The Devil's Lullaby Read online

  The song started playing just after 3 in the morning. The radio started completely on its own. I remember being woken from a dead sleep and thinking that maybe I had messed up the alarm or something. I heard the creepy xylophone melody and the little girl’s pure and angelic voice singing hellish lyrics. Then I looked up, and the demon was standing in my doorway. It’s like he was taunting me.

  The next day, I tried to tell myself it was just a dream. But then it woke me up again. And again a third time. And each time it happened, the demon got more aggressive. It got closer, louder, more terrifying. Then, as the song played for a fourth time, I woke up floating in mid-air with cuts on my arms. I know it sounds crazy, but other people have told similar stories. The song is like a countdown. Each time it plays, the demon gets more fierce and more aggressive. According to legend, the demon kills you after the song plays for the sixth time. Thankfully, I didn’t get to test out that part of the legend for myself, but my research did find that numerous people have died under mysterious circumstances after hearing the song several times.

  I contacted the church pastor who did my exorcism, but he couldn’t understand what had happened. I finally started reaching out to other people who had encountered The Devil’s Lullaby. Sure enough, every single one of them had had an exorcism beforehand, and every single one of them was tormented by the demon Abaddon. I started to realize that this demon, or class of demons, had a very particular MO. I reached out to pastors, priests, exorcists, and all types of clergy, but none could explain what was happening to me. That is, until I met Father Graves, the man who saved my life.

  Not only was Father Graves familiar with The Devil’s Lullaby legend, but he told me he had worked with people tormented by that same demon. He explained that this demon was not the Abaddon spoken about in the Book of Revelation, but another destroyer who feeds on death. Father Graves came to my home, waited up with me, and confronted the demon face to face. I saw a lot of terrifying and unexplainable things that night, but ever since it happened, I have been at peace. The demon is gone, and I’m praising God for it every day.

  Anyway, I don’t know why you’re reading this article. Maybe you’re just curious about the urban legend like you would be with any campfire ghost story, or maybe you’ve actually seen the demon for yourself and are desperate for answers. If you do hear The Devil’s Lullaby on your radio late at night, get help IMMEDIATELY. I cannot stress this enough.

  Without intervention, the ultimate result is death. It’s happened to many unfortunate people, and it almost happened to me. This is not a joke. DON’T JUST REACH OUT TO ANY CLERGY. Look for church leaders and elders who are familiar with The Devil’s Lullaby and have actual experience confronting the demon Abaddon. There are many such clergy throughout the U.S. and the U.K. (I’m sure they also exist outside the English-speaking world, but you’ll have to do your own research).

  If you take nothing else from this article, just know this: GET HELP AT ONCE. Time is not on your side.

  Cassidy leaned back in her booth and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her fingers were trembling, her mind racing. She had already heard the song three times, and the demon had indeed grown more aggressive with each repetition.

  She thought back to the night of her exorcism, when Dom had demanded to know the demon’s name. At that point, without any prior knowledge or provocation, the name “Abaddon” had burst from her diaphragm and echoed through the chapel. It was the same demon. A demon who loved to torment. A demon who sought mortal revenge on those who broke free from its clutches.

  For nearly fifteen minutes, she leaned back in her booth and allowed her mind and heart to race. The waitress returned twice but knew better than to try and engage Cassidy in any serious conversation.

  Finally, Cassidy leaned forward and continued her online research. Her search history became littered with seemingly bizarre phrases like “devil’s lullaby exorcist,” “devil’s lullaby pastor,” and “demon abaddon help.” Her searches, though, only returned a few scattered references to the Devil’s Lullaby legend—most from Reddit and Reddit-type forums—and more heavy metal lyrics.

  Not knowing what else to do, she finally returned to the website containing Marlene’s story and clicked on the “Contact Me” link at the top of the page. There, she found Marlene’s email address and composed the following message:

  Hi Marlene,

  You don’t know me, but I really need your help. My name is Cassidy. I live in Las Vegas. I found your website because I’ve been hearing the same song and seriously I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m losing my mind here and I don’t know who to turn to. Please help me. Can you get me in touch with this pastor who helped you? I’ll drive or fly anywhere. I don’t care. Please answer me the second you get this message because I’m running out of time. I’ve already heard the song three times. Please help me.

  At the bottom of the message, Cassidy left her full name, two email addresses, her phone number, her Skype ID, and her Instagram and Snapchat IDs. Then she sent the message and closed her laptop. All she could do now was wait out the darkness.

  She stared out the window for what seemed like forever. The illuminated signs of Sam’s Town and Boulder Station shone brightly beneath the dark sky, and the cars whizzing by on Boulder Highway reminded her that she wasn’t alone. Directly across the street was a vacant field with only dirt, sand, and the occasional weed. Upon closer inspection, the field actually contained dirt, sand, the occasional weed, and a tall human-looking figure with long auburn hair and a decomposing face with crimson scars and white, lifeless eyes.

  The demon was watching her, and it wanted her to know that she was being watched. It was still, expressionless. As the wind blew the Vegas dust back and forth across the vast field, the demon seemed to disappear and reappear while maintaining only semi-transparency. Cassidy forced herself to look away.

  When she looked back several minutes later, the demon was gone, but she could still feel its presence. As the first glint of sunlight emerged over the valley, she paid for her coffee and asked one of the young busboys to escort her to her car.

  She drove back to the house and waited in the driveway until sunlight covered the entire city. Then she exited the vehicle, returned to the master bedroom, and slipped beneath the covers.

  Is this my life now? she thought as she buried her face in the pillow. Sleep through the day, then wait out the night, then sleep again?

  Before she could ponder it much further, though, her phone vibrated inside the pocket of her pajama pants. She rolled over, retrieved the phone, and looked at the screen. It was an unfamiliar number with a 310 area code. She had enough LA socialite friends to know that this was a Los Angeles number.

  Usually, she would let unfamiliar numbers go to voicemail. Given her desperate situation, though, she was hoping that Marlene was on the other side of the call. She accepted the call, pivoted flat on her back, and held the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” said a soft female voice. “Is this Cassidy?”

  Cassidy slowly sat up in the massive bed. “Yeah? Who’s this?”

  “This is Marlene,” said the voice. “I just read your email. Is this a good time to talk?”

  11

  Allison pulled into the driveway of her mother’s North Las Vegas home just before 6 p.m. This wasn’t a planned visit, but she had texted her mother a few hours prior to let her know that she’d be taking Kristen for a night out on the town. Apparently, Mom had given Kristen a heads up about the impromptu excursion, as Kristen was already seated on the porch with a pink backpack and enough makeup to serve cocktails at Caesar’s Palace.

  As soon as Allison put the car in park, Kristen jumped up and scurried over to the passenger’s side. She tossed her backpack in the back seat and fiddled with her seat belt as Allison backed out of the driveway. As Allison turned the wheel and shifted the car into Drive, she waved at her mother who was standing near the front window.

  �
��So what kind of lies do I have to tell tonight?” Kristen asked as she clicked the seat belt into place.

  “It’s good to see you too, my dear niece,” Allison replied. “How was school today?”

  “I’m sorry,” Kristen replied with genuine sadness in her voice. “I just feel icky about all of this.”

  “Well you can relax,” Allison replied. “Tonight, you don’t have to say a word. We’re going to the Strip. I got us show tickets.”

  “For what?”

  “Aren Anzalone. The magician...illusionist, whatever.”

  Kristen paused for a moment. “That was nice of you. Thank you. We don’t usually do fun stuff together.”

  “Yeah, well, I mean, I get busy sometimes. You know how it is. When you own your own business, it’s hard to find any time for fun.”

  “Is that why you don’t want me to live with you?” Kristen asked.

  Allison was unprepared for the question and nearly swerved into the next lane of traffic on Lone Mountain Rd. “What do you mean?” she said, waving a quick apology to the Jeep driving beside her.

  “Never mind,” Kristen replied, looking down at her hands in her lap.

  Allison sighed. “Look, I love when we hang out together. I just figured you’d be more happy living with Grandma. She has that big house, and I just have the cramped apartment down by UNLV—not the safest part of town, by the way. I mean, I’m hardly ever home, but Grandma makes you food and takes you to school and church. You’ve got a pretty sweet setup.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  About thirty minutes after their awkward conversation, Allison parked her car in the garage of Treasure Island Las Vegas, a product of the city’s brief and ill-fated foray into family-friendly branding. Aside from the carvings of topless mermaids adorning the walls and the once-functional replica pirate ships along the facade, few traces of the hotel’s once dominant nautical theme remained.

  Their destination, The Venetian, was located across the street, accessible thanks to a convenient pedestrian bridge that crossed high over Las Vegas Boulevard. Allison liked parking at Treasure Island because she could access it using back roads that spared her from braving the traffic of the boulevard.

  Allison and Kristen passed through the noisy Treasure Island hotel and crossed over the pedestrian bridge to the massive entrance walkway that spanned the facade of the Venetian.

  Once inside the hotel, they strolled through the famed Grand Canal Shoppes, the exquisite Venetian-inspired shopping mall that spanned the main floor of the hotel. While most visitors marveled at the exotic boutiques, the colorful architecture, and the aromatic scent that wafted through the hotel like some high-end cologne, Allison could only think about one thing: Meeting Aren Anzalone face to face.

  The ceiling was painstakingly painted to resemble a blue sky with puffy clouds, and a real canal—complete with gondolas and shimmering blue waters—cut across the center of the expansive walkway. The walls were designed with faux storefronts to resemble Piazza San Marco, the public square for which Venice was famous. The surroundings were breathtaking, but Allison couldn’t enjoy any of it.

  Without saying a word, they passed the throngs of selfie-taking tourists, the enthusiastic street performers, and the cluttered barrage of overpriced watches and handbags that were displayed in store windows. Allison wasn’t even annoyed by the scattered clusters of college guys in muscle shirts who shouted inappropriate remarks from varying distances. As a svelte, neatly dressed young woman with a deceptively innocent face, she had grown accustomed to such reactions—especially on the uninhibited Vegas Strip.

  They drifted past the canals and into another section of the mall where they were greeted by a newsstand, a coffee shop, and a food court. Along the route were several mall carts that offered cheap sunglasses, plush Pokémon toys, and something called a power bracelet.

  The two of them descended the wide escalator into the main casino and took their place in line outside Aren’s showroom.

  “How come you picked this show?” Kristen asked, her hands buried in the pockets of her pink hoodie.

  “I was hoping to get a few words with the man himself,” Allison replied without taking her eyes off the life-sized Aren Anzalone poster that hung beside the entrance door. In the poster, he was dressed in a black trench coat and cupping his hands in front of him. A half-ashen phoenix was rising from his palms.

  That’s not pretentious at all.

  “Get a few words with him, why?” Kristen asked, disrupting Allison’s haze. “Is that how you meet boyfriends?”

  Allison turned to her niece with a slight scowl. “That thing with Penn was just a one-night fling. Or was it Teller? I can never remember who’s who.”

  “So why are we really here?” Kristen asked, removing her hands from her hoodie and crossing her arms in front of her. “I know when you’re not telling me everything. You’ve been looking around all night like you’re looking for someone.”

  “Just chill, fucking spaz. Look, the line’s moving.”

  And not a moment too soon.

  The show was, without a doubt, unlike any magic show that Allison had ever seen. It combined smoke, fire, EDM music, and even acrobatics for a tightly choreographed presentation that was mesmerizing to watch even when the tricks themselves seemed familiar and uninspired.

  Many of the routines were similar or identical to those Allison had seen on the Strip countless times before: the magician dons a Venetian mask and a cloak and dances with a gorgeous blonde assistant also shrouded behind a mask and cloak. Before the audience’s very eyes, the gorgeous blonde assistant vanishes into thin air—only to reappear on the opposite end of the stage almost instantly. She then removes her mask and reveals that she is in fact...the magician, Aren Anzalone. The figure previously thought to be Aren then removes the mask and is discovered to be the gorgeous blonde assistant. The two dance partners have miraculously switched places.

  Again, Allison had seen variations of this trick performed by everyone from Lance Burton to the Amazing Johnathan, but Aren Anzalone certainly had a gift for selling it. The explosive fire effects. The hypnotic electronic music. Even the ballroom dancing was on point.

  Allison was especially impressed by the fact that Aren Anzalone didn’t take himself nearly as seriously as his advertising materials would lead you to believe. Far from the moody, mysterious goth vampire that was sold to the public, he actually had a strong rapport with the audience and a sharp, sardonic, often self-deprecating sense of humor. He came off like someone who just liked to have a good time and didn’t give a fuck about people’s impression of him.

  Granted, he did make his introduction by rising into a massive cloud of smoke from an elevating platform beneath the stage, all while dressed in form-fitting leather pants and a full-length trench coat. Still, once he completed his first trick and began interacting with the audience, he made it clear that he had no interest in playing the gloomy and mysterious role.

  “Do you like the jacket?” he asked the audience at one point. “I got it at Keanu Reeves’ garage sale.”

  Later in the show, he performed what Allison believed to be the most impressive trick in the show. He pulled an enthusiastic senior woman up on stage to take part in a trick involving an open-back, Victorian-style dollhouse. The dollhouse was a vintage wooden model, displayed on a wooden folding table and shown from the back so that the audience could see inside. It was fully furnished with miniature tables, chairs, area rugs, beds, sofas, and more. It had a sloped roof and was separated into four equal-sized sections: a living area and kitchen downstairs, and a bedroom and bathroom upstairs.

  When the little old woman stepped onto the stage with the help of an usher, she immediately threw her arms around Aren and kissed him on the cheek. The audience went crazy, and Aren smiled warmly.

  “And what’s your name?” Aren asked.

  “Olivia,” the woman replied, hardly able to contain her excitement.

  “Okay, Olivia. Thank
you for volunteering to help out with this illusion. I promise it will only hurt for a minute or two.”

  The audience erupted in laughter, as did Olivia.

  “Now Olivia,” Aren continued, “can you confirm that we have never met before?”

  Olivia shook her head. “That’s right.”

  “And can you also confirm that I don’t owe you any back child support?”

  Olivia let out a boisterous laugh and shook her head again.

  “Oh, thank god,” Aren replied. “Then we can proceed with the illusion.

  “So Olivia, where are you visiting from?”

  “The Denver area,” she replied. “I’m here with my sister and her husband.”

  “And are you celebrating anything special?”

  “My grandson just got married.”

  “Here in Vegas? Who the hell gets married in Vegas?”

  Olivia laughed, and so did much of the audience. One tipsy bachelorette party near the front of the theater was particularly boisterous.

  “Okay,” Aren continued, “I want to try something really quick. The other night, I saw this infomercial that was all about learning how to unlock your psychic potential. So I paid for their video series, and I want to see how my psychic abilities are coming along. So, if I can guess the name of your grandson and his new bride—and remember, we’ve never met before—will you tell everyone you meet that I have psychic powers?”

  “Sure,” Olivia said.

  “Fantastic.” Aren closed his eyes and placed two fingers against his forehead, feigning deep concentration. “Is it...Jack and Sarah?”

  Olivia laughed and shook her head.

  “Is it…Dan and Jennifer?”

  Olivia shook her head again.

  “Xavier and Fiona?”

  Olivia just laughed.

  “You know, you’re really not helping me here, Olivia.” More laughter from the audience.