When the website loads, however, I immediately notice that something’s wrong. This isn’t a current headline. In fact, the page has nothing to do with Palm Springs; it’s an oral history from Vero Beach, Florida.
I stare at the website for a moment, curious what little algorithmic ghost linked these locations over such an odd set of keywords. Tonight’s news hasn’t quite entered the system yet, which means these top results are likely older. In the morning, once people start waking up, this will change—but for now, I have a window into history.
Before I press the back button, a fragment of superfan music trivia blasts into the forefront of my mind and stops me dead: Eddie Michaels is from Vero Beach.
My eyes dart across the text, taking it all in as fast as I possibly can.
In the late seventies, back when Eddie was just a teenager slamming away on his parents’ rickety old piano, a horrible discovery rocked Florida. According to this page, four bodies were found in the basement of a vacant property belonging to game show host Benny Walker. He’d passed away just one day prior. A group of teenagers partying in the abandoned structure came across the remains and reported them to the police, quickly garnering national headlines, but the storyreallycaught fire when autopsies revealed that the wounds were self-inflicted.
I stop reading for a moment, struggling to make sense of all this and coming up short.
Returning to the search page, I scan more results, expecting them to all focus on the Vero Beach incident but discovering a glut of oddly similar events. While it seems like a physical impossibility, self-inflicted flaying has appeared again and again throughout the decades. With a surprising amount of frequency, it happens in groups of four.
I should go. I should get the hell out of here.
I click another link, the new website offering a host of tangentially comparable deaths throughout history. First is a silent film star accused of mob connections after the discovery of a brutal torture chamber. Next is a composer who disappeared along with four of his orchestra members, only to have one of their skinless bodies dredged out of a nearby lake. In these cases, it’s difficult to know if thewounds were self-inflicted, but there’s enough of a through line to raise an eyebrow.
There’s even a belligerent, run-on-sentence rant on some conspiracy theory forum about French painter Eugène Delacroix, claiming that four skinned bodies were discovered behind a wall of his stu—
The room suddenly plunges into a pitch-black void, computer shutting down and illumination giving way to darkness.
I freeze. The stillness is overwhelming, and I’m suddenly aware of just how much my body has absorbed the surrounding chaos. I can feel my heart thumping at a pace that feels unfit for any human, reminding me of what it’s like to cradle a nervous rabbit in my arms. My skin is tingling ever so slightly, the sensitivity of every nerve ending cranked up and maxed out by some magical knob.
I realize now that I’ve been holding my breath.
Slam!
A loud crash erupts from the direction of the lobby, likely the spa’s front door getting kicked in. For the briefest moment I consider hiding, tucking myself away under the computer desk and waiting until Eddie’s gone, but the plan shifts when I remember the man’s supernatural knack for all things predatory. He can sprint fast, rip gates from hinges, shrug off otherwise mortal wounds, and command people to do his bidding; who’s to say he can’t also see in the dark?
I take action, retreating through the void with my arms outstretched. My hands hit the back wall and I scramble to my right, hunting for the door.
Another crash rings out behind me, followed by two heavy thumps.
My palm strikes a knob and I yank hard, revealing yet another dark chamber. This room isn’t quite as opaque, however. Against the back wall is a glowing red exit sign, four crimson letters beckoning me to salvation. I don’t hesitate, sprinting toward the door and slamming against it.
Light finds my eyes once again, my pupils adjusting to the motel parking lot and struggling to sharpen against the blur. They somehow find just enough clarity.
The pool area fence remains to my left and the rooms stretch along my right. I’m still tucked within the central horseshoe of this property, now on the opposite end of the spa building, but just ahead of me waits a sharp corner to duck around and hopefully break Eddie’s sight line.
I’m pumping my arms and legs as hard as I can. All I care about right now is putting distance between Eddie and me. Sure, he’s faster, but if I can just get around this corner then maybe I can disappear into the night. The farther I get, the more ways I can find to make my trail go cold.
One step after another. Surviving. Adapting. After that, freedom.
I can already feel Marlo’s arms wrapping around me.
I’m five yards from the corner when Eddie steps out from behind it, grinning wide and prompting my body to clench up in shock. I skid to a halt and try my best to course correct, knowing the turn is a futile maneuver, but my instincts push me onward regardless.
I manage to spin around, but my new path is blockedby a figure emerging from the spa’s back door. It’s the front desk clerk, still bound to follow Eddie’s every command. In this case, it looks like Eddie’s instructions have amounted to the creation of a loud distraction, one that I should’ve seen coming. Eddie was never actually following me into the spa, just commanding the clerk to flush me out.
Behind me, Eddie lets out a mighty bellow, his voice carrying across the complex. “Stoppp!”
There’s no escaping Eddie Michaels, at least not here and now, and with that in mind I do something unexpected—I slow to a halt.
The wax has done a spectacular job, and it remains so far up inside me that nobody could ever tell it was there without a careful nasal inspection. Eddie doesn’t know the drawbridge has been raised.
At least, not yet.
Eddie lumbers around to the front of my stiff body. He looks more deranged than ever, falling apart before my very eyes, yet somehow the man still exudes that hauntingly playful charm. He’s gotit, whateveritis, and his nebulous star power seems to work from well beyond the grave. Despite the fact that Eddie is splattered in blood, pale as a ghost, and wearing an outfit that’s been torn to shreds, I still can’t help looking at this undead monstrosity and thinking:Holy shit, that’s Eddie fucking Michaels.
