The freight elevator was old and worn, and it groaned upward, its cables stretching like brittle tendons ready to snap at any moment. Why was the band taking the freight elevator? Force of habit. In their human incarnation, the band had always been underground. They had crafted habits and traits that reflected a group on the edge of polite society — not quite freaky enough for the masses, but never fully welcome either. After a bizarre lightning strike while they were on stage at Woodstock, they were never the same. But some habits, like riding freight elevators, were hard to break.

The band was named Graveyard Shift. Fitting enough for a group of outsiders and rejects — and in their current state, more appropriate than ever.

“Anyone feel like we’re ascending into oblivion?” asked Skullen Krossbonz as he beat his drumsticks against the back of the elevator in a nervous rhythm.

“Relax,” said Stix Stonz, the leader of the band — and obviously the only one relishing the opportunity in front of them. “The worst they can do is say no. It’s not like we haven’t heard that a time or two in our lives.”

The elevator creaked to a halt. The heavy bay doors opened, and the band stepped out. Stix’s steel-toed cowboy boots tapped against the dirty linoleum as they moved in a loose, gang-like formation down the hallway.

Old posters of rock bands long since extinct hung on the walls. Dusty frames holding gold records tilted at odd angles, showing the label’s obvious disinterest in making a good impression on clients or business associates. Venom Records, at this juncture, was a venomless record label. No artists. No records. No airplay.

Back in the day, they had a great reputation. At one point, they had held the top four spots on Billboard’s Top 40 for four straight months.

Ira Roth was the head of A&R, and Stix and the boys had a meeting with him today. They had brought a new-fangled thing called a cassette. In their heyday, Stix was used to carrying a seven- or ten-and-a-half-inch reel of quarter-inch tape in a hard cardboard box. Carrying a little piece of plastic in his shirt pocket made him feel less than star-like — but that was how it was done now.

They walked through a door marked Venom Records, its rattlesnake logo curled as if ready to strike. The sign hung crookedly from a broken chain and fell to the floor with a crash as they entered.

Tyred Tendonz, the band’s guitarist and the last through the door, picked it up and tried to hang it back. It fell twice more. Finally, he tossed it into the wastebasket beside the receptionist’s desk.

The sudden noise startled her. She looked up, spilled her coffee, and knocked over a jar of pencils.

“Ma—ma—may I help you?” she stuttered, bewildered by the sight of the band.

Stix glanced down at the nameplate on her desk. Tammy Powell, Receptionist.

“Yes, Miss Powell,” he said, smiling with a toothy grin. “We’re Graveyard Shift, and we have an appointment with Ira Roth.”

Still staring, Tammy reached for the intercom. “Sir… uh… the, uh… the skeletons are here, sir!”

Over the speaker came Roth’s voice: “Great! Send those guys in here. Now!”

Tammy turned off the intercom and stood, forcing a smile. “This way, uh… gentlemen.”

She winced, worried she might have offended them.

“Thank you, Miss Powell,” Stix said quickly. “You’ve been quite helpful. Have a pleasant afternoon. Let’s have dinner tonight.”

He whispered it as he passed.

Without quite realizing it, Tammy relaxed. She nodded, smiling faintly, as Stix and the band disappeared into Roth’s office.

Ira Roth stood at his window, staring out at a bleak sky hanging over a dirty city through glass that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the building was erected in the 1910s. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled, filling the room with smoke. Turning around, he froze.

He choked violently and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“You guys really are—”

“The Graveyard Shift,” Stix cut in.

“Yep, we sure are!” added Johnny “Rottun” Bonz, grinning wide.

Roth recovered and lit another Camel. “Well, your name sucks. Why not go with The Ossuary?”

“The Ossuary?” Fingers Bonz asked from the piano in Roth’s office, idly working out a melody. “That sounds like a bookstore. Or maybe a bird sanctuary. What’s wrong with Graveyard Shift?”

Stix said nothing. He sat across from Roth and slid the cassette across the desk.

“Play it!” came a voice from the back of the room.

Roth loaded the tape. The first sustained, crunchy guitar chord of It’s a Haunted House exploded from the speakers, nearly knocking him out of his chair.

Roth had heard plenty of good tracks over the years, but this stunned him. When the song ended, he ejected the cassette and tossed it back at Stix.

“What do you want me to do with you?” he asked. “Do you really think people are going to want to watch you perform? You could make great albums, but once people see you — that’s it.”

“I nearly choked on a cigarette when I saw you,” he continued. “I can only imagine what you did to Tammy. She’s terrified of spiders. Then five tall, living skeletons walk in — I’m surprised she hasn’t quit already.”

Stix chuckled, then cackled, rubbing his mandible. “What if I told you she’s having dinner with me when we leave here? She might even come work for me. I’m sure we can pay her better than you do.”

Roth stared, then opened the door. “Tammy! Are you planning to have dinner with this guy tonight?”

Caught off guard, she hesitated. “Yes, Mr. Roth. After work.”

She smiled at Stix. He winked and blew her a kiss. She blushed and returned to her desk.

Roth shut the door and sighed. “Here.”

He tossed Stix half a dozen passes. “There’s a battle of the bands at the fairgrounds tonight. You get an early slot. If you don’t scare off the entire crowd, we’ll talk again after the show… and we change the name.”

He waved them off. “Now get out of here.”

The band grinned and filed out.

Stix stopped at Tammy’s desk. “Take this extra pass. Be at the show tonight, and we’ll have dinner after.”

She smiled, thrilled. Roth had never given her a pass before.

The band was already at the elevator.

“Come on, loverboy!” Skullen hollered. “You can talk to her after the show. We gotta come up with a band name, remember?”

Stix flipped her a guitar pick, winked, and stepped into the elevator as the doors slid shut.