I got to the Mojave stage ten minutes before the show. There were just a smattering of people gathered around, and some stale lights from the top of the tent gave shadows to everything, even the smashed plastic glasses and cigarette cases on the floor. Someone was tuning a violin on stage between a couple amps and keyboards that were set up in ramshackle order, as if they were being taken down rather than having been just set up. There was already a drone going, somewhere, and it didn’t stop until the band took the stage.

The band formed a circle on stage, facing each other, rather than us. They picked up their instruments and started strumming quietly, frantically, desperately, then a little louder, a little louder …

One violin was playing what seemed like a hundred notes at once. The toms were getting louder and steadier, then slowly it became chug chug chug chug chug chug chug chug….

Then the crest of the wave broke. The last note of every instrument intoned, with just the violin player doing gypsy peals and low notes, grinding into the strings two and three at a time. Then a loud crackly voice from offstage started to shout inanities at us. And the chug came back. It was INSISTENT. It was closer. It was right at our door…. The latch is pulling… The door is opening…

And then it stops. And the thing behind the door is breathing. And breathing rhythmically, that chug chug chug, that wheezing, the breath of a beast. It’s a stomp. A bang. And the door shoots open.

And now we’re running and we daren’t look back, but something is after us. We’re outside and it’s dark and there’s danger and a canopy of trees above us and it’s rocky ground but we can’t stop. And suddenly we hear the noises in the sky, and the wind is blowing overhead, and it’s shapes, lines, whooshes, witches…

And there’s a smell. And the smell is fear and… sweat. And there’s the faint metallic taste in our mouths, that familiar taste. That blood. And we see light up ahead, a reddish glow. And we forgot why we were running, but we know there’s something we must see in the glow. And we come out into a clearing, and there are women, old women; and there is a fire. And there is a young woman dancing to the music played by a woman in a shroud, holding a violin. And as she plays, we peer into the pot that bubbles over the fire. And the woman tending the fire holds out a ladle to us. And we dip it in the broth, and hold it up to our mouths. And we see what’s in the ladle. And we know what we must do.

And at some point, someone on stage played a glockenspiel.

-D. M. Collins