A supernatural tale wherein an unsuspecting audience beholds a showcase they undoubtedly will never forget…
by: Frederick Foote
So, I was down in L.A. visiting my sister Tanya, her ten year-old son, Sherrod, and her eight year-old daughter, Milan.
Tanya had tickets for us to see America’s Got Talent. I had never watched many talent shows.
I was not up for it. I wanted to kick back and spend time with my niece and nephew, but Harmon, my best friend and Tanya’s husband, who was off filming in Germany, had gotten us tickets, limos, and a babysitter.
So, off we went in our stretch limo to see the season finale of the talent show.
To my surprise and gratification, the first three acts were spectacular.
I was stomping and clapping and yelling with the rest of the madhouse audience.
Before the fourth act could come on stage, a dark-skinned, barefoot, nappy-headed brother dressed in loose burlap clothing and carrying a microphone wandered onto the stage, looking like he was lost.
There was some confusion among the judges, and one celebrity judge said, “Excuse me, but you aren’t the next act. Could someone help this gentleman off the stage?”
The brother scowled at the speaker and growled low and mean.
I laughed along with others. I thought it was all part of the show.
Two male stagehands rushed toward the brother from stage right.
Burlap man turned to face them.
The stagehands skidded to a stop.
The crowd held its breath.
Barefoot growled again and threw the microphone about ten feet up into the air.
All eyes were on the rising rocket of a microphone.
One of the stagehands moved to be in place to catch the microphone when it fell.
Nappy hair warned him back with a growl and a raised hand.
The microphone didn’t fall. It hovered at its high point.
A spotlight and every eye in the house were on the microphone.
The brother turned and studied the crowd. I swear to God, he looked directly at me, and I thought I knew him; he looked so familiar for a second.
Tanya grabbed my hand and hissed, “Evil. Evil comes for us all.”
Someone on the other side of me muttered, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, my God! It’s the Second Coming.”
A voice behind me shouted, “Don’t touch him! There will be no lynching here tonight!”
The brother completed his survey of the audience, looked up at the microphone, and waved it down to him.
Like a well-trained dog, it came down and settled in front of him.
Someone from the audience shouted, “Who the fuck are you?”
With a wave of his hand, the brother directed the microphone to the speaker.
As the microphone hovered in front of him, the man shouted, “Shit! And cowered in his seat.
The judge who spoke before spoke again, “That is very impressive, but—”
The brother sent the microphone to the judge.
The judge reached for the microphone but reconsidered and jerked his hand back.
“I know we would like to see you come back maybe next season—”
Another member of the audience shouted, “Fuck no! Let him finish!”
There was an instant reply from another member of the audience. “Kick his ass out! He’s screwing it up for people that worked hard to get here, bro.”
I turned to Tanya as I stood. “Let’s go, sis, before this shit gets crazy.”
Tanya looks up at me and whispers, “Shaka, he looks like you. A lot like you.”
“Tanya, come on. Let’s discuss it on the way home.” I tug at her hand.
A commanding voice filled my ears and my soul, “Sit down.”
I fell back into my seat and saw the brother speaking into the microphone that was now back in front of him.
He does not look like me at all, except maybe the eyes, a little.
His voice rang out again. “Close your eyes. Send a message to your loved ones that you will be home soon, safe and stronger.”
There was a moment of silence.
“I will be with you always. You will recognize me when you see me. Now go from this place calmly and peacefully. Open your eyes.”
The brother had vanished. The microphone was lying on the stage.
We moved slowly out of the theater like we were wading against the tide.
“He looked like you, brother. Honest, he did.”
I didn’t reply. I sipped my drink in the limo and tried to figure out what had happened to us.
At home, the kids were surprised to see us back so early. They jumped up from their karaoke machine and embraced us.
I went through the motions of hugging them back, but my eyes were glued to their karaoke microphones hovering in the air.
Frederick K. Foote, Jr. was born in Sacramento, California, and educated in Vienna, Virginia, and northern California. Since 2014 Frederick has published over three hundred stories, poems, and essays, including literary, science fiction, fables, and horror genres. Frederick has published three short story collections, For the Sake of Soul (2015), Crossroads Encounters (2016), and The Maroon Fables and Revelations (2020).
