Dead-End October

[Intro — warped cassette hiss, distant sirens, whispered double] October thirty-first… Rain on the windshield. Nobody on the block. Porch light blinkin’ like it’s tryin’ to talk. You hear somebody knock— Don’t knock back. [Verse 1] Black rain drips off the brim of my Raiders, Bass in the trunk soundin’ six feet major. Corner-store candles, a face in the glass, I turn—ain’t a soul, just a shape movin’ past. Shell-toe soles leave tracks in the frost, Same four houses no matter where I walk. Street sign twisted, the stoplight swings, Payphone rings and the dead line sings. Picked it up slow—heard my own voice wheeze: “Whatever you do, don’t come down this street.” Looked at the curb—saw my name in chalk, Then the whole damn block started learnin’ to talk. Bricks said, “Run.” Drain said, “Stay.” House at the end took a breath through the drapes. Steel on my waist felt small as a key— What the hell you gon’ shoot when the street wanna eat? [Hook — low gang chant, distorted doubles] Dead-end October, don’t turn around, Something in the gutter draggin’ chains underground. Porch light red, hear the screen door slam— Everybody knockin’, but nobody got hands. Dead-end October, bass shake the floor, Three slow scratches on the wrong side of the door. Talk real tough till the walls start breathin’— Whole block gone, but the tape still screamin’. [Verse 2] Old-school Chevy with the funeral tint, Rolled past twice, not a soul sat in it. Third time stopped with the back door wide, Heard my dead homie say, “Get inside.” Same gold tooth, same scar on his lip, Same little laugh—but his jaw kept slippin’. Told him, “You’re dead.” He said, “Most folks are.” Then he pointed one finger at the hole in my heart. Looked down quick—saw the seat through my chest, Wet red handprint beneath my vest. Car full of masks all turned at once, Every face mine from a different month. One looked drowned, one chewed through stitches, One kept countin’ with some broken fingers. Last one smiled with its eyes sewn shut: “You ain’t late, motherfucker. You just woke up.” Kicked that door till the whole frame folded, Hit wet pavement, the asphalt pulsed. Crawled past a pumpkin packed full of teeth, Heard it chew when I tried to breathe. Down by the tracks stood a crowd in sheets, Bare black ankles hoverin’ over the street. No wind blew, but the church bell swayed— And every single shadow pointed straight my way. [Hook — heavier doubles, chopped vocal tails] Dead-end October, don’t turn around, Something in the gutter draggin’ chains underground. Porch light red, hear the screen door slam— Everybody knockin’, but nobody got hands. Dead-end October, bass shake the floor, Three slow scratches on the wrong side of the door. Talk real tough till the walls start breathin’— Whole block gone, but the tape still screamin’. [Bridge — drums cut; heartbeat kick, whispered lead] Ain’t no kids at the door. Ain’t no wind in the trees. Why the lock turn slow When the keys with me? Hear my mother downstairs— Been gone thirteen years. Said, “Baby, come eat.” Then she laughed through her tears. [Verse 3 — clipped, increasingly frantic] Kitchen light buzz, black mold on the plates, Thirteen chairs, twelve men with no faces. One empty seat with my coat on the back, Fresh dirt fallin’ from the seams of the hat. Mama stood still with her back to the room, Hummed that song she would sing in June. I said, “Turn around.” She said, “Not just yet.” Then the fridge motor died and the room smelled wet. Saw the whole block hangin’ inside that freezer, Landlord, lookout, corner-store dealer. Tiny little houses in a tray full of ice, Tiny little me runnin’ past there twice. Reached one hand toward the miniature street— Something from the ceiling reached down for me. Same wristwatch. Same scarred knuckles. Roof peeled back with a low, wet chuckle. Now I hear my voice comin’ out of the phone, See myself outside, standin’ there alone. Want to yell, “Don’t answer!” but my lips pull tight, And the words come out like they did that night: “Whatever you do, don’t come down this street.” Then a hand on my shoulder turns me toward my seat. Twelve heads lift. Mama starts servin’. Tape clicks off— But the reels keep turnin’. [Final Hook — full gang chant; last line nearly whispered] Dead-end October, don’t turn around, Something in the gutter draggin’ chains underground. Porch light red, hear the screen door slam— Everybody knockin’, but nobody got hands. Dead-end October, bass shake the floor, Three slow scratches on the wrong side of the door. Talk real tough till the walls start breathin’— Whole block gone, but the tape still screamin’. [Outro — cassette slows; one close, dry whisper] October thirty-first… Rain on the windshield. Nobody on the block. *Three knocks.* You gon’ get that?