Down These Strange Streets by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois

Tootie’s turn to shake his head. “Nope. I ain’t goin’. I ain’t done nothin’ but mess up Sis’s life. I ain’t gonna do it.”
    “First responsible thing I ever heard you say,” I said.
    “Go on,” Tootie said. “Leave me to it. I can take care of myself.”
    “If you don’t die of starvation, or pass out from lack of sleep or need of water, you’ll be just fine.”
    Tootie smiled at me. “Yeah. That’s all I got to worry about. I hope it is one of them other things kills me. ’Cause if it comes for me . . . Well, I don’t want to think about it.”
    “Keep the record going, I’ll get something to eat and drink, some coffee. You think you can stay awake a half hour or so?”
    “I can, but you’re coming back?”
    “I’m coming back,” I said.
    Out in the hallway I saw the big guy was gone. I took the stairs.

    WHEN I GOT BACK, TOOTIE HAD CLEANED UP THE VOMIT AND WAS LOOKING through the notebooks. He was sitting on the floor and had them stacked all around him. He was maybe six inches away from the record player. Now and again he’d reach up and start it all over.
    Soon as I was in the room, and that sound from the record was snugged up around me, I felt sick. I had gone to a greasy spoon down the street, after I changed a flat tire. One of the boys I’d given a hard time had most likely knifed it. My bet was the lucky son of a bitch who had fallen on the fire escape.
    Besides the tire, a half-dozen long scratches had been cut into the paint on the passenger side, and my windshield was knocked in. I got back from the café, parked what was left of my car behind the hotel, down the street a bit, and walked a block. Car looked so bad now, maybe nobody would want to steal it.
    I sat one of the open sacks on the floor by Tootie.
    “Both hamburgers are yours,” I said. “I got coffee for the both of us here.”
    I took out a tall cardboard container of coffee and gave it to him, took the other one for myself. I sat on the bed and sipped. Nothing tasted good in that room with that smell and that sound. But Tootie, he ate like a wolf. He gulped those burgers and coffee like they were air.
    When he finished with the second burger, he started up the record again, then leaned his back against the bed.
    “Coffee or not,” he said, “I don’t know how long I can stay awake.”
    “So what you got to do is keep the record playing?” I said.
    “Yeah.”
    “Lay up in bed, sleep for a few hours. I’ll keep the record going. You’re rested, you got to explain this thing to me, and then we’ll figure something out.”
    “There’s nothing to figure,” he said. “But God, I’ll take you up on that sleep.”
    He crawled up in the bed and was immediately out.
    I started the record over.
    I got up then, untied Tootie’s shoes and pulled them off. Hell, like him or not, he was Alma May’s brother. And another thing, I wouldn’t wish that thing behind the wall on my worst enemy.

    I SAT ON THE FLOOR WHERE TOOTIE HAD SAT AND KEPT RESTARTING THE record as I tried to figure things out, which wasn’t easy with that music going. I got up from time to time and walked around the room, and then I’d end up back on the floor by the record player, where I could reach it easy.
    Between changes, I looked through the composition notebooks. They were full of musical notes mixed with scribbles like the ones on the wall. It was hard to focus with that horrid sound. It was like the air was full of snakes and razors. Got the feeling the music was pushing at something behind that wall. Got the feeling too, there was something on the other side, pushing back.

    IT WAS DARK WHEN TOOTIE WOKE UP. HE HAD SLEPT A GOOD TEN HOURS, and I was exhausted with all that record changing, that horrible sound. I had a headache from looking over those notebooks, and I didn’t know any more about them than when I first started.
    I went and bought more coffee, brought it back, and we sat on the bed, him changing the record from time