Violin Master

The handle of the violin is worn and weathered, the strings are dusty and the auburn polish has been whitened from years of use. It has been sitting in its case since his long ago childhood.

But when he finds it at the back of the closet he doesn't hesitate to take his old friend into his arms, and pluck once at the strings with his lithe fingers. They fit to the grooves of the instrument like puzzle pieces, built to be placed in the hollows between the strings, were his eight year old fingerprints have remained for thirty long and empty years.

The bow is still intact, miraculously. Without question he sets it to the strings, and closes his eyes.

The echo of lush, dark music fills the room. The notes ricocheted off the floor boards and through his ears. The ringing fills his head, louder and louder with every stroke. His fingertips press, and stroke the coarse strings to the desired note. They all build up, growing faster and faster.

He is intoxicated by the music. His throat feels as if it might close up, his head pounds. The floorboards creak under his feet as he staggers to his knees. But the chorus doesn't break when he tears open his trousers on the dusty floor, or when blood drips from his fingertips.

One by one, they crawl out of the floorboards: the dead, the dying in their swirling black cloaks and tangled hair. He smells the flesh peeling away from the bones and hears the clack of their teeth inside toneless mouths. Long bony fingers nuzzle his hair and tickle down his chest, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt until they find were his heart slams against his ribs.

He hears her voice inside his head. Her name is Irene. She calls him beautiful. Her barren palm settles between his breasts. She hums along to the song and taps her index against his heartbeat. The sweat on the back of his neck grows cold; he bites his lip and forces his eyes tighter closed.

The song continues for her doesn't know how long. Irene whispers the notes in his ears, but no breath of life graces his skin when she speaks. Her voice is sweet and deep. It flickers with humor. The voice is almost real enough to trick him into opening his eyes.
But by now, he is running out of notes. And her hands and jaws are joined by two others: a nameless man and woman who sing along to the noise.  

He wants to fight them so bad it aches. He can sense the scrabbling fingers at the walls. To his ears, plaster breaks and furniture topples as they tumble towards him. They struggle to the music; the sick song that has roused them from their sleep.

He has lost all feeling in his hands. But the song pours out of his with a sting from the bottom of his broken heart. He doesn't know how many of them are touching him now. Ten? Twelve?

"Nobel."

He gasps and hurls the violin to the floor, scrambling back. His head is reeling and the inside of his throat tastes like bile. The instrument skids across the empty room to the wall. His dress shoes fly out and kick at nothing until he finally trips.

Nobel stares at the ceiling and sucks in lungful after lungful of air and presses his hands all over his body. He examines for cuts and scrapes that are not real. His hair is not knotted from Irene's fingers twisting and pulling.

The room is empty. Practically retching, Nobel crawls to the wall and tests every inch of the solidity for a gap. He needs something to prove they were real. He needs Irene, that beautiful woman who had loved him. He needs her back, swinging through the parlor with her hands around his neck to the crescendo of his violin. He needs her so bad that the delusion is making him sick.

He claws, and he screams at the wall until his nails are ripped open and his already bleeding fingers burn. Her name rolls of his tongue until he's screaming it mercilessly. He could have brought down all the hosts of heaven for the racket he made.

Hours pass of desperate tearing at the walls and floor until he falls onto his back, panting and choking.

Finally, he rests his forehead on the cold, dusty floor; his shirt is still open down his torso.