however, the young guitar player had yet to make the appropriate connections. A week later he took a job on the loading dock of a nearby Walmart distribution center. He was not too disheartened by this necessary entry into the labor force. Even at seventeen and still living at home, he had bills to pay: cell phone, car insurance and gasoline. Besides, some of his idols had once worked at menial jobs. Kurt Cobain was employed as a janitor; Davie Bowie made deliveries for a butcher; Mick Jagger was employed as a porter in a psychiatric hospital; Rod Stewart made his living as a gravedigger; Keith Richards was a ball boy at a tennis club; Freddie Mercury worked as a baggage handler at Heathrow Airport. They all had it as bad if not worse than Sean, and yet they all went on to have wildly successful careers in music.
And Ozzy Osbourne worked at a slaughterhouse, he thought with a grimace. I'd sooner be loading trucks than working around dead animals.
For the next eight months, Sean was a conscientious employee who never missed a day's work and was late only once—and that was through no fault of his own. The road on which the distribution center was located was temporarily closed due to a four-car pile-up. Still, he did not give up his dreams of a career in rock 'n' roll. He continued to audition for any band looking for a guitarist, only to be repeatedly told that he was too young. Come February, his luck would surely change, he hoped. At eighteen he could play long into the night without fear of interference from the authorities.
The night of Sean McCullin's eighteenth birthday, he and his two closest friends attended a Nemesis concert. The tickets to the sold-out event were given to him by his uncle who worked for a radio station and included backstage passes. When the young guitarist beheld the members of the heavy metal band up close and in person, he felt as though he were being presented to royalty.
"I ... I'd like to a musician someday, too," he stammered when he came face to face with Stu Isley, Nemesis' world-renowned frontman. "I began taking guitar lessons when I was four."
"No kidding?" the exhausted singer said, anxious to return to his hotel and get some much-needed sleep but willing to talk to his young fan. "Are you in a band now?"
"Kinda, it's just some local kids from school. But now that I'm eighteen, I'm old enough to play in bars and clubs."
"I suppose you could use some sound advice then."
Isley reached into his jeans pocket, took out a business card and handed it to Sean.
"Go see this man. He'll help you out."
"Braxton Dyce?" the teenager asked, reading the name printed on it. "What is he, a manager?"
"Yes and no. He's more of a Jacques factotum: a Jack of all trades."
"Hey, thanks a lot."
As more and more fans entered the crowded dressing room, Sean and his friends were shoved out of the way. Brief though it was, the meeting with Stu Isley was to be a fateful one.
* * *
Eager to meet with Braxton Dyce at the earliest possible time, Sean decided to call him first thing Monday morning. When he took the business card out of his wallet, however, he discovered there was no phone number on it, just an address. Since his shift at Walmart did not start until late afternoon, he had plenty of time to travel into the city and pay a personal call.
After getting off the bus, Sean walked four blocks to the address on the business card.
"Suite 1327," he read and took the elevator up to the thirteenth floor.
Please let him be in, he silently prayed as he turned the handle and pushed on the door.
There was no receptionist or waiting room. Richly decorated in what appeared to be black onyx and white marble, the immense office held only a desk and two chairs. On the walls were framed photos of rock 'n' roll's greatest icons.
"Hello?" he called into the empty room. "Is anyone here?"
"Can I help you, young man?"
The voice coming from behind him startled Sean. He turned around and saw a distinguished-looking man in an expensively tailored suit, standing in the doorway.
"Mr. Dyce?"
"That's me. Who are you?"
"My name's Sean McCullin. Stu Isley gave me your card and told me to contact you."
"He did, huh? You must be a singer."
"No."
"Songwriter?"
"I play guitar."
"Are you as good as he was?" Braxton asked, jerking his thumb toward the framed photo of Jimi Hendrix.
"No," the young man admitted, "but I've been told I'm very good."
"And you want me to make you a rock star. Right?"
"Stu Isley said ...."
"I don't care what he says. I prefer to make up my own mind."
Sean felt perspiration bead up on his brow as Braxton stared at him, seemingly sizing him up.
"Have a seat, kid."
Apparently, I passed the test, the teenager thought with relief.
"So, what did Stu tell you about me?" the older man asked.
"Just that you might be able to help me out."
"He didn't mention what I expected in return?"
"No. I assume you take a percentage of anything I might make."
"I don't need the money, kid," Braxton declared.
"What is it you want then?"
"What I always want: your soul."
"Very funny," Sean said and laughed uneasily.
"I'm not joking. Don't you know who I am?"
"Stu Isley said you were a—what did he call it?—a Jacques factotum."
"A Jack of all trades? I suppose you could call me that. For eons, those like me have been making trades with humans. You want to be famous. Right? Are you willing to trade your soul in exchange?"
"You're talking as though you're the devil!"
"No, I'm not Lucifer, but I do serve him. My real name is Amduscias. I'm a grand duke of hell, a former commander of legions who fought alongside Lucifer during the Fall. Now I and others like me serve him by recruiting souls. Since I've always had a preference for music, I mostly seek out musicians, singers, composers and songwriters."
"Look, if this is some kind of joke ...," Sean began, rising from his seat.
"Sit down, kid!" Braxton thundered; immediately his demeanor softened. "I got something to show you."
Suddenly, a guitar appeared on the ebony desk, apparently out of thin air. It was not just any guitar. It was a 1968 Olympic white Fender Stratocaster.
"Hendrix played the national anthem on it at Woodstock," Dyce announced.
Sean was overcome by an onrush of several emotions, fear being high among them. But the most prominent was reverence.
"I've seen videos of that performance," he said, staring wide-eyed at the instrument as though it were a religious icon. "It was legendary."
"Go ahead and try it."
"Really?"
The teenager gingerly picked up the guitar as though it might shatter in a million pieces if he was not careful.
"Where did you get this?" he asked. "It belongs in a museum."
"It doesn't matter. Are you going to play or not?"
Although he was no Hendrix, Sean did justice to Jimi's "Voodoo Child."
"You sound pretty good," Braxton said. "Not that it matters. Robert Johnson played like shit before I signed him."
"Are you saying you knew Robert Johnson? The Robert Johnson?" the teenager asked, still not believing the fantastic story. "That's impossible. He died back in 1938—more than eighty years ago."
"So? I told you. I'm one of Lucifer's fallen angels. I'm immortal. I was there when Nero played his fiddle, Orpheus strummed his lute and Joshua blew his horn. Oh, I don't blame you for being skeptical. People nowadays don't believe in anything except money."
"You have to admit your story is a bit farfetched."
The Stratocaster vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"That's impressive but David Copperfield once made the Statue of Liberty disappear in front of a live audience."
"I don't do cheap tricks, kid."
The ebony desk on which Jim Hendrix's guitar recently sat was now covered with a pile of CDs, gold and platinum records, four Grammy Awards and three American Music Awards.
"Who's Loki?" Sean asked after picking up one of the band's CDs. "I never heard of ...."
He was stunned into silence when he saw his own face and name on the cover art.
"This is your future, if you want it," Braxton explained. "You'll be as famous as Jimmy Page and Eddie Van Halen, a legend like Keith Richards and Brian May. You'll be the Eric Clapton of your generation."
"You can really do this?" the teenager asked, daring to hope Dyce was really who he claimed to be.
"All you have to do is sign."
The Loki memorabilia disappeared, replaced by a massive, ancient book—measuring roughly eight inches in depth—that looked as though it had been around since the dawn of time. Braxton opened the aged volume to a blank page more than halfway through the book. With a wave of his manicured hand, writing suddenly appeared. It spelled out in simple English the terms of the deal: in exchange for fame and fortune as a guitar-playing rock star, Sean McCullin agreed that upon his death his soul would become the property of Amduscias, acting as agent for Lucifer, Prince of Darkness.
"Everything seems pretty straightforward," the young musician said. "I don't suppose I have to consult a lawyer before I sign."
"Dealing with hell's representatives isn't bad enough," Braxton laughed, "you would contact a lawyer, too?"
"Have you got a pen?"
Sean felt a sharp pain in this right thumb as though someone had pricked it with a needle.
"You don't need to write your name with ink. Just seal the deal with your bloody thumbprint."
There was an odd smile of amusement and disbelief on the teenager's face as he looked down at his sanguineous signature.
* * *
When he opened the envelope and found a birthday card from his parents inside, Sean McCullin shook his head.
My birthday's not for another three weeks. They, of all people, ought to know that! he thought.
It had been nearly a decade since he met Stu Isley, the frontman for Nemesis. During the intervening years, his life had drastically changed. In just under ten years, he became one of the foremost stars in rock 'n' roll. But as Freddie Mercury once sang, his climb to fame and fortune had "been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise."
In 1969 an article in LIFE magazine claimed, "The counter culture has its sacraments in sex, drugs and rock." Although written half a century ago, those words remained pretty accurate. Sean, like so many musicians before him, embraced all three with unfettered passion. His hedonistic lifestyle led to two expensive divorces and a number of romantic affairs that ended disastrously. Also, his drug use resulted in three arrests for possession and two stints in a rehabilitation facility that did little to curb his use of illegal substances or consumption of alcohol. Worst of all, somewhere along the line, he had lost his joy in making music. Playing the guitar became a mere job, much like loading trucks at Walmart had been—only it paid a hell of a lot better!
Sean leaned back on his recliner, put his feet up and reached for the television remote. Early the next morning, he would board the band's private jet, which would take Loki to London, the first stop on its extended European tour. There was a time when he eagerly anticipated going on the road and enjoyed traveling to such as places as Tokyo, Paris, Stockholm, Sydney, Barcelona and Milan. Eventually, however, even the most beautiful cities became lost in a blur of hotel rooms, restaurants, taxicabs, concert venues and backstage dressing rooms.
After twenty minutes of watching a Civil War documentary on the History channel, the jaded guitarist closed his eyes and dozed off. He was still sound asleep in his La-Z-Boy when the car arrived to take him to the airport.
"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed when he saw the driver at his door. "I didn't realize what time it was."
"Don't worry, sir. We've got plenty of time until you flight is scheduled to leave," the chauffeur assured him.
"I'm not worried. They'd never take off without me. Give me ten minutes to hop in the shower and get dressed. Want a cup of coffee?"
"I wouldn't mind one."
"There's a coffeemaker in the kitchen. Help yourself. And can you make a cup for me, too, while you're at it?"
As usual, there was heavy traffic en route to the airport. Sitting in the back seat of the limo, Sean felt his cup of coffee begin to put pressure on his bladder. He was feeling decidedly uncomfortable by the time the driver pulled up to the unloading zone of the international flights terminal. Unable to wait until he boarded the band's jet, he hurried toward the first public restroom on the concourse.
That feels better, he thought with relief as he pushed on the door to exit the men's room.
"What the ...?"
Sean crossed the threshold not into the terminal's concourse but into a darkened room.
"This isn't the way out."
He turned around to reenter the restroom, but there was no door behind him. When his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, his surroundings stirred a memory he had long forgotten. Richly decorated in what appeared to be black onyx and white marble, the room held only a desk and two chairs. On the walls were photographs of rock 'n' roll's greatest icons inside twenty-four-carat-gold frames.
"This looks like Braxton Dyce's office, but that's impossible. It's three thousand miles away."
With no exit in sight, he walked toward the ebony desk. On top of it was the antiquated book he had signed nearly a decade earlier.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" he called, his voice echoing back in the empty room.
When he received no answer, he sat down in the chair behind the desk and opened the book. The first several pages were so faded they were barely legible. The little he could read he could not understand, for they had been written in languages of long-dead civilizations. He quickly thumbed through hundreds of pages, many in Greek, Latin, Ancient Egyptian and even Sanskrit. The only thing that made any sense to him was the rusty red stains of the dried bloodspots.
Nearly halfway through the book, he finally found writing he could comprehend.
"Louis Chavin," he read.
Handwritten notes at the bottom of the page indicated that Chavin (1881-1908) was a ragtime piano player and composer. Following this entry were several written in foreign languages including French, Russian, German and Spanish. As he continued to browse through the brittle, yellowed pages of text, he found a name he recognized: Robert Johnson (1911-1938). Blues singer and guitarist.
"So, the old legend is true. He did sell his soul to the devil. I wonder how many other musicians did the same."
Reading only those pages written in English, Sean saw an assortment of jazz, gospel, R&B, and early rock 'n' roll singers, musicians and composers. Since the book followed a strict chronological order, he soon encountered names that were still fresh in people's minds: Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain. When he read Amy Winehouse's name, his heart began to pound.
"They all died young!"
Specifically, they all died at the age of twenty-seven.
"I signed this book, too, ... and my twenty-eighth birthday is three weeks away."
With a trembling hand, he skipped over the more recently deceased singers, rappers, songwriters and musicians to find his own page. Upon seeing his name at the top, his eyes immediately went to the handwritten notes at the bottom: (1992-2019). Lead guitarist for the rock band Loki.
"This is wrong! I'm not dead; I'm still alive."
"No, you're not."
Sean looked up at the face of the being he knew as Braxton Dyce.
"But I'm only twenty-seven. That's too young to die."
"Look back in the book again. Every one of the people on those pages died at the same age. Not one of the thousands of entries lived to see his or her twenty-eighth year."
"Can't you undo the last decade, take all the fame and money away and let me go back to loading trucks at Walmart?"
"Sorry, no can do. But look at the bright side. You're joining the ranks of Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison. You'll be more than a star; you'll be a legend."
"I'd rather live to a ripe old age."
"I hate to rush you, but we've got to get a move on. Lucifer is waiting, and I've got to sign a young girl from Bucksnort, Tennessee, who wants to be the next Loretta Lynn."
* * *
When Loki walked out on stage in London with a new lead guitarist, British fans paid homage to their late band member by running their virtual candle apps and raising their cell phones in the air. Only two days earlier, Sean McCullin had been found dead in an airport men's room. The official cause of death was given as heart failure, but most people believed he was a victim of his heavy drug use.
Only Amduscias, the fallen angel and grand duke of hell, who occasionally went by the name of Braxton Dyce, knew what really silenced Sean's guitar. It was the overpowering desire for fame and fortune, even at the expense of his immortal soul.
This story was inspired by the legend of the 27 Club. My tale is pure fiction. I'm sure the musicians mentioned herein did not actually sell their souls to the devil, and their deaths at the age of 27 is pure coincidence.
Salem has been taking guitar lessons since he was a small kitten. I don't have the heart to tell him he still can't play worth a damn!
