“I HAVE TO fire one of you, Maxwell. Times are tough, and the owner can’t be expected to pay both of your wages. We need to cut costs. I mean, what with the Panic last year—did you know that 35 percent of New York is unemployed? People just aren’t buying like they used to.”

I nodded along numbly. Of course I knew. I passed the lines for the soup kitchens every day on the way to work and counted myself blessed not to be among them. It had been a terrible year, 1893.

My boss, Mr. Highmore, lit a cigar and continued, “Good lad. Knew you’d understand.”

I hung my head and stood. My voice cracked as I held back tears. I was not about to cry in his office. “I’ll g-get my things…”

“Oh?” He let out a barking laugh. “Don’t be absurd, Maxwell. It’s not you that I’m firing.” My heart leapt, and I sighed with relief, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “It’s McKenna.”

“What?” My stomach dropped. “You can’t fire Cillian!”

Mr. Highmore blinked stupidly at me. No one spoke back to him. The manager was a large man of English descent, in full favor with the shop’s owner, and as such, he was used to getting his way.

“M-McKenna has a sister and infant nephew to care for,” I remarked, unable to look him in the eye. “Please, sir, you can’t fire him now.”

“Damned Irish, breeding like rodents.” Mr. Highmore scoffed, blowing smoke in my direction. “I can’t be blamed for that. No, McKenna’s got to go.”

“Can I have a week to think about it?”

“‘Think about it?’ What’s there to think about? It’s you or McKenna!”

“Please, sir. Just one week?”

“Surely you don’t mean to sacrifice your livelihood for his! Whatever for?”

I remained silent, but resolute. I clenched and unclenched my hands at my sides.

Finally, he sighed and shook his massive head. “All right, fine. I can’t lose both of you.” He narrowed his eyes and jabbed his cigar at me. “You’re a fool, Theodore Maxwell. A damned fool. Take your week and think hard on it.”

Leaving Mr. Highmore’s office with my head down wasn’t that unusual. I had the apologetic stoop of the overly tall and the shuffle of one who wore thick glasses. I wasn’t much to look at. Unlike Cillian McKenna.

He stood in the entryway of the Second Chance Resale Shop, sweeping out snow that the customers had tracked in. He was of shorter than average height, with rusty brown hair and the fiercest green eyes I had ever seen. When he turned and saw me, his grin became a frown of concern. He set down his broom in the corner of the entryway and picked his way through the maze of tables and racks, all brimming with secondhand items. With everyone selling their possessions to put food on the table, the Second Chance was never short on merchandise. Books, fur coats, instruments, toys—you name it, we had it.

“What’s wrong, Theo?” Cillian asked in his fine Irish brogue. “Did Highmore bully you again?”

“N-no.”

“He did, didn’t he. Your eyes are red.”

“It’s just the smoke—”

“He’s a bloody ogre!” Cillian clasped my shoulder, rocking me on my heels. “Well, come on, out with it. What did he say?”

“He, um…” I wracked my brain for a convenient lie. I couldn’t tell him the truth. “He told me I look sharper without my glasses. He asked me not to wear them.”

“Again? I thought the matter was settled when you ran into a set of china.”

My cheeks colored at the memory. I’d ruined the whole set, and the crash still resounded in my head when I thought about it. It had come out of my paycheck too. Cillian sighed and stretched to throw an arm around my shoulder. I leaned down so he didn’t have to stand on the tips of his toes.

“You can’t let him bother you, Theo,” he said.

“I know, I know.”

“You’re twice the man he is, glasses and all.”

I blushed, my mouth twitching toward a smile.

Cillian grinned and clasped my shoulder. “There we go. Good man.”

The door chimed. Cillian released me while we both put on our best customer service smiles. I needn’t have bothered, however; it was my friend, Frederick Watkins. At twenty-three, Freddie was younger than me by a couple years, but we’d been neighbors in the days before my father died. He was my best customer, and today, he wanted a phonograph.

“I mean to propose to Jessica with it,” he explained. “I’ll play her some music, and just when she least expects it, I’ll hand her the cylinder. She’ll turn it on, and then my recorded voice will pop the question. When she turns around, I’ll be on bended knee with this.” He took a lovely golden ring from his pocket.

“That’s—wait, Jessica? What happened to Felicity?”

“Felicity is old news,” Freddie said, waving the name away. “Jessica and I have been courting for three weeks.”

“I see.”

“You should see her, Theo. Golden hair, the deepest blue eyes, a trim figure, and a laugh like an angel! Why, she would stir even your blood.”

“My blood is just fine, thank you.” I sniffed and readjusted my glasses. “Let me check if we have any phonographs in stock.”

I went to the back room, where our newest merchandise awaited processing. There on the counter sat an Edison Home Model D. The wood gleamed, the steel was polished, and the black witch’s hat horn was in perfect condition. It even came with a recording stylus and a wax cylinder. It was a beautiful piece of equipment, and I wondered how I’d missed it this morning. Just as I picked it up, a wave of dread went through me, and I nearly dropped the machine.

Mr. Highmore loomed in the doorway. I smelled his cigar smoke without having to turn around.

“Are you selling that?” he asked, and I nodded, unable to speak. I didn’t like having my back to him. “Erase that cylinder before you do.”

“What?”

“There’s a crude recording on that. I want it erased before you sell it.”

“Oh.” What sort of recording would Mr. Highmore find crude? “Yes, of course!”

“Good lad.”

I felt him recede. I took the wax cylinder off the mandrel and set about shaving off the recording. When it was finished, I brought the phonograph out to Freddie. He was deep in conversation with Cillian, who leaned against his broom with an amused glint in his eye as Freddie described the virtues of his latest girlfriend. I pursed my lips.

“Here we are.” I placed the phonograph onto the table.

“It’s marvelous,” Freddie replied. He found a spot near the bedplate where the veneer had chipped and rubbed at it with his finger, frowning.

“That won’t affect the sound,” I reassured him.

“Oh, good. How much is this, by the way?” he asked, and I told him the price. He smiled again. “Wonderful. It’s so hard to find a decently priced phonograph these days. If I had to buy one new, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the ring!”

Freddie purchased the phonograph and then said his goodbyes, looking the very image of happiness as he walked out into the snow. I shivered as I waved him off. It was cold in the entryway, but it warmed again as soon as the door closed.

 

A FEW DAYS later, I was still agonizing over what to do. I’d looked over my finances, and I could scarcely afford a month without employment. The apartment alone took up much of my wages, not to mention food. What would I do if I couldn’t find another job? I had no family to stay with. I would be out on the streets, lining up at the soup kitchens with the other poor souls. I passed a kitchen as I walked to work. The line went clear around the block.

I pictured Cillian standing in such a line, his hair dusted with snow. He would no doubt give up his coat to shield his sister and her infant from the worst of it. That was just the kind of man he was. In my mind, they stood at the back of the line, freezing as they waited. If that happened, would the pride be lost from those emerald eyes of his?

I shook my head. No, I had a few more days to think on it. Through the snow, I trudged on. I had no sooner entered the shop doorway when Mr. Highmore rounded upon me. Clutching my hat, I shrank back.

“I thought you sold that thing,” he said, jabbing his finger at the phonograph on the table.

I stammered something about needing to see it first and made a cursory inspection. Judging from the chipped veneer, it was indeed the same phonograph. I nodded meekly.

“Then why did I find it left at the door this morning?”

“I-I’m not sure…”

Had Freddie tried to return it?

“There are no returns,” Mr. Highmore said as if reading my mind. “Besides, you don’t return something by leaving it at the door!”

“Is it broken?”

“Check it yourself. And have you given any thought to—” He broke off as the door chimed, and Cillian entered the shop, his overcoat encrusted in snow. Mr. Highmore’s cheeks grew pink from the cold air. “McKenna! Look at that muck you’re tracking in!”

“Sorry, sir.” Cillian stood halfway in the doorway, shaking out his hat and overcoat.

“You’re letting out all the heat!”

“Sorry, sir.”

Once Mr. Highmore’s back was turned, Cillian rolled his eyes at me. I bit my lip to stifle a smile.

Mr. Highmore followed us into the back room, where we hung up our overcoats and hats. He continued, “We’d better have customers today, even in this weather.”

“I’m sure we will, sir,” Cillian said dutifully.

“Hmph,” Mr. Highmore said with a grunt before returning to his toasty office. He shut the door behind him. We wouldn’t see much of him for the rest of the day.

“Bloody nuisance is what he is,” Cillian said as we returned to the sales floor. “I reckon we could handle the shop just fine between the two of us. I don’t know why the owner keeps him on. He doesn’t do much at all.”

“He buys the merchandise.”

“You could do that. You’ve a good eye for appraisals. You’d give out a fair price too.”

I blushed at his praise. Of course he was just being nice to me.

Cillian took the broom and managed to sweep out the melting snow the three of us had tracked in. I grabbed the mop to help. Between the two of us, the floors were soon sparkling. That left me with the phonograph. I frowned at it, wondering why it had been returned and in such a careless manner. Freddie had money, but not so much as to throw away such an expensive toy.

“Does it work?” Cillian asked.

“Let’s see.” I took a section of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 9 from our box of wax records and placed it on the mandrel. The cutting stylus was still in place, so I fished through our box of phonograph pieces for a playback one. Once that was finished, I wound the box and set the stylus. Orchestral music filled the room. “It works wonderfully.”

“I wish I had one of those.” Cillian sighed.

“Perhaps someday you will.”

“Only if it was on sale.”

“Turn that racket off!” Mr. Highmore shouted from inside his office.

We did as he commanded. Cillian pulled faces in his direction while I wished for Cillian’s bravery. We left the phonograph on the front table and then set about cleaning the shop, for there was nothing else to do for a full hour before the customers arrived.

When they did show up, we sold coats, books, and board games mostly. Everyone wanted something to do should they become snowed in. Around midday, I started wondering what had happened to Freddie and his proposal. Had it gone wrong?

“Something troubling you?” Cillian asked as we closed the doors for lunch. We sat in the back room eating our sandwiches, nested among the junk.

“I’m worried about Freddie. Do you think she turned him down?”

Cillian snorted. “If she did, I think your friend will bounce back again soon enough. He’s in love with being in love, that one.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Do you think you’ll ever marry, Theo?”

“M-me?” I blushed and nearly choked on my ham and cheese. “Heavens no. What girl would want me?”

“Plenty of girls would love a man like you,” Cillian said with a wry grin. “You’re kind and loyal.”

“Clumsy is what I am.”

“It’s endearing.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I said, my cheeks blazing. “I’m a terror to have around the house. Mother always said so.”

“With all due respect to your mother, I think you’re a delight to have around the shop.”

Cillian continued with his sandwich while I sat in turmoil, my mouth too dry to eat. How could I possibly let such a good friend end up in the workhouse? No, not even in the workhouse, for even that was full. Damn this Panic, and damn myself for being so indecisive. I was the worst sort of person.

After lunch, a well-dressed woman came in looking for something to entertain the guests at her dinner party. Who would come to a dinner party in this weather was anyone’s guess, but that was what she wanted. I showed her our board games, but she dismissed them. I showed her some small gifts she could use as party favors, but she was uninterested in those too. Finally, her eyes lit upon the phonograph, and she brightened.

“It’s just the sort of thing that would liven up my party,” she said. “How much is it?”

I told her the price, and after taking off a dollar for the chipped veneer, she agreed it was reasonable. Next, I showed her the box of wax records, and she ended up buying a few of those as well. Her purchases were too heavy for her to carry herself, so we arranged for her husband to come pick everything up by the end of the day. She left with a smile on her face. Cillian, meanwhile, trailed his fingers across the polished wood and sighed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing.” He straightened up and grinned at me. “I had this harebrained idea that I’d be able to purchase this for my sister. Silly, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps the next one?”

“Yes, the next one,” he said, though he didn’t sound sure of it.

After work, I stopped by Freddie’s house to see what had happened. I knocked on the door, but had no answer. After waiting for a few minutes, once it was clear the house was empty, I turned to leave. A neighbor, who lived in the very same house my parents and I had once occupied, came out to the porch. He stared at me, underdressed for the weather in just his shirtsleeves. His ill-fitting shirt sagged around his middle as though accustomed to a heavier man.

“Hello,” I said, just to be polite.

He merely continued to stare at me.

I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for Frederick Watkins.” More staring. “I’m a friend of his.”

“Oh, I thought you were one of those reporters,” he finally replied, beckoning me over to his porch.

I tramped through the snow to his front door, which was still open, and blessedly warm air hit my face. I averted my eyes to avoid looking inside the house, not wanting to see how much it had changed. “Reporters?”

“Oh, yes. Haven’t you heard the news?”

“No,” I said, wishing he would stop baiting me and get on with it. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“A murder’s what’s happened.”

“A murder!”

“Aye, a murder,” he said, nodding. He took out a pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco. “Young Mr. Watkins shot his lady friend before turning the gun on himself. The family’s gone north to visit relatives and escape the media circus. Such a tragedy.”

My voice shaking, I bid him thanks and went on my way home. Surely, he must have been mistaken. Freddie was a womanizer but a harmless one. A murder-suicide? Did Freddie even own a gun? No, the man must have been mistaken. That was what I told myself, but when I went to a stand and bought a newspaper, my friend’s picture stared back at me from the front page.

 

THE NEXT DAY, I came to work ill. Freddie had haunted my dreams all night. In the nightmare, there was a bullet hole above his right ear, and every time he spoke, it oozed blood. The things he told me were horrible, but I found that, by morning, I didn’t remember them, only a lingering feeling that everything was my fault. Perhaps not remembering was for the best.

“You look terrible,” Cillian said, breaking away from an early customer. “Is everything all right?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I mumbled. I went to the back room to hang up my hat and overcoat and found Mr. Highmore waiting for me. I stared down at him, my eyes no doubt ringed by shadows. I was too tired to be timid.

“Jesus, Maxwell, what’s wrong with you?”

“I didn’t sleep well,” I said, which was a sidestep rather than an outright lie. I didn’t feel the need to tell him about Freddie.

“Well, you’re late,” he replied, checking his watch. “You’ll have to work through lunch to make up for it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Highmore nodded, started to return to his office, then paused. “And didn’t you sell that phonograph?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why’s it back again?”

I blinked in confusion. Sure enough, when I went back to the sales floor, I found the same phonograph waiting for me, chipped veneer and all. For a moment, I was spared thoughts of Freddie. How was it back? Mr. Highmore never allowed returns.

“It was on the stoop this morning,” Cillian informed me.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with it?”

“It worked just fine yesterday.”

There was already a cylinder on the mandrel, so I wound it up and set the stylus. It played as beautifully as it had the day before. I turned it off before Mr. Highmore yelled at me again. It was a complete and utter mystery.

When the phonograph didn’t sell that day, I resolved to take it home and find out why it had been returned. I caught Cillian eying it as I started out the door. I remembered he had wanted to purchase it.

“I’m trying to find out what’s wrong with it,” I told him.

“Perhaps I could help?”

“You?” My face grew hot at the thought of inviting Cillian to my apartment.

He laughed. “I am rather good with equipment.”

“Y-yes, of course.” I shook my head, trying to fight the blush on my cheeks. “I’d be delighted to have you over.”

“Give me your address,” he said, pulling on his overcoat. “I’ll be right over after I check on Mary and Thomas.”

“Wonderful.”

I hefted the phonograph and walked home. The apartment was a dreadful mess. I hadn’t dusted in weeks, and there were books scattered across the tables and chairs. I cleaned in a hurry, imagining Cillian arriving at any moment. In reality, he showed up two hours later. I was still in my suit from work, but he now wore a more casual vest and tie. I should have changed. I ushered him inside.

“So sorry I’m late. The baby was colicky and my sister needed a rest,” he explained as I brought him some tea. Seated in my father’s old armchair, Cillian looked around and let out a low whistle. I was mortified. He thought my apartment disgusting. “You have a lovely home.”

“You’re just being kind.”

“I meant every word.”

“Oh. Thank you…”

He chuckled. “You always assume the worst, Theo.”

“Why would you think that?”

“How long have we worked together? A year? A little more?”

“Perhaps?”

“I’ve gotten to know you rather well, I think,” Cillian said with a wink that made the heat rise in my face. “Now, tell me what was bothering you this morning.”

I reluctantly explained what had transpired with Freddie’s neighbor. By the time I’d finished, Cillian had set down his tea and joined me on the couch. When I was out of words, he took my hands and gave them a comforting squeeze. His hands were rough but gentle, and up close, he smelled of bergamot tea and sandalwood.

“You poor dear.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry about Freddie. Did you know him well?”

“I’m not sure I really knew him at all. He was the last person I’d suspect of murder.”

“Some people are good at hiding the darkness within themselves.”

“I don’t believe that. Surely there was something I missed, some hint of what was to happen.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Theo. I saw him too, and I suspected nothing.”

“I suppose…”

The room was quiet for a long moment. Cillian had yet to release my hands. His thumb stroked my knuckles. I glanced up, and our eyes met. His eyes were such an intense green it made my head spin. I blushed and looked away, and he let go.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Should we get to work on that phonograph?”

“Y-yes, please.”

I stood, and he followed me to the stand where the phonograph lay waiting. I took off the wooden top and laid it aside. Cillian unscrewed the handle and opened the box. The insides were dusty, with a few flecks of something black and dried. Cillian oiled several components and soon proclaimed it in working order. I gave him a towel to clean his hands and then set up a cylinder record of “The Sidewalks of New York.” Music filled the apartment. Cillian grinned and offered me his hand.

“Dance with me?”

“Me?”

He laughed. “There’s no one else around.”

My face heated, and I accepted his hand. He pulled me close, and when I froze like a fool, he gently placed his arm around my lower back, leading me in the steps. I tightened my grip on his hand, praying I wouldn’t step on his toes. Thankfully, Cillian was as skilled a dancer as he was with repairs, and he avoided my clumsy feet.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” It was a burning question I had wanted to know for the past year.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

He sighed, and his hand on my back guided me even closer. Our hips were nearly touching. At any moment, I would no doubt have an erection and ruin the whole thing. When he dropped my hand, I knew it must have happened. Before I could apologize or flee, Cillian cupped my cheek, arresting me with his eyes. I felt faint. Surely, I was dreaming. Despite the crushing fear in my chest, I leaned down.

We kissed, and I knew then it was no fantasy. His lips were soft, and his five o’clock shadow scratched at my cheeks. I was stiff and awkward, but he coaxed me onward until we moved as one, exploring each other’s mouths. He tasted of honey and lemon.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” Cillian explained, resting his forehead against mine. His fingers were entwined in my hair, his breath ghosting my burning cheeks.

“Truly? But I—”

“—I invited Cillian over for tea. He came to me eagerly, expecting carnal delights. We escaped to the bedroom, where he proceeded to undress. That was when I had him—”

The sound came from the phonograph. We stared at each other, brows furrowed in confusion as it continued on.

“—I produced the knife—”

Oh god, was that grainy voice mine?

“—The first stab came as a shock. He looked at me, his mouth a perfect O of surprise as the knife hung from his stomach. Then came the blood, leaking from the wound—”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Cillian pushed me out to arm’s length, his face pale, his lips pressed to a thin line.

I clung to him, or rather, I tried to. “Th-that’s not me!”

“But that’s your voice!”

“I didn’t record it! I’d never say such horrible things—”

“—I took the blade and slit him from ribs to groin. His organs slipped out onto the carpet, hot and stinking—”

“This is sick,” Cillian said, turning away.

“Cillian, please! It’s not me!”

“—Highmore had said only one of us could continue on at the Second Chance, and I would ensure it was me.”

The record turned off with a click. Cillian started for the door. I ran to stop him, grasping him by the shoulder as he took his coat from the hanger. He slapped my hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed, fixing me with such a glare it made my blood turn cold.

I backed off, shaking my head. “It’s not true. I’d never—”

“Isn’t it? I knew Highmore was up to something. I just didn’t know you would sink to such lows to keep your job.”

“But I was going to—”

Cillian slammed the door behind him. I started to go after him, but how would that look to the neighbors? If I went after him, it would no doubt look like a lover’s quarrel. Someone would call the police, and we’d be arrested. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, but I scrubbed them away with my sleeve. My mouth still tasted of Cillian.

What had happened?

It was the phonograph. I turned it back on, and “The Sidewalks of New York” began playing again. Impatiently, I skipped to the end. Instead of a horrid monologue, the record ended naturally. I tried it again, listening to the entire song this time, but the result was the same no matter how many times I played it. Finally, the neighbors banged on the walls, demanding that I stop. They must have thought I was going mad.

Was I mad? Was I going to end up like Mother? My stomach clenched in dread. I could still smell the fear, sweat, and urine of the asylum. The howls of the inmates. Mother screaming, her nails raking my hands as Father dragged me away… No. Cillian had heard the phonograph as well. It had definitely happened. Perhaps this was simply a nightmare. I pinched myself and discovered I was wide awake.

 

THAT NIGHT I dreamt of Cillian.

We lay in bed, naked and tangled in each other’s arms. He kissed me, his mouth hot and yearning, and I threaded my fingers through his hair. My back arched as he moved on to my throat. Cillian’s erection pressed needily between my thighs. Mine was hard between our bellies. His stomach was taut and muscled as he lay atop me.

“Theo, please,” he begged, his teeth nipping at my neck. I reached between us and palmed his straining member. His flesh leaked at the tip. “Please, I want you inside me.”

I blushed. I had never been on top before, even in fantasy. Still, I’d never deny him anything. He straddled my waist, hovering above my erection. I readied myself to enter him, slipping past the tight ring of muscle until I was inside. I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut as I gave him time to adjust. White-hot pleasure shot through my body with every little movement.

He stilled my hips, shaking his head. “Not like that.”

“How?”

“Like this,” he replied and handed me the knife.

I stared at the wooden-handled kitchen knife, open-mouthed. Cillian inserted his tongue. He tasted like a copper penny left out in the snow.

I turned my head away. “Cillian, what is this?”

“Please,” he repeated.

My hand tightened on the blade. Of its own accord, it inched closer and closer to Cillian’s chest. “No,” I said, shaking my head and trying to pull away. My erection wilted inside him. “No, stop!” My arm twitched, but it was no use. The tip of the knife pressed against his sternum. “Cillian!”

My hand stilled.

Panting, I focused every ounce of willpower I had into withdrawing the knife. This was my dream. I would not hurt him. Not Cillian. Never Cillian with his beautiful jade eyes and his gorgeous, toothy grin that he seemed to save just for me. I’d sooner kill myself.

Mottled arms enfolded me from behind, dragging me deeper into the bed. Everywhere they touched burned. One hand wrapped around my wrist and pushed, its grip like iron. The blade sliced down Cillian’s sternum, opening his chest and biting deep once it reached his belly. I screamed. The flesh separated and blood splattered onto my face—

I awoke, nauseous and sweating, my stomach sticky with jism. My slickened fingers stung abominably. I rolled over and discovered my hand clenched around the blade of a kitchen knife. I yelped and dropped it, splattering blood on the bed. I turned on the gas lamp, hissing through my teeth. I had cut myself.

Oh God, I was going mad.

I went to the bathroom to bandage my fingers. Luckily, the cuts weren’t too deep, but they bled with a vengeance. I had done this to myself, I thought as I wrapped my hand in bandages. Perhaps I’d recorded that message and was simply unaware of doing so. Mother had done things without being aware of them, hadn’t she? I didn’t remember; it had been so long ago. But as I finished bandaging my fingers, my pajama sleeve slipped, and I noticed the bruise on my forearm.

In the shape of a hand, the purpled fingers encircled my wrist. It lingered in the same place I had been grabbed in my dream. I shook my head, unwilling to believe it. Simply a nightmare, nothing more. When I came back, the bloodied knife was still on my bed, staining the sheets. I couldn’t look at it, much less clean it up.

So I went into the kitchen and fixed myself a cup of coffee. I was wide awake. There was no helping it. Not that I wanted to go back to sleep, terrified of my dreams, of what I might do next in the waking world. My hands shook as I stirred in cream and sugar. Wanting to distract myself from my thoughts, I decided to read one of the newspapers that had been piling up.

WOMAN POISONS DINNER PARTY leapt out at me from the front page. I dropped my cup. It cracked, and piping hot coffee spilled across the table and onto the floor. Some of it dripped onto my pajama bottoms, but I was already on my feet, dishcloth in hand to mop up the liquid. I had to salvage the paper. I had to see the drawing again to confirm it was her:

The woman I’d sold the phonograph to.

I stared at her for a long while. The ink ran until the article was no longer legible, and the woman’s eyes and mouth melted into blackened smudges. I dropped the dishcloth—my fingers bleeding anew—and strode into the living room where the phonograph awaited me.

It was such a benign thing. Wood and metal, the sort of device found in homes across the country. I leaned in close to examine it in detail, taking in the pitch-black horn and the mahogany box and handle. My own distorted image was visible on the polished surface.

What was that?

I listened, frozen in place, and heard nothing aside from my own labored breathing. But something was wrong. I felt it in the base of my spine, the way the hairs on my arms and back of my neck stood straight to attention. I placed my ear to the horn and listened.

Someone else’s ragged breathing echoed back.

I yelped and darted away, tripping over the coffee table. I toppled to the ground, landing hard on my backside. The phonograph loomed above me on the end table, and I scrambled backward, crablike, to get away from it. My bloodied hand left stains upon the hardwood floor. I could no longer hear the breathing, but I knew it was there.

There was only one thing to do. I grabbed a bath towel and threw it over the phonograph. Only then could I bear to touch it. I cradled it in my arms and took it outside to the curb one block away, where the trash cans waited. I opened the lid and tossed the thing, towel and all, into the can. Then I walked home, nursing my bleeding fingers.

 

CILLIAN WASN’T AT work the next day. I stood in the entryway waiting for him, wondering what I would say, but after an hour passed, Mr. Highmore emerged from his office and barked at me to get to work. Too late, I remembered it was Cillian’s day off.

“You look terrible,” Highmore said. “And that’s no excuse for leaving the phonograph on the stoop this morning.”

It was as if all the warmth had escaped from the room. “Wh-what?”

“The phonograph,” he said, overenunciating each syllable. “The phonograph! What the devil’s wrong with you, Maxwell?”

“Show it to me!”

Both of his thick eyebrows shot up, but I pushed past him and entered the back room. There on the table, it waited for me. The veneer was chipped, and it smelled of garbage. A deeper scent, of rot and copper, emanated from inside the horn. I felt the color drain from my face. My fingers were so cold they tingled. On the verge of vomiting, I sucked in a breath.

“Maxwell?” Mr. Highmore grasped me by the shoulder, and I jumped like a startled cat. Alarmed, he released me immediately, placing a hand over his heart. “Sweet Jesus, Maxwell! Are you insane? It’s just a phonograph!”

“I threw it away!”

“What do you mean, you threw it away? That’s company property—”

“Last night, I threw it away!” I grabbed Mr. Highmore by his burly shoulders and shook him. “I threw it away!”

“Let go of me!”

“Why the hell is it here again?” I shouted.

The two customers in the shop stopped perusing and stared at us. Mr. Highmore smiled at them and dug his meaty hands into my shoulder. He then dragged me fully into the back room and closed the door. I didn’t want to be locked in the room with it, but Mr. Highmore spun me away from the phonograph and slammed me up against the wall.

“What is wrong with you?” he hissed through his teeth.

“I threw it away!” I babbled, craning my neck to keep the phonograph in view. “I threw it away!”

Mr. Highmore slapped me, hard. It was only by a miracle that my glasses didn’t fall entirely from my face. My cheek stung, and I rubbed it with my bandaged hand, which Mr. Highmore just then seemed to notice. “You’ve cracked, Maxwell! Go home and get yourself sorted before you show your face here again,” he snarled.

“You can’t sell it! It’s too dangerous! You can’t—”

The next thing I knew, I was out on the street, the shop door slamming shut behind me, Mr. Highmore explaining to the customers that I was sick with fever and there was nothing to worry about. I paced before the Second Chance. What should I do? Whatever was happening to me, it all had to do with that phonograph. The deaths, the dreams, my sabotaged relationship with Cillian—I needed to apologize to Cillian, to explain what was going on. I hurried down the street.

I knew Cillian’s address, having heard it from Mr. Highmore some months past. “He lives in a slum” were his exact words. Unfortunately, Mr. Highmore wasn’t far off. Horse excrement and mud lined the streets, and the closer one came to the tenement housing, the worse it smelled of boiled cabbage. The apartments themselves were falling apart. Cillian’s stoop had a broken board on the step, which was no problem to step over with my height but was most certainly a difficulty for Cillian and anyone else of his stature. I knocked on the door, and it creaked open.

I soon realized the apartment was broken into individual rooms with a shared toilet. Muffled conversation from behind closed doors filled the hallway. A roach skittered past my feet, and one of the doors had a strong odor of cat urine emanating from within. My skin crawled. As I walked past, the door that reeked of cat opened, and a stocky, white-haired old lady peered out at me. The smell increased tenfold. Seeing me, she started to close the door.

“Wait! Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m looking for the McKennas?” I asked.

She opened the door just wide enough to gesture to her neighbor before slamming it shut. It echoed throughout the apartment. I heard a latch click.

I knocked on Cillian’s door, hoping, too late, I wouldn’t wake the baby. After a moment, a short, thin woman with Cillian’s rusty-brown hair opened the door. She was young, no older than sixteen or seventeen at most. Her eyes were a clear blue, and a smattering of freckles graced her cheeks. She held a similarly colored squirming toddler in her arms.

“Yes?” she asked with a musical accent like her brother’s.

“You must be Mary,” I said, offering her what I hoped was a pleasant smile. I twisted my hat in my hands. “I’m Theo Maxwell, I work with your brother at the shop—”

Her face darkened. “Oh. You. No, he’s not in.”

My smile melted away as the lump in my throat grew. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, I don’t. And I think it was a mighty cruel trick you played on him, whatever you did. He came home last night in such a state. Wouldn’t tell me a thing, other than you and that bastard Hugh Highmore conspired to put him out.”

My stomach lurched. “P-please, when you see Cillian, please tell him to come see me.”

“I’ll tell him you came by,” Mary snapped. Like her neighbor, she slammed the door in my face.

I was just leaving, dejected, but as I opened the front door, I found a man carrying a large box. I stood aside to let him in, but then I recognized the hair.

“Thank you,” he said without looking at me. The box was big enough to obscure his vision, and he shifted it on his hip and got a look at my face. Green eyes narrowed. “You. What are you doing here?”

“Cillian, please, I need to speak to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to speak to you.”

“I—” A wave of sudden dread washed over me. My height had allowed me to catch a glimpse of what was inside the box. “Cillian, that’s not…”

“Mr. Highmore asked me to clean it up. Says you threw it in the trash.”

“No, you can’t bring it here!”

“Theo, what the hell is wrong with you?” Cillian demanded.

At that, Mary and her neighbor opened their doors in unison. The neighbor disappeared again quickly, but Mary frowned at us. “Do you want me to get the police?” she asked.

“No, it’s fine,” Cillian replied, paling.

Did he think I would tell the police about our kiss? My cheeks grew hot at the thought of betraying him so. “Cillian, please, you have to listen to me. There’s something horribly wrong with that phonograph!”

He laughed bitterly. “There’s something horribly wrong with you.”

“I’m being serious. I think it’s cursed! You remember what happened to Freddie—”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“And that woman we sold it to, she poisoned her guests!”

“Bullshit,” he said.

The box must have been getting heavy, for he went into the apartment with it, despite my protests. I followed behind. Mary tried to close the door, but I darted forward, and she ended up closing it on my hip. I winced and made my apologies before hurrying after Cillian to the living room. The apartment was tidy and smelled of baby powder and Cillian’s cologne. A couch was made up like a bed, where I assumed Cillian slept, having given up the bedroom to his sister and the baby.

Cillian placed the phonograph on the coffee table. “Get out,” he said, crossing his arms. He was smaller than me, but I had no doubt he could throw me out if he had a mind to it.

I held up my hands in surrender. “Why would I lie to you?”

“You’re a sick bastard?” Cillian replied dryly.

“I care about you,” I insisted.

Cillian shot a quick glance over at his sister, his cheeks faintly pink. “I said, get out.”

“Not without that phonograph. I won’t let it hurt you.”

“You’ve gone completely insane; you know that?” He shook his head, exasperated, and I winced. “I’ll play you a record, and nothing will happen. Then you have to promise to leave our home and never come back.”

“No, don’t!”

I made a dash for it, but Cillian locked my arms behind my back and held on tight.

“Mary,” he said, “play a record for us. I don’t care which one.”

“No!” I struggled in his arms, but it was no use.

Mary, juggling the baby on her hip, selected a wax cylinder and, after some explaining from Cillian, set it on the mandrel. I slumped against Cillian, half clutching him for support. Debussy’s Clair de Lune soon filled the apartment. I waited in agony for the song to be over, dreading what would happen next.

“See? It’s just music,” Cillian said with something like pity in his eyes. He thought me mad. I could see it in his sister’s expression as well. “Theo, I think you need to go home.”

“I…”

Nothing had happened.

It wasn’t the phonograph. It was me. I was mad. Mad like Mother. Cillian released me and went to stand beside his sister. I felt their eyes upon me. I was on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, my eyes growing misty. “I—”

“It’s her fault that we’re destitute.”

Mary and I turned to Cillian in unison. Her mouth hung open. He looked as startled as she.

“Don’t look at me,” he said, his eyes wide.

“—we could have been rich, but no, she wanted the brat—”

“That was your voice,” she said.

“No, it wasn’t—”

“—I gave up my life for her, and what do I get in return? A squalling babe and a couch in the living room. So, who could blame me when I picked up the little bastard and bashed his head upon the floor?”

“Oh my God,” Mary said, staring at Cillian in horror. She clutched her baby in her arms, taking a step backward. Cillian was stark white.

“Mary, I’d never—” he started, but the phonograph was louder.

“The bitch came next. If only she had kept her legs closed—”

Cillian picked up the phonograph and hurled it to the floor. The box split open with a resounding crash. The wax cylinder crumpled into the stylus, and the horn popped off, which soon met its fate beneath Cillian’s shoe. The phonograph gave a sad little groan and then lay silent, its gears twitching feebly. The baby began to cry.

“Get out,” Mary said shakily.

Cillian held out his arms, his face pale. “Mary, I—”

“I said get out, both of you!” she screamed and then locked herself inside her bedroom. Muffled sobs and the shrieking of the toddler could be heard through the door.

Cillian and I looked at each other. There was no longer pity in his gaze, only bewilderment.

“We should leave,” I said. “Before the neighbors call the police.”

Cillian stood rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on the phonograph. I began collecting the pieces and set them in the box to take with us. We left the building with Cillian following behind, every so often glancing back as though he expected his sister to call him home.

On the way to my apartment, I noticed some homeless men crowded around a trash can fire. I gave them whatever change I had in my pocket and then emptied the box into the flames. The thing hissed and popped, and foul-smelling smoke billowed forth. Cillian and I watched in fascination while the other men turned and fled.

 

“MAKE YOURSELF AT home,” I said as I unlocked my apartment door. After seeing where Cillian lived, my house seemed embarrassingly opulent. What he must have thought of me for complaining about it…

“I’ve never even thought those things,” Cillian murmured, standing in the doorway.

I ushered him inside, and locked the door behind us. “What?”

“My sister, little Thomas; I’ve never thought those things about them. I love them.”

“I know,” I said.

“How? You heard it; it sounded exactly like me.” He was on the edge of despair. “It knew things; it called Thomas a bastard! How did it know he was illegitimate?”

“It perverts your feelings. It says horrible things about those you love most.”

“Did you mean it? What you said about Freddie and the woman poisoning her dinner party?” Cillian was so pale that I wanted to deny everything just to make him feel better. Instead, I nodded. Cillian turned away. “Oh God…”

I laid my hands on his shoulders. “Cillian, I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t go back there.” He turned around and took my hands, squeezing them. “I can’t risk any harm coming to Mary or the babe.”

“Maybe we broke it. Maybe it’s over with.”

“How do we know?”

“I don’t. You can stay here—” I broke off, the pain of his squeezing my bandaged hand forcing me to remember my dream from last night. “No, I can’t risk it.”

“What?”

“What if it’s not over with? What if I hurt you?”

Cillian let out a dark bark of laughter. “I’d rather you killed me than—”

“Don’t say such things!”

The thought of hurting him was too much, and I pulled him close. I could no longer help myself, needing to hold him, to feel him in my arms. He cupped the back of my neck and brought me down for a kiss. Our lips met as we sought reassurance in each other’s touch. His teeth scraped my bottom lip, and I granted him entrance, his tongue plundering my mouth. After we broke for air, he leaned against me, his arms around my waist and holding me to him.

“I thought you hated me,” he breathed.

“I love you,” I said before I could stop myself, embarrassed but no longer caring. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And the damned thing was right—Highmore did say that only one of us could stay. I’m going to give up my job for you if Highmore hasn’t fired me already. I can’t bear the thought of you in the bread lines.”

His eyes widened. “Theo, you can’t do that!”

“Watch me,” I said and kissed him again.

“Maybe it is over with.” He chuckled nervously. “Maybe it’s broken and our jobs are the only things we have to worry about.” He looked up and cupped my cheek. “Let me stay with you tonight.”

“You’d be better off in a hotel.”

“Please, Theo. I’m afraid.” He gave me a helpless grin, his eyes more anxious than before. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. Don’t abandon me now.”

“All right.” I tilted my head and kissed his palm. “But we’re locking up the knives.”

That night, anything and everything sharp was taken from around the house and placed in my grandmother’s old trunk. I gave Cillian the key, which he hid only God knew where, and loaned him my extra pair of pajamas, which were too long. He offered to stay on the couch, saying it was what he was used to, but I brought him to my bed. We lay side by side, fingers joined under the bedsheets. I dreaded going to sleep.

“What happened to your hand?” Cillian asked, stroking my bandages with his thumb.

I remembered my nightmare with shame and some horrible form of arousal. “You don’t want to know.”

“Tell me.”

“I was…having a dream…”

“A dream?” He rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. His eyes glittered in the darkness. “What sort of dream?”

“It was about you,” I admitted.

“About me?” Cillian grinned. “Was it a naughty dream?”

“Y-yes.”

He snickered, his fingertips ghosting up my arm and down my chest. My member twitched as he neared my hip. “But how did you hurt your hand?”

“I woke up clutching a knife.”

Cillian’s grin melted instantly. “Jesus Christ.”

“Would you like me to sleep on the couch?” I asked, sitting up.

Cillian gently pulled me back down. “No, we’ve locked up all the knives.”

“Still, I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

“We don’t have to sleep.” Cillian squeezed my hand, careful of my bandages. “We can lie here all night and keep each other awake. Just until we’re sure it’s done with.”

I sniffled and then let out a helpless laugh. “I thought I was going mad.”

“You’re not mad.”

“My mother was. She used to hear things, see things that weren’t there. My father had her locked away in an asylum. We never spoke of her again; it was like she no longer existed. She was just a shameful family secret to be kept.”

“Do you know why I left London?” Cillian asked suddenly.

I shook my head.

“I was an under butler, my sister a maid for an earl of some renown.”

“You never told me that.”

“I felt it wasn’t my secret to share. That’s all over now. Anyway, I grew up in service. My father worked with the horses, and my mother was a maid. But that ended when the earl’s son took advantage of my sister.”

I gasped. “He didn’t—?”

Cillian gave me a grim smile. “She was fifteen, he twenty-seven. Of course, he promised to marry her. That was why she carried on for as long as they did. I had no idea. I was in a rather heated relationship with a footman from another household. I blame myself for not paying more attention to her, for not seeing the predatory looks he gave her. I was so afraid of being arrested myself. But I digress; soon enough, she was with child.”

“And he didn’t marry her?”

“No, he didn’t. And when my father went to the earl, my entire family was threatened with dismissal should we breathe a word about it to anyone.”

“How dreadful.”

“He got his comeuppance, in the end. Fever swept through London. He died. And without issue too. He being the earl’s only child, you can guess where this is going. They wanted the baby. They offered Mary a hefty sum, provided she bugger off and forget the whole incident. My parents agreed. They said it was a chance for a fresh start.”

“She couldn’t do it?”

“She was going to. The adoption papers were all drawn up. But then she changed her mind. Said Thomas was hers and she wouldn’t give him up for anything. So, my parents disowned her, and the earl came after her with his bloodthirsty lawyers. She had no choice but to run away to America.”

“And you came with her.”

“I couldn’t let my baby sister go to the New World on her own. Not after I’d failed to look after her the first time.”

“You’re a good man,” I said.

“You’re the first person to call me such.”

“I think I’ve gotten to know you well in the last year.” I repeated his earlier words to me.

Cillian’s mouth curved into a smile. He drew me close and kissed me. “I know how to keep us awake,” he said with a devilish grin.

At once, I thought of my dream. My manhood swelled despite my trepidation. Cillian noticed the growing tent in the sheets and laughed. It assuaged some of my fear. We exchanged languid kisses, holding each other in the darkness. I stiffened when he began kissing my neck.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You did that in my dream.”

“Did I do this in your dream?” He began planting kisses down my chest. I squirmed, weaving my fingers through his hair. Next, he came to my hips; I let out a strangled gasp as he slid my pants down and took my head into his mouth. He looked up at me then, his tongue swirling over the sensitive head, and took me in deeper. He didn’t retch like I would have. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, lest the neighbors hear.

Cillian’s head bobbed over my lap, licking and sucking until I was a writhing mess beneath him. His mouth was hot and wet. I was no stranger to a quick fumble in a back alley, but I’d never had such an act done to me before, had never even imagined such pleasure could be possible. I wondered if this was how it was done in London.

Finally, I could take no more. The pressure building in my groin exploded in a sea of stars behind my eyelids. I let out a wanton moan, my fingers clenched in Cillian’s hair as I came. He swallowed it. A thin trickle of jism leaked down his chin, and he licked it away, smirking at me. I pulled him up for another kiss, tasting myself on his tongue.

“Have you ever…?” he asked, and I nodded, still dizzy with excitement. “Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in, his lips to my ear. “Ask me to.”

I shivered. I wasn’t used to talking dirty. “Please, t-take me.”

Cillian grinned wolfishly. “As you wish, my darling.”

Some cooking oil from the kitchen served as our lubricant. He slicked himself generously. I would never think of olive oil the same way again. I squirmed as he introduced his finger.

“Relax,” he said soothingly. “It’s just me.”

“Yes,” I breathed. “Do it, I want it.”

He kissed my thigh as he inserted a second finger, stretching me to what I thought was my limit. I gritted my teeth and held on. Then he pressed against something deep inside, and another spasm of pleasure rushed through me. My flaccid cock twitched feebly. Cillian kissed it, making me squirm even more. Next, he positioned himself at my entrance, his head teasing.

“I’ll go slowly,” he promised.

Before I could wonder if it would hurt, he pushed himself inside. I choked on a gasp, gripping the sheets tightly. Unbeknownst to me until much later, my fingers began bleeding again. His lips muffled my cries as he slipped fully inside, and by God, I was stretched to breaking.

“Relax,” Cillian groaned, resting his forehead against mine. “God, you’re so tight.”

“I’m sorry.” I blushed.

“Don’t be, it’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

I loved him. I loved him more than anything else in the world, more than life itself. Panting, he began to rock his hips, and I strained to take him in deeper, to show him how much I cared. I was past all pain. He had found that wonderful spot again and drove at it mercilessly. Cillian moaned, his breath coming in short spurts. When he climaxed, he shuddered atop me, his member pulsating as his hot seed flooded my body, marking me as his own.

“I love you, Theo,” he murmured, dropping to my side as he slid out of me. I was sorry for the loss of him as his spend, wet and sticky, oozed down my thighs. I pulled him close, and he rested his head against my chest. We lay tangled together in mutual, blissful exhaustion. Before I knew it, I was asleep.

I awoke hours later, my fingers around Cillian’s throat. He struggled in my grasp, digging his fingers into my wrists. My full weight bore down on him. I blinked. What was I doing? Good God, what was I doing! My grip slackened as I came to my senses, and he brought up his knee, jabbing it into my stomach. I wheezed as the air was forced from my lungs, and I crumpled to his side in pain.

“Theo?” he asked, his voice raw. He reached for me in the darkness. “Theo, wake up!”

“I’m awake,” I said, once I could breathe again. “Wh-what happened?”

“You tried to kill me!”

I let out a pathetic moan of terror. “I’m so sorry, I— It’s not over.”

“It bloody well isn’t!” Before I could apologize again, he held me in his arms. “I’m sorry, Theo,” he murmured in my ear. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean to.”

“No, I’m sorry. I never should have brought that damned machine home!”

“It’s not your fault, it’s—” He froze suddenly, staring at me without seeing. “It’s…”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s Highmore. Where did he get the bloody thing?”

I had no answer for that.

We lay awake for several hours, too afraid to fall asleep again. When the sun rose, I saw the full damage I had inflicted upon Cillian. His eyes were bloodshot and bruises ringed his throat. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.

 

“WHAT IN GOD’S name happened to you?” Highmore demanded as we entered the shop that morning. He was still dressed in his coat and hat, having just unlocked the door.

Cillian ignored the question, scanning the tables before approaching Highmore directly. Cillian’s clothes were severely wrinkled, and though he’d pulled his collar up, I could still see his bruised throat. Having barely slept in three days, I looked only slightly less disheveled.

“Where is it?” Cillian asked.

“Where’s what?” Highmore crossed his arms, scowling at Cillian’s tone.

“The phonograph,” we said in unison.

Highmore blinked, his eyes darting between us. “What’s this about?”

We ignored him and searched the shop. I finally found the phonograph outside buried in snow. It was decidedly worse for wear, the wood charred in some places and the metal blackened, the whole thing wet from the snow. It shouldn’t have survived at all, but the fact that we had damaged it gave me some hope.

“What did you do to my phonograph?” Highmore shouted, jabbing a finger at me. “That was company property! Now look at it—”

“Where did you get it?” I asked, setting the phonograph down on the nearest table. “This had to have come from somewhere.”

“That’s none of your business—” He broke off when Cillian grasped him by the lapels. “What the hell are you doing, McKenna!”

I locked the door and shut the blinds.

“Maxwell? What is going on here!”

“Look here, Highmore,” Cillian said, getting right in his face. “Frankly, I don’t care if you believe us or not, but we’ve got a curse on our hands, and if we don’t do something soon, more people will die.”

Highmore grasped him by the wrists and shook him off. “That’s preposterous!”

An idea came to me suddenly. “You had me erase something on the phonograph. A record, not one of ours. What was it?”

At that, Highmore flushed a guilty crimson. “It was nothing.” He looked away.

“Damn it, Highmore!” Cillian exclaimed. “My family is in danger here!”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with it!”

“Mr. Highmore, please.” I tried to appeal to a better nature that we all knew he didn’t have. “Our lives depend on it.”

“Confound it, Theo; if he’s going to play dumb, then there’s nothing for it,” Cillian said, fetching some rope from the back room. “We’ll just have to return with some whiskey and matches. Let’s see it come back from that.”

“What! You wouldn’t dare!” Highmore blanched.

“Try me,” Cillian snarled, advancing with the rope. I couldn’t tell if he meant to tie Highmore up or hang him with it.

“All right, fine! It was a suicide note!”

Cillian and I exchanged a look of horror. He cursed under his breath in Gaelic before turning back to Highmore. “You erased a suicide note?”

“Maxwell erased it—” Highmore started, and it felt like a nail in my coffin. Guilt twisted up my insides, and I leaned against a table for support. This was all my fault.

Cillian wasn’t having it. He threw the rope at our boss in disgust. “Someone’s last words, and you erased it? Jesus, Highmore! What did it say?”

“It was vulgar.” Highmore sniffed, but when Cillian advanced upon him, Highmore tripped over the rope in his haste to get away. “It was something about not being able to live without a man named Charlie—Charlie Harris, I think!”

“How is that vulgar?” Cillian snapped. “Some poor girl pining—”

“The speaker was a man!”

I avoided looking at Cillian, a guilty flush on my cheeks. Cillian coughed. Highmore had a look of “I told you so” on his face.

“We’ll need the address of the person you bought this from,” I said, glad that my voice came out evenly.

“It’s in my office.” Highmore paused, staring at the phonograph. “You don’t really believe that thing’s haunted, do you?”

“Would you like to try it and find out?” Cillian asked.

Highmore puffed out his chest and opened his mouth, only to close it abruptly. He looked rather sheepish. “No.”

 

THREE HOURS LATER, we stood outside a modest, two-story home several blocks from the Second Chance. It wasn’t the address we had been given, but it was the right spot to find Charlie Harris, according to the unfriendly woman at the first address. It reminded me of the neighborhood I’d grown up in, which brought along another pang of guilt as I thought of Freddie. If I hadn’t erased the recording, would he still be alive? As if sensing my thoughts, Cillian laid a hand on my shoulder.

“We’re at the right place,” he said, giving me a comforting squeeze. “It’s almost over.”

His voice was raspy from the attack this morning. I bit my lip and nodded, not because I believed him, but because I didn’t want to worry him further. He strode up to the porch and knocked. I waited behind him, carrying the phonograph. The wail of a violin radiated from somewhere inside the house. I didn’t recognize the tune. Cillian knocked again, and the music halted. After a few minutes, a haggard looking blond man in his early thirties opened the door. He seemed oddly familiar, but I knew for a fact I’d never seen him before.

“Yes?” He stared at us, no doubt taking in our rumpled clothes, the shadows beneath our eyes, and the bruises around Cillian’s neck.

“Are you Charlie Harris?” I asked.

He frowned. “Charles Harris. No one calls me ‘Charlie’ except—” His mouth twitched toward a grimace. “What is this about?”

“A suicide note,” Cillian said, and Harris paled.

“Honey? What’s going on?” came a call from inside the house.

“Nothing, darling, just some salesmen,” Harris replied, then stepped outside and closed the door behind him. His lips pressed into a thin line. “He left a note?”

“He?” Cillian said.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Harris hissed. “Marion Owens. That’s who you’re here about, aren’t you?”

Marion Owens.

Finally, a name to the thing that haunted us. I shuddered, clutching the phonograph box tighter. It felt unnaturally warm in my arms for such a cold day.

“Yes, Marion left a note,” Cillian said. “You were mentioned in it.”

“How much do you want?” Harris pulled out his wallet. “I’ll only pay once, so—”

“We’re not here to blackmail you!” I said, aghast. “We only want to know what happened.”

Harris’s anger melted into confusion. “Why?”

“We have reason to believe that Marion isn’t happy in the hereafter,” Cillian explained, loosening his collar for emphasis.

I also showed him the bruise encircling my wrist. It had turned a dark purple, the ghostly fingers clearly outlined on my skin. Harris paled. He reached behind and grasped the door handle as though he meant to escape back into the house.

Cillian took him by the elbow. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

Harris nodded. I left the phonograph tucked away behind some bushes alongside the porch. Cillian motioned for me to flank Harris as we walked. He looked like a man on his way to the gallows.

“I suppose I knew,” Harris murmured. “I’ve been having dreams since he died.”

“Explain to us what happened. Who was Marion to you?”

“I tutored him in violin. He was a brilliant student. I’d known him since he was young…”

Cillian frowned at that. “His note said he couldn’t live without you.”

Harris stopped, his face an angry red. “Wh-what are you implying?”

“Now who’s playing dumb? We’re not here to turn you in, Mr. Harris. We’re here for Marion.”

Harris chewed at his lower lip, his eyes narrowed at the two of us, and then he sighed. “Very well. We had a… We were…”

“Having an affair?” Cillian suggested.

“Yes,” Harris hissed, glancing about as though he expected his wife to hear. “I broke it off, and Marion couldn’t take it. He was obsessed with me; he wanted me to leave my wife and move in with him. He’d rented some rathole of an apartment. At first, I humored him. He was only seventeen and knew nothing of the world, but when it became apparent he was serious…”

“And you weren’t serious?” Cillian asked dryly.

“Men like us can never be serious. I tried to teach him that, but he wouldn’t listen! After he showed up at my house, when my wife was home, I told him never to contact me again. I meant it too. I even pushed him away. He fell in the street, and I didn’t bother to help him up. I just…left him there.” He swallowed thickly. “A few days later, I heard he had shot himself.”

I saw Marion Owens, a small boy with mousy hair and dark eyes, sitting in an armchair by the phonograph. Despondent as he dictated his last words to the world. He finished the recording without listening to it and then picked up the gun from the table, a Colt 45 pistol. He pressed the barrel to his temple and then squeezed his eyes shut—

“—Theo?”

Cillian watched me with concern while Harris looked confused. I stammered that I was okay, but inside I was reeling. How had I known what Marion Owens looked like? I didn’t just imagine it, I knew. Just as I knew the gun had been his father’s service revolver from the War of the Rebellion. That the chipped veneer near the phonograph’s name plate had come from an errant shard of Marion’s skull embedded in the wood. The phonograph had been cleaned up and sold to Highmore, who hadn’t respected Marion’s wish for Harris to hear his message. I knew these things.

“He loved you,” I said suddenly.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Harris snapped.

We’d arrived at his house again. His wife peered at us through the window curtains. Harris waved her away with a flick of his wrist.

“Look, I’m sorry he’s dead, but I wasn’t about to ruin my life for him.”

“You ruined his life well enough.”

Cillian raised both eyebrows. “Theo!”

“He seduced him. Told him he loved him. Made promises he never kept.”

I could see it now, just as I had seen Marion’s death. The teasing touches as Harris placed Marion’s fingers in the correct position on the violin. The way he put his hands on his shoulders as they read the sheet music. The first kiss, how it had stunned Marion. How after some reflection, he’d wanted more. The games they would play once Marion’s mother was out of the house… I felt those mottled hands from my dream on me once again, arms wrapped around my chest, hands at my throat, suffocating me.

“Theo?”

They couldn’t see him, but I felt him. Marion was behind me, his cold breath on my neck.

“Why didn’t you keep your promise, Charlie?”

The voice wasn’t my own. It was younger, the pitch lighter. I clamped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. Harris blanched, his eyes wide, and his jaw hung open. Cillian grasped my shoulder, studying my face.

“You need to listen to the record,” I said, my voice normal once again as Marion’s presence receded.

“Theo—”

“No, Cillian. It’s what he wants. What Marion wants. He’ll never leave us alone until Harris hears his final message.”

“But Highmore erased it?”

“He didn’t erase him. Marion’s spirit is still in the phonograph.”

We turned to Harris in unison.

He shook his head, chewing at his bottom lip. “I can’t,” he said weakly.

“Don’t be a coward,” Cillian said. “He was your lover!”

“Keep your voice down!”

“You want him to go away, you need to listen to him one last time.”

“All right, fine. If it will get him—and you—to leave me in peace!”

He strode up the porch steps. I followed behind and retrieved the phonograph from the bushes. It was still hot, as though it had been warmed by a fire. Harris snatched it from my arms and went inside. Cillian started to follow, but Harris blocked his way.

“No, this is private,” he said.

“Mr. Harris, there’s a risk to your wife—”

“You leave my wife out of this,” he snapped.

The woman in question appeared behind him, curiosity and apprehension on her face, but he barked orders for her to go visit the neighbor. I thought she would argue, but instead, she turned on her heel and left. The kitchen door slammed behind her.

“People have died, Mr. Harris,” Cillian said.

“Marion would never hurt me,” Harris sneered. “I’ll take my chances.”

“I’m afraid we have to insist.”

“I won’t have your wife’s death on my conscience,” I added. “Do you have any weapons in the house?”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly.

Cillian and I exchanged a glance. We couldn’t just leave. What if Harris tried to hurt someone? What if he merely threw the phonograph in the trash and abandoned us to our fate? Well, it would just turn up again at the shop.

“Come inside,” Harris muttered, standing aside.

Cillian took off his hat and followed Harris to the living room, where he set up the phonograph.

“Jesus, what’s happened to it?” Harris said. “I bought that for him as a Christmas present… No, never mind. Just play it.”

Cillian started to wind up the machine. Before setting the playback stylus, he paused and looked over at me. I nodded. Clair de Lune echoed throughout the house. Harris turned to us, obviously confused, but I ushered him on. It felt like forever before the song ended, though I knew for a fact the recording could only hold two-minute-long segments.

Suddenly, the song dropped into a minor key. The notes dragged on and on, slowing to a mockery of the original tune. Harris went pale.

I expected to hear Marion’s voice, but instead, whispers echoed forth from the phonograph’s horn. I couldn’t make them out, but Harris stood rapt to attention. The air grew cold enough that I could see my breath. Cillian came forward and grabbed my hand, fear in his eyes.

“I can hear him,” Harris murmured. He drew closer to the machine, enraptured by it. He then bent on one knee, pressing his ear to the horn. “Marion?”

A shudder went down my spine. Harris’s assurance that Marion wouldn’t hurt him aside, there was a decided malevolence in the air. I tightened my grip on Cillian’s hand. This was what Marion wanted. Poor, obsessed Marion, pining away after his lost love—and damn anyone who got in his way. We were alike in that regard. I knew what was coming, and I allowed it to happen for Cillian’s sake.

Harris lurched forward, his mouth a perfect O of surprise as the horn’s opening suctioned itself to the side of his face. He screamed briefly before his head disappeared into the depths of the horn. Bone crunched as his shoulders soon followed. Blood oozed from the sides of the machine as his body was squeezed into an opening no larger than my fist. His legs, kicking feebly, disappeared last until there was nothing left of him but a leather shoe.

 

WE RETURNED TO the shop. It was just before closing, and Highmore emerged from the back as we entered, paling as he saw us. There was no one else in the store.

“What do you two want?” he asked. “You’re both fired, as of this morning.”

Calmly, I set the phonograph upon the nearest table and took off the lid. The bloody horn glittered in the gaslight. Highmore gaped, his eyes locked on the blood. Cillian stood in the doorway, watching me with a grim curiosity.

I grasped the handle and began to wind the thing. “I think you want to reconsider firing us, Mr. Highmore.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll sic Marion Owens on you. He’s not happy that you erased his suicide note.”

Highmore’s face went white. “You’re bluffing.”

I beckoned Highmore closer, but he wouldn’t budge. Garbled notes of Clair de Lune echoed forth from the bent horn. I raised my voice to be heard over them. “Are you a superstitious man, Mr. Highmore?”

Highmore shuddered. I knew then that I had him. I turned off the machine just as the song ended. Highmore looked relieved.

“If you ever threaten us again, I’ll be back with this,” I said, jabbing my finger at the phonograph. “Understood?” Highmore nodded, and I smiled. “Good. See you at work tomorrow.”

Not wanting to press our luck, we left before he could reconsider. Cillian burst into helpless laughter after the door closed behind us. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, the phonograph heavy in my arms. Cillian waited until we were a block away before speaking.

“So, it’s over?” he asked, glancing nervously at the machine.

I shifted the phonograph to my hip and then lifted my shirtsleeve. The bruise around my wrist had vanished. Cillian beamed at me. I suspect he would have kissed me, but we were still in public, and neither of us wanted to risk arrest. It would have to wait until we got home.

Cillian escorted me to my door and then paused as I unlocked it. “What are you going to do with that?” He gestured to the phonograph at my feet.

“I’m going to lock it up in my great-aunt’s trunk.”

“Good. I suppose I should go home and check on Mary,” Cillian said, frowning. “She’ll believe me, I think. She’s always been the superstitious sort.”

“You’ll come back later, won’t you?”

Cillian grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Every day. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“I’d like that,” I said and pulled him into the apartment for a kiss.