Pulse

Just then, Freddie’s mom poked her head into the basement. She looked hung-over. “Fred. Mail.” She said, throwing a little white envelope into the basement, then turning on her heel and muttering about teenagers and their dreams.

Freddie walked over to the envelope after watching his mother leave. There was no address on it, instead, across the front it simply said “Echo Star”.

“What is it?” Ivy said, bounding over to him and jumping on his back, stealing the envelope from his grip. “Ooh, smells like fan mail!”

Ivy ripped the envelope open, ignoring the protests of Freddie, and stuck her tongue out at him. He tried to steal it from her, but she screamed and he stopped. Ivy opened the letter with shaking hands - it was her first ever bit of fan mail, after all.

She plopped herself down on the familiar carpet and began to read, ignoring Freddie’s pathetic whimpering protests. As she read, her knuckles began to clutch the paper, her mouth compressed into a thin line, her skin paled, her eyes widened.

“Ives!” Erik said, calling her by his nickname for her. He rushed to her side and coercing the wrinkled paper from her fists. “Ives, what’s wrong? What’s this all about?” He said.

Daniel took the letter from Erik and read aloud:

“Echo Star,

I am not writing to praise you. I never would. Your music is an abomination. Music should be used to praise the Lord, and yours seems to be nothing of the sort. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You must stop this nonsensical fake music before I am forced to take drastic measures. Your lives are in your own hands now.”

Daniel was shaking when he finished reading the letter. They all were. How could someone feel so strongly, so negatively about their music? All it was doing was dealing with past experiences in a new way. The music was a way of healing. It wasn’t hurting anybody.

Ivy was sobbing in the middle of the floor, Erik’s arm rubbing her shoulder. “Shh, it’s alright. It’s all going to be okay, I promise.”

Ivy couldn’t believe him. Why would she believe? What reason did she have? For all of her efforts to have her music loved by the masses, to make it good enough to present, her efforts yielded her nothing. How depressing.

“What are we going to do?” Ivy demanded in between sobbing fits.

“I don’t see anything we can do.” Mitch spoke from the beanbag chair he was in. “Just pretend that it didn’t happen, I guess. After all, they haven’t done anything terrible to us, have they?”

Weeks went by with more venues to play at, and more threatening notes. They got worse and worse as they progressed. It went from “You’ll be sorry” to “I’m going to fucking kill every last one of you, starting with the stupid little bitch who wrote this utter shit.”

It scared Ivy, but the boys just told her not to worry. They told her they’d not let anybody get close. So they hired bouncers. They put up crowd control screens in front of the stage. They did everything in their power to make Ivy feel safe. But it didn’t work. The morning of August eighth, another letter arrived. It was addressed to only Ivy this time.

“Ivy.

I was watching you last night. That was some stunt you pulled, having those fucking guards give you a ride home. But you can’t hide forever, dear. And when you slip, I’ll be there. And I’ll be ready. I’m always there, always vigilant.”

Ivy dismissed it. She had gotten dozens of those letters, all with a mysterious wax seal on them. She tucked it into her pocket to show to the rest of the band at rehearsal.