One year after the destruction of The House of White Feathers …
For one brief, glorious second, Benson was upside down above forty thousand people.
The backflip had become one of those things his management repeatedly begged him to stop doing and his fans had therefore come to expect at every major show, however, tonight, he had timed it perfectly …
He sprinted down the runway during the final bars of the bridge, planted both feet against the stage and thrown himself backwards just as the drums began to build. The world turned over, the steel rafters appeared above him, then the crowd rushed back into view and his trainers struck the stage exactly as the chorus crashed in.
The reaction was immediate, deafening. Benson barely had time to grin before he was running again, microphone raised, flames erupting in controlled bursts along either side of the runway as tens of thousands of voices sang his own lyrics back at him.
'…Please! Stay! I want you, I need you, oh, God! Don't! Take! These beautiful things that I've got! …’
He had long ago learned that fame made almost everything ordinary eventually …
Luxury hotel suites became rooms. MTV Awards became stuff he had to store. He had learned to eat at midnight, sleep on planes and smile convincingly through introductions to people whose names evaporated almost as soon as he heard them.
Performing was different. That had never flattened out into routine. There were still moments, usually somewhere near the end of a show, when he would stop singing altogether and simply hold the microphone towards the audience, listening as thousands of strangers carried the song without him.
Tonight, standing at the end of the runway with sweat running from his hairline and his lungs burning from ninety minutes of movement, Benson lowered his microphone and let the stadium take the chorus.
For a few seconds he just stood there, smiling, absorbing the sound as it rolled towards him. Then the final song began and he laughed into the microphone.
“One more?”
The answer was so loud that he felt it physically beneath his ribs.
Twenty-five minutes later, immortality had worn off …
Benson came offstage drenched in sweat, one hand already reaching for the bottle of water somebody was pushing towards him as he entered the concrete corridors beneath the stadium.
Crew members moved around him in the familiar post-show chaos, carrying equipment, removing transmitters, talking into headsets and shouting changes to the next morning’s call sheet.
Somewhere above them, the crowd was still roaring, though several feet of concrete had reduced it to something resembling distant thunder.
Benson drank half the bottle without stopping, the towel around his shoulders already damp, and was halfway to his dressing room when his tour manager, Jerry, fell into step beside him.
“Another backflip, bro?”
Benson swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced sideways, “They love it, man.”
Jerry tutted, “You nearly landed on a pyro.”
Benson nudged his tour manager with his elbow, “But I didn’t.”
They both stepped aside as a gaggle of dancers passed by, “One day I’m going to watch you kill yourself in front of forty thousand people,” Jerry huffed.
Benson offered Jerry a playful wink, “Make sure somebody gets it on camera.”
Jerry stared at him with the exhausted expression of a man who had considered murder more than once during the course of the tour. Benson grinned and kept walking.
This, too, was part of the strange rhythm of his life. Ten minutes earlier he had been thirty feet tall on stadium screens, running through controlled fire and blue laser beams while an entire crowd screamed his name. Now one of several assistants was following him down a service corridor asking whether he wanted scrambled or poached eggs for breakfast. A voice called after him that the meet-and-greet would begin in ten minutes. Benson lifted one hand in acknowledgement without turning around, reached his dressing room and pushed open the door.
To Benson’s surprise, there was a woman sitting inside …
For a moment Benson genuinely wondered whether exhaustion had caused him to enter the wrong room.
She was seated on the chair opposite his dressing table, one leg crossed neatly over the other knee, her hands resting in her lap as if this were a sudden business deal.
She looked somewhere in her mid-twenties, perhaps a little older, though there was something about her that made age strangely difficult to judge.
Her hair was a hazel brown, her lips a blood red, her skin remarkably flawless, and her face had the kind of severe, almost old-fashioned beauty that seemed out of place beneath the blunt fluorescent lighting of a stadium dressing room.
Benson met beautiful people constantly; models, actors, influencers, singers, people whose entire careers depended upon being photographed. This was different. There was something unnervingly composed about her, as though she belonged in an oil portrait rather than backstage at a concert.
The first word that entered his mind was ‘vampire’, and once it did, he couldn’t quite get rid of it.
He glanced back towards the corridor. One of his security team was stationed just outside, “She’s cleared,” the man said before Benson could ask, “Special visitor.”
That explained almost nothing. Benson looked back into the room and found the woman watching him with the faintest suggestion of a smile.
“Hello, Benson.”
Her voice was soft, unhurried, entirely devoid of the usual excitement that accompanied unexpected backstage guests.
Benson stepped inside and let the door close behind him, “Hello …”
She reached forward and offered her hand, “Charm.”
Benson threw his bottle of water into his other palm and then took the woman’s hand, sniggering as he said: “Charmed, I’m sure …” however, his attempt at being ‘charming’ fizzled out as soon as he noticed that her fingers were cold, not unpleasantly so, but cold enough to register.
Charm’s eyes moved briefly over him, taking in the glittery jumpsuit, the towel around his shoulders and the way his round bubble butt sat tight and contained within his outfit.
“You put on a good show,” she said, as her hand slid out of his.
Benson perched on the couches arm, “You watched?”
She smirked and tilted her head, “I watched.”
Benson pouted at his dressing room mirror and glanced at his reflection. He looked spent. His cheeks were flushed, damp curls stuck to his forehead, and there was a streak of beer across one shoulder that he had no memory of acquiring. Through the mirror, he looked at Charm, “So. You gotta album you want me to sign, a selfie you wanna take …”
Charm folded one leg over the other as though settling in for an important appointment, allowing one, two, three seconds of total quiet to pass before saying:
“My master would like to meet you.”
Benson’s gaze dropped from the mirror to Charm quickly.
“Your who now?”
Another few seconds of quiet.
“My master,” Charm said.
Benson waited, but she offered nothing else. He turned further around on the couch arm, eyebrows raised, “That’s, uh, usually the sort of sentence people explain afterwards.”
Charm seemed faintly entertained by him. She reached into the pocket of her dress and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, “He’s heard a great deal about you.”
“Oh, has he?” Benson asked, already grinning, “Good things, I hope.”
Charm selected a cigarette from the packet and placed it between her lips, “Interesting things …” Benson watched as she flicked the lighter beneath it, the small flame briefly illuminating her dark eyes with amber. She drew in slowly, entirely ignoring the fact that she was smoking inside his dressing room.
Benson glanced towards the smoke curling above her head, “I, uh, don’t think you can do that in here.”
Charm exhaled towards the ceiling as though the rule concerned somebody else, “My master works with people that interest him, people who fascinate him …”
Benson used his hand to flap the smoke away, “Oookay. And apparently I’ve ‘your masters’ list?”
Charm nodded just once, “You’re a wanted man, Benson.”
The fact she had made reference to the name of his tour made him laugh, “Okay,” Benson said, “You’ve officially got my attention.”
Charm smiled around the cigarette, “He would like to test you.”
Benson recapped the bottle and wiped some water from his chin, “Test me how?”
“Endurance.”
His expression sharpened with interest almost immediately, “Like what? Action man shit?”
“No.”
“Strength?”
“No.”
Benson winced, dare he say it … “Like, a test where I gotta use my brain?”
Charm regarded him through the rising smoke for a moment, “The opposite.”
Benson scratched the back of his head, “Then what?”
Charm took another drag from her cigarette, “Tickling.”
Benson stared at her.
There was a beat of complete silence.
“Sorry?”
Charm tapped some ash onto the carpet, “Sensory endurance.”
For several seconds Benson continued looking at her, clearly waiting for the punchline. When none arrived, a disbelieving smile gradually spread across his face.
“You’re actually serious.”
“I’m actually serious,” Charm smiled.
Benson laughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, “That is fucking ... Crazy.”
Charm said nothing.
“No, seriously,” he continued, his laughter softening into genuine fascination, “You came backstage after my show because some freak wants to find out how long he can tickle me before what? I lose my mind?”
Charm’s slender shoulders lifted, “That’s an inelegant description.”
Benson used the bottle of water to point at her, “But accurate?”
Charm’s quiet expression said the word ‘essentially’.
Benson stared at her for another moment before laughing again, though there was very little mockery in it now. If anything, Charm could see the idea taking root. The exhaustion that had been hanging over him only minutes earlier seemed to disappear beneath a sudden spark of curiosity.
“That might genuinely be the weirdest offer I’ve ever had.”
Knock knock.
Benson turned to the dressing room door, “Gimme five minutes …”
Charm seemed unphased by the knocking, “So?” She ran the thumbnail of her thumb across the base of her cigarette and watched Benson patiently.
Benson shifted further onto the couch, now facing her properly, “So what actually happens? I turn up somewhere and he just … Goes for it? Gets me for free? Who is this guy?”
Charm licked her lips slowly, “Curious young buck, aren’t you …”
Benson laughed again. The very strangeness of it seemed to be exciting him now. It was unlike the endless parade of backstage invitations, parties, appearances and carefully manufactured red carpets that filled most of his life. There was something raw about this. Absurd, yes. Potentially insane, certainly. But unique …
Charm tapped the cigarette again as more ash dropped to the carpet, “You’ve been chosen, Benson. It’s an honour, truly.”
She remained where she was, cigarette balanced between her fingers, and Benson was still smiling, but something colder had slipped beneath the conversation. Until that moment, the entire exchange had existed comfortably in the realm of the bizarre. An invitation. A challenge. Something he could joke about later. But the word ‘chosen’ made the air feel stiff.
Then New York entered his mind …
Everyone thought of New York eventually when the subject of organised tickling arose now. The House of White Feathers had made certain of that. For months their existence had dominated news reports, documentaries and conspiracy channels. Ticklegate had become a cultural event, a story so absurd in concept and horrifying in execution that almost everyone remembered where they had been when the footage from Times Square appeared.
Benson’s smile faded a little, “Hold up. This isn’t connected to that, is it?” He gave her a harder look, “What they showed in New York. The House of ... Whatever The Fuck.”
Something almost imperceptible shifted in Charm’s expression.
“This is an invitation,” she said simply, “Not a capture.”
Benson studied her carefully. A minute ago he had been genuinely considering it. That was the most ridiculous part. Not merely entertaining the conversation, but actually picturing himself doing it. He could already imagine the story afterwards, assuming there was an afterwards worth laughing about. Some insane underground endurance challenge with a stranger nobody had ever heard of. It appealed to precisely the part of him that enjoyed doing things simply because nobody else would.
Benson looked back at Charm, “See, this is where you lose me.”
Charm's expression remained calm.
“I’m not even joking, I was halfway there,” Benson continued, “Weird secret tickle endurance with some mysterious master? Fine. Fuck it. I’ve done stranger things,” he laughed and shook his head, “Actually, no, I absolutely haven’t, but it sounded exciting.”
Charm dropped her now dead cigarette into an half empty glass of champagne on the dressing table, “It still is …”
Benson shrugged, “Maybe. But I saw what happened that Christmas.”
Charm sighed softly, “So, you’re refusing …”
Benson puffed out his cheeks and looked towards the ceiling as though giving the matter one final, theatrical consideration, “Famous guys getting tickled by mysterious gangs isn’t exactly enjoying great PR at the minute.”
Charm stood.
Benson watched her, almost expecting another pitch, some final argument designed to drag him back towards yes. Instead she simply smoothed down her dress.
“Very well.”
Benson blinked, “That’s it?”
The ease with which she accepted his refusal irritated him more than any attempt at persuasion might have done, “Of course,” she crossed the room towards him and slipped one hand into her pocket. When she withdrew it, something small and red rested between two fingers …
A whistle, with a horned devil inscribed over its surface.
She held it out, allowing the glimmer in the metal to catch Benson’s eye.
“If you change your mind …” Charm moved in closely to Benson’s ear, her crimson lips close to his ear lobe, her whisper warm, “… Just blow …”
He laughed softly, an uncontrollable yet slight thrill growing beneath the glitter of his jumpsuit, “Sss, seriously?”
She whispered one final time, her breath travelling around his ear and down his neck, like some kind of spell, “That is, if you think you can handle it …”
A faint chill travelled over Benson’s skin - he found himself annoyed by the fact that he couldn’t decide whether it was apprehension or excitement. Charm was standing close now, close enough that he could smell something faintly floral on her skin. He knew the entire proposition was ridiculous, perhaps even dangerous, yet some stubborn part of him wanted to keep the conversation going simply because she interested him.
He took the whistle.
As soon as it was out of her hand, she left.
Out of the dressing room, where the door lingered half open.
Benson looked at the whistle and chuckled, shaking his head.
He carelessly placed it on the corner of his dressing room table and went to follow Charm, but when he stepped out into the corridor, he realised she had gone completely, even thought she had only departed mere seconds before.
Another assistant with a clipboard arrived out of nowhere, “Benson! Finally! You got five to go over the Rolling Stone interview?”
Benson kept looking for Charm, although she had clearly disappeared, “Yeah, man, sure …”
As he left with his assistant, the whistle rolled from the corner of the dressing room table and landed gently in his rucksack.
1:17 am
The hours after Charm’s departure had become a blur of photographs, signatures, shouted goodbyes and the usual post-show logistics.
By the time he finally returned to the hotel, her bizarre proposition had been pushed to the back of his mind by exhaustion. He had barely spoken during the drive and had gone straight upstairs, longing only for a shower, a cold room and several uninterrupted hours of sleep.
He emptied his bag out over the surface of the bed whilst yawning hard, his wide mouth stretching open.
His wallet fell out first, then his headphones, two protein bars, a crumpled set list and a handful of backstage passes.
The red whistle rolled across the duvet and came to rest near his knee.
Benson stared at it.
“No fucking way.”
He picked it up and turned it slowly between his fingers.
The sensible explanation was obvious. He must have knocked it into the bag without noticing. That was all. Still, the sight of it brought Charm’s voice back with irritating clarity.
You’re a wanted man.
Benson rolled his eyes and placed the whistle on the bedside table.
He showered, brushed his teeth, pulled on a pair of briefs and climbed into bed, telling himself he had already wasted enough energy thinking about it.
His phone was full of clips from the show. The backflip had already made its way across social media, and Benson watched one particularly good angle twice before sending it to his tour manager with the message: now admit it looked sick.
For several minutes Benson scrolled without really reading anything. His attention kept wandering back towards the bedside table. The whistle sat beneath the lamp, catching a narrow stripe of yellow light.
Eventually he picked it up again.
He opened up google and typed in several searches:
Sexy bitch Charm black dress red whistle.
Red whistle endurance tickling.
Charm mysterious stranger offers endurance tickle challenge anyone else?
He tried combinations of the few details she had given him, then searched phrases connected with fetishes, kinks and finally the House of White Feathers. Predictably, that opened an enormous rabbit hole. There were archived news reports, conspiracy forums, supposed survivor accounts and entire communities still attempting to reconstruct who had been responsible for bringing the organisation down.
Most of it was nonsense.
Then Benson saw a discussion about another group, one rumoured to have helped destroy the cult. The name was never stated directly. People referred to symbols, rumours, sightings and stories from people who claimed to have encountered them. Benson nearly closed the page until one comment caught his attention.
If they choose you, they already know you won’t last.
He stared at the sentence for a long moment, then read it again.
A laugh escaped through his nose, “Oh do they?”
That was the problem: Charm’s proposition had found precisely the wrong part of his personality.
Benson had spent most of his adult life being told what he couldn’t do; he couldn’t get an audition for American Idol, he couldn’t launch his own career without that platform, he couldn’t get a global number one hit, he couldn’t sustain that tour schedule, couldn’t sing that high live, couldn’t perform his own stunts, couldn’t get into that shape in twelve weeks, couldn’t safely backflip on a arena runway surrounded by pyrotechnics …
He had discovered years ago that being told he would fail was one of the fastest ways to make him want to try.
Benson got out of bed and wandered towards the windows, the whistle still resting in his palm.
Washington stretched out below him in scattered lights, traffic moving through the streets in thin red and white streams. He imagined Charm somewhere out there, and if he was being completely truthful with himself, the prospect of seeing her again was not an insignificant part of the temptation.
He looked down at the whistle.
“Fuck it.”
Before he could reconsider, he lifted it to his lips and blew.
The sound was painfully loud in the quiet room. Benson lowered it immediately and stood there listening.
Nothing happened.
He waited ten seconds, then twenty.
No knock came at the door. No phone rang. No message appeared.
Eventually he crossed the room, opened the hotel door and looked along the corridor in both directions.
It was completely empty.
Benson closed the door and looked down at the whistle.
Slowly, embarrassment replaced anticipation.
“You absolute idiot.”
He tossed it onto the bedside table and climbed back into bed. Of course nothing had happened. What exactly had he expected? Charm to appear inside the wardrobe? A helicopter to land on the roof? Some hidden passage beneath the minibar to slide open?
The whole thing had probably been an elaborate joke and within twenty minutes …
… Benson was asleep.