The Last Set at the Rusty Nail

I was twenty-three, playing bass for a four-piece band called The Gravel Pit, grinding through the dive bars and roadhouses along the interstate. We were good enough to get paid, not good enough to get famous. One night, after a show at a place called The Rusty Nail—a joint that smelled of stale beer and desperation—I met a woman named Cora. She had eyes like broken glass and a laugh that didn’t quite reach them. We talked over the roar of the last set, and I bought her a drink she didn’t ask for. She said she liked the way I played, like I was trying to dig a hole with my fingers. I didn’t know then that she was already standing in one.

A few weeks into our thing, she started peeling back the layers. She’d been a runner for a bookie named Vinny, danced in a club called The Velvet Coffin, and had a client list that would make a cop blush. She also had a taste for the white powder that made her eyes go wide and her hands shake. She swore she was trying to get clean, that I was her fresh start. I believed her because I wanted to. I kept seeing her, even when my friends warned me off. I told myself love was about redemption, not convenience.

But it wasn’t love, not really. It was pity and stubbornness, and it unraveled fast. She’d disappear for hours, come back jumpy and reeking of cheap perfume. She’d lash out over nothing, then sob in my arms. The last straw came when I found a bag of pills in her coat pocket, and she swore they were for a friend. I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. She didn’t scream, didn’t cry. She just nodded, like she’d been expecting it, and said she’d see me around.

Two weeks later, I got a call from a blocked number. It was Cora, her voice thin and clipped, like she was talking through a broken radio. She said, ‘I need to tell you something. I’m pregnant. It’s yours, I think. But I’m not going to keep it. I just wanted you to know, because you’ll probably hear about it.’ Then she hung up. I tried calling back, but the line went dead.

A month passed. I’d almost convinced myself it was a cruel joke, a last manipulation. Then one night, after a gig in a town called Hollow Creek, I found a folded note under the windshield wiper of my van. It was written in shaky handwriting, smudged with something that looked like dried blood: ‘You left me alone. So I made a friend. He’s coming to see you play tonight.’

I laughed it off, figured it was some drunk prank. But at the next show, at a place called The Sinkhole, I saw her in the crowd. She was wearing a black dress, her belly flat, and she was holding a baby wrapped in a gray blanket. She smiled at me, and it was the coldest thing I’ve ever seen. The baby didn’t move. It didn’t blink.

After the set, I cornered her in the parking lot. ‘What are you doing here, Cora? What is that?’ I pointed at the bundle. She cooed at it, then looked up at me. ‘This is our little miracle. I changed my mind. I found a doctor who could help, but he wanted a price. I paid in ways I can’t tell you. Now he’s not just yours or mine. He’s everyone’s.’ She held out the baby, and for a second, I saw its face. It was perfect, but its eyes were black, like voids, and they seemed to be looking straight through me.

I stepped back, heart hammering. ‘You’re insane.’ Cora laughed, a hollow sound. ‘Maybe. But you’ll play tonight. You’ll play every night. And he’ll listen. He’s been listening ever since I sang to him in the womb. You can’t escape him, because you’re his father, and he’s hungry.’

I turned and ran, got in my van, and drove all night. I tried to put miles between us, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw that baby’s face. A week later, I got a package in the mail—no return address. Inside was a cassette tape. I played it in my boombox, and it was a recording of that night at The Rusty Nail. The whole set, every song, but mixed in was a sound I couldn’t place—a wet, gurgling noise, like something breathing underwater. And then, my voice, but not mine, whispering, ‘He’s coming.’

I threw the tape away, but I couldn’t throw away the feeling. I started seeing the baby everywhere—in crowds, in the mirror, even in my dreams. He was always the same, wrapped in gray, with those black eyes. One night, I woke up to find a tiny handprint on my bathroom mirror, too small for a newborn. I scrubbed it off, but it reappeared the next night.

Now I never play the same venue twice. I’ve changed my name three times, cut my hair, grew a beard. But I still hear the faint sound of a baby crying, sometimes, just at the edge of hearing. And I know, one night, when I least expect it, I’ll turn around and he’ll be there—my son, born not of love, but of desperation. And he’ll want his inheritance.

Last night, I was in a motel in a town called Nowhere, and the TV flickered on by itself. There was a static image of a hospital room, and in the corner, a bassinet. A hand reached in and picked up a bundle. The camera panned to the face—not a baby, but a thing grown, with skin like cracked leather and eyes like black holes. It smiled, and through the static, I heard, ‘Play, Daddy. Play.’ I ran out of that room, leaving everything behind. I’m writing this in my van, parked at a rest stop, and I can see the rearview mirror. There’s a shadow in the back seat. It’s small, and it’s wrapped in gray. It’s smiling at me.

I don’t know how much longer I can run. Maybe I should just face him, let him take me. But I’m scared. For the first time in my life, I’m truly scared. If you find this, don’t look in the mirror. Don’t listen to the tapes. And if a woman with broken-glass eyes ever asks you to play a lullaby, you run. You run as fast as you can, and you don’t look back.