Short Story - MUSIC TO MY EARS

This week’s writing prompt was a challenge - one to combine two prompts into one. 👀

Just like last time, as soon as I thought about it, I got sucked in and wrote to my heart’s content. Which, as always, means about 500 words. The two prompts were:

• A middle-aged woman discovers a ghost

• A young prodigy becomes orphaned

Let’s see how I do.

MUSIC TO MY EARS

His fingers hit the keys.

Poke.

Plink.

Plunk.

His foot touches the pedal and pushes down. It’s stickier than the pedal on their old piano, but still works. He stretches his hands, excited for the day he’ll finally be able to reach wider than an octave, because then he’ll be able to play his favorite song. It’s a pretty song. A long song. So long it will impress his mama.

She went behind the door again, the square one. It looks like it was meant for a big dog, but matches the rest of the living room wall, hiding. It used to be behind the TV stand until they started hearing noises. He doesn’t like those noises.

Chords fill his ears, some flat, some sharp, but all perfect. That’s what he does. And if mama screams again, well, he’ll just play louder. He doesn’t know why she keeps going back in there if it scares her, but today’s screams last longer and are higher pitched than ever before. 

He shifts down an octave and hits the keys hard, keeping the pedal pushed to make the sound pull like taffy, dreaming of his next performance. Someone who records music will be there. Someone who cares about kids getting their time in the spotlight.

He wants that for himself.

More than he could possibly say. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She can’t stop coming in here. She’s called to it, her back hunching until she’s on her hands and knees, crawling through frayed cobwebs to get into the ornate, stale, long-lost room. It doesn’t matter how many times she sees the shape – that milky, amorphous wisp – she can’t help but scream. Sometimes it tries to touch her, and she rears back so hard, she ricochets off the wall, leaving mottled spots of blue and purple on her back. Still, she can’t stay away, no matter how she tries. And every day she gets weaker. And weaker. And someday, she knows, she’ll die back here. That nothing-shimmer in the air will eat the last of her soul and leave a husk. The thought makes her wail once more, the sound broken only by the strains of music.

She goes to her knees, weak, dizzy, and knows she was right. Today is the last time. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stares at the little door.

It’s night now, but mama never came out. She’s never coming out again. The ghost told him so.

He’s a good boy, so he does what mama said. He takes the candles and carefully lights them one by one before throwing them into the piano. Onto the furniture. Inside that little, scary door. 

He stands outside as the house burns yellow, thinking about his mama, but he doesn’t cry. He’s not a baby anymore. He’s the man of the house. Mama wanted it this way – both her, and the ghost who floats beside him.

It promised him a new piano.