The Silent Musician

The Queen of Rats

The manor did not seem haunted. Sure, it was old, the windows were boarded up with planks that were rotted all the way through, and the wind seemed to speak if you got too close, but I didn’t see any ghosts, so obviously there wasn’t anything to be concerned about. “So, this is the place?” I asked Edgar, the fellow that is so incredibly superstitious that any poor soul that speaks to him without knowing better begins to think that they are, in fact, the one who is mad, not the man talking about how you should step on grass very carefully so you don’t release the malevolent spirits trapped inside the blades. “Most certainly, the way the light of the full moon reflects off the windows indicates that this is the home of the Silent Musician.”

“The Silent Musician?” I asked, perplexed by the concept.

“The Silent Musician.”

“The last person that lived here was an accountant. Also, I don’t see any windows for light to reflect on. What are you talking about?”

“I’m not talking about those windows. I’m talking about the windows in the very soul of the manor.”

“Still doesn’t explain the accountant part.”

“Clearly you’ve never heard of a wandering spirit.”

“If it’s wandering, then why does it…” I gave up, I remembered that the letter I received was from the Silent Musician, and this is the correct address, so Edgar might be onto something. I knocked on the door. No response. I tried the doorknob. The door opened smoothly. The interior of the manor was… unexpected. It was brightly lit, and it was clean, very clean, as if it was built yesterday... and then deep cleaned… twice. I looked over the letter again.

Greetings Sylvia,

You have been invited to attend my grand performance. You are permitted to bring one other person with you. You are not permitted to bring suspicion. You are permitted to bring an umbrella, as it will be rainy. You are not permitted to bring concern. You must bring a glass bottle. You know where the performance will be. I will be seeing you then.

From, The Silent Musician.

“The letter doesn’t say anything about where the performance is, only that I already know where it is.” I said, uselessly. I think it would be helpful to mention that I absolutely do not know where the performance is. We only found the manor by following a bird with a troublesome look on its face.

“Go where your heart says, you’ve no reason not to trust it.” Edgar responded.

Rain flew against the windows. There were no signs of rain before we entered the manor.

I said “Well my heart would very much like to leave.” but I pronounced it “Let’s try this door.”

“Fantastic idea, Sylvia. You first.”

“Wait. I thought you were used to stuff like this.”

“Which is why you should go first, I’m not letting myself get wrapped up in a vengeful spirit’s schemes.”

“Fine, but I’m only going first because I don’t think any of this ghost nonsense is-”

I opened the door. In the vast room beyond sat only a well-dressed man and a cello. I’d be hesitant to say he was playing the cello, because it had no strings, although it seemed he didn’t even notice. I could definitely “hear” the cello. I could hear it in the way you can hear a song stuck in your head, like the ghost of a melody long passed. Edgar was nowhere to be found.

I am so glad you found me, I knew you would!

The well-dressed man had dark, well-done hair, brown eyes, and you must believe me when I say this, no mouth. I hate to admit it, but I screamed.

You’re acting like you’ve never seen a cello before.

Much like the music, I could hear his voice, but I didn’t hear it. My scream ended as abruptly as it had started, like I had screamed into a pillow. The silence was louder than a pipe organ. That horrible cello still played within my skull. The cello-player stared at me with thoughtful eyes.

Did you bring the glass bottle?

“Edgar has it. I don’t know where he went.” The cello-player’s gaze sharpened.

Then go find him.

The music stopped, and after a moment, I left the chamber. The rain was deafeningly loud. I could hear the crackle of a flame from twenty feet away. I could hear Edgar’s lungs breathing a horrible, uneven breath. I could not hear my heartbeat. I ran through the manor- My footsteps were too loud, I sneaked through the manor, careful not to make too much noise, listening for those terrible, terrible lungs. A breath in. A breath out. In. Out. I could not find Edgar. In. Out. In. Out. I made my way to a staircase leading down into a cellar. In. Out. The sound of his lungs was as loud as a storm now. In. Out. I ran down the stairs, each footstep like crashes of thunder. In. Out. I threw open the door. And there on the ground, laid Edgar, he was tangled in cello strings, his body contorted like a crushed spider, twitching madly. In his hand was the bottle. In. I took the bottle from his hands. Out. The twitching stopped and the silence crashed over me again. With the bottle in hand, I ran up the stairs and back to the chamber. The manor was dusty, with boards over the windows that had been rotted all the way through. It was dark. I made my way back into the chamber. In the decrepit room beyond sat a frail man with gray, thinning hair, and pale eyes.

“I have the bottle.”

Then it is my time.

The cello-player stared at me with mournful eyes. I began to hear my heart beat in my chest. I walked up to him.

Go on then.

The man began to evaporate. The bottle breathed him in. And in his last moments, I saw a mouth, and it spoke. “Thank you.” In.

THE END.