Dead Air

The neon sign on the studio wall usually buzzed a low, electrical hum that I found comforting, but tonight the sign was dying. It spluttered on the studio wall, casting my shadow in long, jerky movements across the mixing board. Outside, the rain was torrential.  A cold deluge that turned the fallen autumn leaves into slick, rotten mulch covering the asphalt of Portland’s streets. It was Halloween night, 11:43 PM. I sat behind the console, the glowing green VU meters bouncing in time to a classic Poison Idea track. I adjusted my headphones and leaned into the shaggy foam of the microphone.  

“You’re locked into the Stumptown Shakedown,” I said, using my “radio voice,” a low, gravelly drawl I’d earned from years of cheap whiskey and screaming over feedback at shows. “Comin’ at ya straight from the wet, rusted basement of the Rose City! It’s Halloween Night, folks, and if you’re out there driving through the muck, watch yourselves.  Keep your eyes on the road. The dark has teeth tonight.” I reached over and queued up the next track, a fast, filthy demo from a local d-beat band, when the hair on my arm suddenly stood up. The temperature in the studio plummeted.  

It wasn’t a gradual chill. It was an immediate, bone-deep freeze that caused my breath to bloom in a cloud over the mixing board. The smell of the studio also began to change. The familiar odors were instantly overpowered by the sharp, offensive smells of cheap malt liquor, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of dried blood. What the hell is going on? I thought to myself as I turned to look around the space. The studio door didn’t open. The locks were still bolted. But suddenly there was someone standing next to the guest chair when I turned back. I jumped out of my seat and stood there, frozen.  

The figure was wearing a ripped-up, stained denim vest covered in pins and 77 cone studs over a threadbare black T-shirt. I noticed the back of the vest as it turned away to inspect the posters on the wall, scrawled in jagged white fabric paint were the words APEX MALICE, below that, TOP OF THE TRASH HEAP, the band’s infamous motto. 

It was Tommy Hollow. 

He returned to the chair and sat down, then leaned back and rested his two heavy,  combat-booted feet right on top of my sticker-covered desk. There was no mistaking that face. The jawline as sharp as a razor, the curved scar on his chin, wild black hair pointed in every direction, and the signature cruel, crooked sneer. The problem was, Tommy Hollow was dead. He had died in a motorcycle accident in 1992, hours after Apex Malice had played a legendary set at the X-Ray Café.  

“What’s the matter?” Tommy said. His voice rattled directly inside my skull, vibrating against my teeth like a low-end bass frequency. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Pretty ironic for a guy who calls himself Doug Grave.” He let out a sharp, barking laugh. He appeared terrifyingly solid; however, there was a faint, greenish distortion around his edges, like tracking on an old VHS tape. His skin was pale and bruised, his knuckles skinned red and raw.  

“T-Tommy?” I stammered finally. I looked down at the console. The track playing was winding down. In twenty seconds, there would be dead air. The cardinal sin of radio. “What the hell, man? You’re dead. You’ve been dead for years!” 

Tommy’s eyes suddenly flashed with dangerous, manic energy. The eyes of a man who would throw a mic stand at your head if you looked at him the wrong way. 

“Dead? I mean, yeah, sure. Technically,” he sneered, pulling a crumpled pack of Camels out of his vest. He tapped the bottom of the pack, pulled a cig out, and lit it with a rusty Zippo. The flame was a strange, unnatural violet. “But you’re the one playin’ garbage on my night. It’s Halloween, Grave. Yer playlist is soft.”  

“Soft?” My instincts as a punker briefly overrode my absolute terror. “Are you kidding me? I’ve never played anything soft on my show.” 

Tommy spat, then leaned over the console. He blew a plume of purple smoke directly into my face. It didn’t smell like tobacco. It was sharp and pungent, like ozone. “My band was like a sledgehammer that broke the freakin’ ground, man! Apex Malice. We had attitude. We had attitude because the world is nothin’ but a landfill, and we wanted to be the biggest rats on the pile. And you’re sittin’ here playing nostalgia acts and wannabe nonsense.”  

The song ended. The VU meter dropped to zero. Silence filled the airwaves. “Crap. I’ve got dead air, Tommy!” I said, my hand shaking as I reached for the mic in switch in a panic. 

“Good,” Tommy said, his sneer widening into a jagged grin. “Let’s give ‘em somethin’ worth listenin’ to.” 

My heart started hammering against my ribs. I had no idea if Tommy was here to tear my throat out or drag me down to whatever hell he’d been inhabiting. Maybe he was here to break the equipment. Either way, the danger radiating off him was palpable. It felt like standing too close to a transformer during a thunderstorm. But the thought of having a Portland punk exclusive was too strong a temptation to resist.  

I slapped the fader up. The red ON AIR light blazed to life. “Well, folks, if you’re just now tuning in to the Stumptown Shakedown, you’re gonna want to record this…” I said, my voice cracking slightly before I steadied it. “I’m currently sitting in the studio with a man who needs no introduction to anyone from the Pacific Northwest who knows their stuff. He is the king of the trash heap. Back from the dead, the voice of Apex Malice… Tommy Hollow!”  

There was a pause. I looked across the desk at Tommy. He leaned into the microphone. He didn’t touch it, but the boom stand began to frost over. “Yeah, it’s me, you pathetic little turds,” he said. “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on you all while I’ve been down there. Walkin’ around in yer cute little leather jackets ya bought at the mall. Actin’ like yer dangerous, a buncha real bad punks. Y’all wouldn’t have lasted five minutes at one of our  shows back in 91.” 

“So Tommy, why now?” I interjected, attempting to steer the runaway train. “Why come back tonight?” 

“It’s Halloween, Grave. The veil is thin or whatever the goths say,” Tommy replied, waving his hand dismissively. Then he took a deep drag of his cigarette. “And I’m sick of being forgotten. Ya hardly see any kids wearing my band’s shirt these days. They don’t know nothin’. How wild it was back then. We weren’t a gimmick, man. Our “bad attitude” wasn’t an image, it was survival strategy. Every gig we played was a riot half the time.”  

“You guys certainly had a reputation for violent shows,” I said, leaning forward. Now I was hooked, the terror was still there, a cold knot twisting in my stomach. But my adrenaline was surging. “Legend has it you broke a guy’s jaw with your guitar during a show at Satyricon.” 

Tommy’s eyes narrowed, the violet light in them flaring up. “That freakin’ idiot kept spittin’ at Judy! Ya didn’t mess with my bandmates. We looked out for our own. If you weren’t on the stage with us playin’, you were fair game. We decided if we got treated like garbage, we were gonna be the most toxic, radioactive trash in the pile. You couldn’t ignore us.” 

“You certainly couldn’t,” I said, voice heavy with a longtime fan’s mourning. “I still have the first press of you guys’ debut EP. That’s the tragedy of it all for me. It wasn’t drugs or  infighting that killed the band.” I shook my head with genuine, misplaced pity. “To be as  close as you guys were and have it all taken away after you crashed.” 

Tommy’s demeanor instantly shifted. The arrogant sneer was replaced by a brooding fury as the studio lights flickered. “Yeah, Grave, I crashed,” he growled, his voice hitting a low frequency so intense I could feel it in my molars. “Some major label suit came to us with some nonsense contract. They wanted to make us more commercially viable. Can you believe that? I took the contract and pissed on it. I was high on cheap speed, I rode out into the rain. I didn’t want to be a rockstar, Doug. I wanted to be a legend. Legends don’t grow old and fat and do reunion tours for old farts who’ve gotta be in bed by nine PM.”  

Tommy stood up. He was much taller than I remembered him being in the old gig photos. He leaned over the desk, his face inches from mine. I could see the dirt beneath his fingernails, the faded tattoos on his arms. “Are you afraid of me, Graves?” He asked, his voice a low, threatening purr. 

“Yes,” I answered honestly. 

“You should be,” he said. “I could pull your soul out of your mouth right now and leave you a useless husk rottin’ in this chair before the next song ends. But I ain’t here to kill ya, Doug. I’m here to give ya a warnin’.” 

“A warning?” I asked, confused. “The underground is gettin’ too clean here. Too safe.  These kids are afraid to get ugly, have a real nasty, uncompromising attitude. If ya let the danger die outta music, Doug, ya let the music die. You’re the guy with the show. It’s your job ta keep it filthy. Keep it loud. Keep it terrifyin’.” 

I forced down the lump in my throat. “I try, Tommy. I play the heaviest stuff I can find.” 

“Then play it heavier,” Tommy commanded. He reached out a pale, scarred hand and pointed a single finger at the turntable. The empty platter began to spin. A thick, black sludge oozed up from the center spindle and spread out across the rubber mat until it formed a solid vinyl disc. No labels or track names. Just the grooves, carved deep into the dark material.  

“What the hell is that?” I asked. A wicked grin flashed across Tommy’s face.

“Unreleased Apex Malice sessions. Recorded ‘em the night ‘fore I wrecked. Stuff woulda made those suits in California puke. Too fast. Filthy. Go on, Grave, put it on. Show these kids what actual punk sounds like.” 

I reached out, my hands shaking, and dropped the needle onto the “vinyl.”  

Feedback erupted from the monitors, spitting out buzzsaw guitars and hammering drums that caught you right in the teeth. Then Tommy’s primal throat-tearing screech topped it all off. Pure chaos. I closed my eyes and gripped the desk as the sounds rattled my ribs. It was beautiful.  

When I opened my eyes again, the guest chair was empty. The smells of smoke and liquor were gone. The room was warm again. But the record was still spinning,  broadcasting its furious, jagged noise out into the rainy Portland night. I leaned back in my chair, a dangerous smile slowly creeping onto my face. I reached out to the master fader and pushed it all the way up into the red.

Born in North Carolina, Nicholas Waller spent nearly two decades in Scotland and a brief stint in Canada before landing in Portland, Oregon. A lifelong fan of horror and punk rock, Nicholas applies a DIY ethos to his prose, with a raw, self-driven approach to the craft. His work has previously appeared in Macabre Magazine and the Creepy podcast.