The Song of the Lady Rose
Author: Gabino Iglesias
Date: 2020-10-15 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: A strange final message from a ghost ship, comes alive with the voices of the past. Listen or die. "The Song of The Lady Rose" by Gabino Iglesias one of 27 short horror stories in Nightfire's audio anthology. Come Join Us by the Fire S2 is the second installment of Nightfire's audio-only horror anthology, featuring a wide collection of short stories from emerging voices in the horror genre as well as longtime fan favorites. The collection showcases the breadth of talent writing in the horror genre today, with contributions from a wide range of genre luminaries including Laird Barron, Indrapram
Publisher: Nightfire

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Thank you for buying this

Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.

Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

There were a few days each semester in which Albert Gardner felt crushed by the certainty that he wasn’t getting paid enough to put up with students. Luckily, there were also days when he sat back and got paid to watch presentations all day. He enjoyed each second of his students’ shaky voices and fidgeting hands as they struggled to address the same people they interacted with in class three times per week.

This particular Tuesday was presentation day, and that meant students had to introduce their group audio project, play it for the class, and then stand there as Albert offered critiques. The group that just sat down, misfits who had banded together because no one else had, did a horrible job. They’d gone to Eeyore’s Birthday, an Austin celebration where folks dressed up and listened to live music while clogging downtown streets like thirty years of bacon in a fat man’s arteries. Besides the excessive screaming, they had done a shoddy job with their reporting and forgot to run their audio through a noise-reduction filter. Albert had almost felt bad about calling their piece an aural nightmare.

The next group looked sharper. Brionne and Tristan were decent students, and they were the leaders. Rick and Tanya weren’t as bright, but being with Brionne and Tristan had pushed them to give it their all. They were standing in front of the classroom and looked uncomfortable. Brionne cleared her throat and addressed her peers. Rick turned and started working on the computer they were using for the presentations.

“Hello, my name is Brionne Larsen and these are my fellow group members, Tanya Robinson, Rick Martínez, and Tristan Fox.” She moved her hand toward them like a game show model. Albert noticed the manicured fingers were shaking a bit. “For our third radio project we decided to do a piece on the massacre on the Lady Rose.”

Brionne looked good in her black skirt and blazer. College girls can go from looking like teenagers to resembling magazine models with a bit of makeup and different clothes. Albert adjusted his body on the seat and watched Brionne step away and gesture toward Tristan.

Tristan stuck his hands in his pockets and then pulled them back out and rubbed them together. He looked at Albert as if waiting for a cue. Albert didn’t give him one. Finally, he started talking.

"We … we were lucky to get the original audio because my grandfather was involved in the investigation and … well, we had to, like, clean it up, but we had to do it by chunks because weird sh— stuff kept happening.”

Tanya quickly stepped in. She had some notes.

“Tristan’s grandfather was an audio engineer. He worked for the FBI doing surveillance for many years and in 1981 was assigned to a special project. He helped clean the audio that came from the Lady Rose. I know Tristan’s always joking, but weird stuff did happen to us. Rick and I did most of the editing on this while Brionne and Tristan did the VO. Putting it together was hard because the equipment kept messing up.”

Tanya’s delivery was superb. She had read the first half, but the second had been all her, and she nailed it. Everyone in the studio was looking at them instead of at their computers or phones. Albert didn’t like his classroom turning into a circus, but he wanted to know where this was going.

“Are you guys talking about something like those EVPs they play on Ghost Hunters?” The question came from Eric, a chubby Mexican kid with an acne problem who always smelled like cigarettes.

“No,” said Rick. “This was something different. This was, like … I think we should just play it.”

“Yes, that’s enough of an intro,” said Albert. “Let your work do the talking.”

Brionne nodded, moved toward the computer, and clicked “play” on the Audition file already up on the screen. After a second of white noise and a click from the recorder that had been too close to the start of the VO to edit out, the sound of waves gently lapping against the hull of a boat faded in. The speakers were top-notch and the studio was soundproof, so the sound took the class and placed them in the ocean. The only thing missing was movement. Then Tristan’s voice came on. He was trying too hard to make it sound deeper.

“Late on the night of August 2nd, 1981, the Lady Rose, a freighter out of New York, slowly made its way across the rough waters of the Bay of Bengal. It was a trip the boat and its captain had done countless times before. Unfortunately for the crew, something went wrong on this particular night and the Lady Rose ran aground on a submerged coral reef.”

The sound of splashing waves was overpowered by the screech of metal scraping against rock. Albert wondered where they had found the sound effect and made a note to give Tanya and Rick some props for their seamless transitions. Brionne’s clear voice came on. She had recorded too close to the microphone, but at least they’d remembered to use the shield so the distortion was minimal and her Ps didn’t pop as violently as they had in other projects.

“The Lady Rose wasn’t going anywhere that night, but it wasn’t sinking and they had no problem radioing in and communicating their situation. After hearing back from headquarters in New York, the crew, tired from a long day at sea, went to bed. The next morning, knowing that rescue was on its way but that it would take at least a day and a half to reach them, the captain, Charles Willeford, and crew decided to turn their little accident into a vacation and have lunch under the sun. They brought up tables from the kitchen and Willeford graciously shared his personal stash of booze.”

Shuffling feet and clicking silverware replaced Brionne’s voice. The effects were obviously meant to place the listener in a restaurant, but Albert decided not to be too hard on them because experience had taught him that finding free effects for something as specific as a bunch of seamen having lunch on a boat was really hard. Plus, their writing had improved tremendously. Still, he made a note to mention that, when an effect isn’t readily available, they can always go the extra mile and create it themselves.

After a few more seconds of this, Tristan’s voice returned.

“The Lady Rose was full of merry for a while. To the surprise of the captain, who could’ve sworn the previous night that they were far from land, he and his twenty-six-man crew were about half a mile from an island. The tiny speck of land starboard was something they hadn’t expected to see, and they ignored they were looking at North Sentinel Island, one of the Andaman Islands, an archipelago in the Bay of Bengal. The tiny island is home to the Sentinelese, an indigenous people who have chosen to live in isolation and have received government protection. They repeatedly reject, often violently, all attempts at contact made by outsiders.

“The crewmembers looked out at the beach of North Sentinel Island and talked about exploring it after lunch. As they ate, someone spotted a few men emerging from the dense jungle that sprouted just beyond the shore. The dark-skinned individuals wore loincloths and carried spears and bows and arrows. At first, the men stuck to the tree line and moved from shadow to shadow like fish moving from puddle to puddle.”

The writing was a little cheesy, but far better than Albert had expected. The students had managed to create an atmospheric audio piece, and that was something no previous group had accomplished. A loud voice said, “Look at that!” It was obviously Rick. Albert made a note to also mention that, when you create your own sound effects, you need to worry about them fitting in with the rest of your audio in terms of clarity and volume. Brionne’s voice returned, loud enough to be heard over the sounds of men talking indistinctly.

“The mysterious men on the beach looked out at the crew and vice versa. Captain Willeford told his men to finish their meal. They would get a few boats in the water after lunch. By the time the crew was done eating, there were nearly fifty natives standing on the sand, and they had brought out some canoes.”

Radio was a strange beast. An audio piece had a few seconds to hook a listener. Once that happened, listeners either got bored or they became entranced by what they heard. This was clearly a case of the latter, and despite the few small problems with the piece, the group had pulled it off. As much as he hated to, Albert contemplated the possibility of having to congratulate the students in front of everyone.

Brionne continued.

“This is where the story gets weird and where official reports offer inaccurate versions of what happened. That morning, the captain made a routine call, just to check that everything was in order and that rescue was still on the way. After lunch, he made a second radio call, a distress call. The audio is not very crisp on the official recording, but you can tell that there’s urgency in his voice.”

Rick and Tanya had tried to fade the new clip in, but the age difference, not to mention the digitalization process, made it rough and grainy, like an old movie for the ears. Still, the quality of the audio was not as awful as it could’ve been. Tristan’s grandfather had done an impressive job.

“Wild men! Wild men are coming! I estimate more than fifty. They are carrying various rudimentary weapons.” There was a pause. Willeford’s heavy breathing could still be heard. “They are dragging five rustic wooden boats onto the water. I fear they will try to board us. If they do, we will proceed with caution, but will use deadly force if necessary.”

All sounds faded. Tristan’s voice came on and delivered a single line on top of that silence: “Captain Willeford never made another call.” After a beat, he spoke again. “At least that’s the official version. According to the report, the natives came, the crew fought them off, and the so-called wild men retreated. That night, everyone on board was rescued by a Japanese freighter and taken to safety before being flown back to New York because the Lady Rose’s hull had sustained irreparable damage. The truth, however, is different. According to one report, and some rumors, there was a third distress call that was never made public. The rescue crew was told to hurry. When they arrived, they found the crew slaughtered. Some limbs had been taken and most torsos had been opened from sternum to groin and everything but the intestines was missing. Not all bodies were accounted for. According to Dr. Jennifer Danaczko, a professor of history at UT Austin who’s written two books about the Sentinelese, this wasn’t an isolated incident.”

“The Sentinelese are not dangerous; they are misunderstood.” Her voice was clear and strong; it was obvious they had interviewed her in her office. “What people fail to understand is that most autochthonous populations fight tooth and nail against outsiders, that they all go to war against colonial powers and invaders. The Sentinelese have been far more successful than any other indigenous tribe. The crucial thing is we don’t know why. They have a long history of violence, but it’s righteous violence. It’s bloodshed that has protected their culture and kept them from being exposed to diseases they might not have antibodies to fight against. Some say there is a supernatural element at play, but we don’t have enough evidence to confirm that or, as academia has been trying to do for decades, debunk it.”

The audio switched again. The background sound died, which meant they were back to a VO recorded in a studio.

“Dr. Danaczko said Indian authorities have prohibited contact with the island and that some officials have explained, off the record, that the ban on the island was imposed to protect the natives from outside intervention as much as to protect people from what happens to all those who try to set foot on the island’s shores. This information makes it easy to understand why the Indian government covered up the whole thing and concocted a story where no one gets hurt.

“However, Jessica Dahlby, a reporter who did work for National Geographic on that area of the world, wrote a piece about it a year later. In her article, Dahlby explained she’d been unable to find any crew member of the Lady Rose in the U.S., despite having information about them and even previous addresses. What she did uncover was a copy of the last call. She never identified her source. She said the Sentinelese had tapped into something otherworldly in order to protect their land and way of life, and that’s why it was hidden for ages; it was too dangerous to make public because it contained sounds that, according to her, activated those very forces. Unbeknownst to Dahlby, there were copies made of Willeford’s last call, and that is what you’re about to hear.”

Albert hated that last bit—it’d been a bit too gory for his taste, too much like a conspiracy theory, but it made for a compelling story. The rough audio returned, even grainier than before. Tanya and Rick had completely faded out the sound of the waves in order to allow Willeford’s voice to be heard. They deserved props for that. The man’s voice was tinged with panic.

“Mayday! Mayday! The natives are on deck! We reached their shores earlier, but were received by rocks and arrows. We turned around and came back to the boat, but they followed. We tried to keep them down, but they’re chanting something and my men are dying!”

The sound of screaming and chanting could be heard under Willeford’s voice. The chant was strong, but the words were strange, spoken in a language Albert had never heard. He leaned forward and tilted his head toward the speaker a few feet above his desk. He’d been working with audio for two decades. Maybe he could catch a word and identify—

The door to the lab slammed closed.

Everyone jumped. The massive metal door was part of the soundproofing system and weighed a ton. Slamming it shut was something Albert never would’ve imagined. Brionne and company were taking this joke too far.

“I think that’s enough. Please stop the audio for a second.”

Rick was frantically hitting the spacebar, but the Audition file kept playing.

“The natives are surrounding my men. Only Sebastián Castellano and I were able to make it to the bridge. We … we are looking at the situation down at the deck. It’s … hard to describe. The natives have surrounded—oh, God! Did you see that?”

Willeford went quiet. The sound of the chanting grew. Despite the poor quality of the audio, it sounded guttural and brutal.

“Ehe … javasas-got…”

A scream made Albert jump again. He looked at the wimpy kid who emitted it. Tommy always sat at the back of the lab and tried unsuccessfully to hide his earbuds under his hoodie. Now he was standing up, his hands wrapped around his neck as if choking. Albert got up. Could he perform the Heimlich maneuver? He knew the theory, but had never done it to anyone. He was about to run over when the kid’s feet left the ground. Every eye in the classroom nailed itself to Tommy.

“The chanting keeps getting louder,” Willeford’s ghost screamed from every speaker in the room.

“Stop that thing!” yelled Albert.

“I’m trying! This is exactly what we were talking about, Mr. Gardner!” said Rick.

Tommy’s body flew into the wall behind him and the impact of his head reverberated even over the chanting and screams.

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro … Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…”

The sounds coming from the speakers had lost their grainy quality. The chanting was now loud and clear, and Albert could make out every word even if he failed to recognize their meaning. Whatever it was, it sounded ominous. That those words were somehow responsible for what was happening in the room was something he instinctively knew and didn’t question. Fear rarely leaves room for questions. Despite that, right underneath his fear, he understood the chanting was a weapon meant to keep people safe, to ensure the Sentinelese would remain undisturbed, and that made everything somehow easier to understand.

“Try unplugging the computer, Tristan!” Rick’s voice had gone up a few decibels. He repeatedly punched the keyboard. The plastic contraption bounced with each hit, but the audio continued playing, the volume rising.

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…”

Unplugging the computer was the best idea. Tristan seemed frozen in place. Brionne advanced toward him, hesitated, and ran toward the wall to unplug the computer. Before she got there, her head snapped back and stayed that way for a couple of seconds. Then she turned. Blood poured from a gaping wound on her neck. Then Brionne’s chest exploded, sending a chunk of her sternum, blood, and pieces of meat flying through the air. Rick looked at her. The cavity in her torso was a red mess of shaking lung tissue and pieces of broken ribs. She stood there for a second as if suspended by invisible hands and then collapsed. Her body hit the floor before the next scream erupted from somewhere in the back of the room.

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…”

“They aren’t touching them!” screamed Willeford over the chaos. “The natives are standing around chanting and something is killing my men!”

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…”

Albert felt his heart move to his throat and his balls retract into his stomach. Rick was moving toward the computer when the leg he was standing on flew out from under him. He fell back, his head thudding against the polished concrete floor of the studio. Then his head came back up and went back to the floor with more violence.

“Ehe…”

His head was slammed by the invisible force again.

“… maytubi…”

Rick’s skull cracked open.

“… javasas-got…”

His head smashed into the floor with such force it lost its shape and turned into something resembling a large mound of hamburger meat full of broken bones and teeth.

“… igomoro…”

Albert looked away from the mess that had been Rick Martínez. The screams in the room became more violent, more desperate. Some came from his students and some from the audio file that kept playing.

“They’re right outside the bridge now,” said Willeford.

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro … Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…”

The volume of the strange words grew.

Karina Mitchell was decapitated and Ashley, who sat next to her, wasn’t done screaming when a deep, red gash blossomed in her neck. Then, Sam Wilson, who hadn’t uttered ten words to Albert during the semester, flew out of his seat and hung in the air, his limbs making a quivering X. His shirt flew up and blood poured from a gash below his sternum. The wound grew as it traveled south, the flesh parting under an invisible blade. Tommy squealed like a stuck pig. The wound reached his belly and kept moving. His intestinal wall opened like a pink flower and his intestines unspooled, hitting the floor with a series of wet plops, thankfully drowned by the chanting and screaming.

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…”

Albert saw two men standing near the wall behind Tommy. They were semi-translucent, but their skin was dark. They were naked except for loincloths. Their mouths moved. “Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…” Their chanting mixed in with the frantic cries to become an unbearable cacophony. Albert closed his eyes, sank to his knees. Willeford howled that the natives were in the bridge, then he let out a bloodcurdling shriek that was cut short by a loud crunch.

The situation had overpowered Albert. He knew he had to act, but his senses, and his strength, were giving up, shutting down in some bizarre attempt at self-preservation.

The sounds subsided a bit following Willeford’s last scream. Albert was about to open his eyes when he felt two strong hands hook him by the armpits and pull him up as if he weighed less than a toddler. He looked back and saw no one. Then something pierced his chest. The pain exploded, traveled to his brain like a hot whiteness that fried his senses and made him shake.

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got igomoro…”

His ribs cracked inward and punctured his right lung. He reached out and grabbed something that was there but that he could not see. The thing kept moving despite his efforts to make it stop. The invisible spear destroyed his flesh with a brutal crunch and soon pushed against the skin of his back. Albert felt it rise like a tent before giving in to the pressure with a pop and letting the point of whatever was piercing him go through and finish its devastating journey. Something cold and sharp slid against his neck. Warm blood quickly replaced the cold feeling. The hand holding him up let go and he dropped to the floor.

“Ehe maytubi javasas-got ig…”

Click.

The recording stopped playing. The piece was over.

Albert coughed. Pain hit him again like a dozen steel-toed boots kicking him all over at the same time. Blood filled his mouth and trickled out. He looked around. Blood. Hollowed torsos. Decapitated corpses. Shock was starting to set in, mercifully replacing the pain with something akin to cold numbness.

With a second loud click, the massive studio door swung open. Students stood in the hallway. The horror that spread across their faces was the last thing Albert registered before the dark silence took over.

COME JOIN US BY THE FIRE SEASON 2 is an audio anthology showcasing 27 horror stories from emerging voices in the genre as well as from longtime fan favorites. Horror has always taken many shapes, and this season focuses on the endless and complex ways it manifests itself in stories.

Listen to the full collection for free on your favorite retailer here.

Thank you for buying this

Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.

Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

Contents

1. Title Page
2. Copyright Notice
3. Begin Reading
4. Copyright

Copyright © 2020 by Gabino Iglesias

Art copyright © 2021 by Jordan Madrid