The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Strings 
by Karen Soutar 

He’d expected the door would stick. The floorboards would creak. Something. But no, he glided into their old rehearsal room just as he’d always done. Well, almost.

He trailed his fingers through the dust on the window ledge. Sparkles levitated in the light. The sunshine outside mocked him. He flicked a cobweb to the floor, then felt guilty in case he’d upset a spider.

How David would have laughed at this. ‘Over-dramatising again, darling? Of course you are. Stop wafting about and get over here.’

The piano, like him now, had seen better days. Bits missing, skeletons prominent. Out of tune. And…

He and David had never actually said the word. Just continued to play and sing together, until it was no longer possible. Withered hands could no longer press the keys. Failing eyes couldn’t read the music. And then their partnership was ended, in the most final way there was.

He often wondered what would have happened. The most famous duo of all time? Or the more modest success with which he’d been blessed? Always working, always singing. Some acting and directing. Writing, of course, too. Over fifty years in the industry.

He stood in his old spot. Took the new score from his jacket, laid the sheets on what was left of the music stand.

The opening lines were hesitant, not least because his vocal chords weren’t really up to the number anymore. He got going, though. He would never sing here again. Or anywhere. So he had to do it justice. For David.

He was into the first chorus when he realised.

He had accompaniment.

Someone was playing the piano.

Which sounded as terrible as it looked.

Well, clearly, this was the sign that the illness had finally got to his brain. He might as well keep going, though, as time was obviously shorter than he’d thought.

He risked it, glanced down. And swallowed a scream.

The skeleton playing the piano gave him a look (was that even possible?), said ‘Tch!’ and waved a hand irritably in a way that he immediately recognised as meaning:

‘Well, you bolloxed up that bit, didn’t you? Keep going.’

Keep singing.

 Was the sound from the piano improving?

Okay, he could do this. Verse two. He hit his stride again. Heard a satisfied ‘Hmm.’ Which changed to another ‘Tsk!’ when he risked another peep and mangled another note.

Flesh on the skeleton. More keys on the piano. Hair, fingernails. Broken strings now whole.

Chin up. Shoulders back. Last chorus. Time to do this. Time to belt.

He held the last note as long as possible, then crumpled like a mangled marionette. Strong arms wrapped round him and held him up. He gazed into blue eyes he hadn’t seen for thirty years.

‘Did you write that for me?’ asked David.

‘What makes you think I wrote it?’

‘Come on. Do you think I wouldn’t remember your style?’

‘I didn’t think you’d remember anything. Being dead.’

‘Ha. Good point.’ David chuckled. ‘Although that makes two of us, now.’

‘Does it?’ He realised that his body – well, the one he’d been using up until now – was slumped over the piano. ‘Oh.’ Strangely, he wasn’t at all concerned. ‘So what happens now?’

‘Whatever you like.’ David threw out a theatrical arm. ‘Stay here. See the world. Play the Hollywood Bowl. Do you have anyone you want to haunt?’

‘Can we do that?’

‘What, haunt someone?’

‘No, idiot, play the Hollywood Bowl.’

‘Absolutely. Although…’

‘What?’

‘I think you need more rehearsal time first.’

‘Why, you cheeky…’

Their bickering faded.

***

‘Hey guys, look at this!’

The band stumbled into the dimly lit rehearsal space, eyes adjusting after the sunshine outside.

‘Wow, it’s like new!’

‘Someone must have loved it. Weird, when the rest of the room’s so crappy.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get that cleaned up in no time. Come on, let’s see how it sounds!’

The piano gleamed as new, young fingers hit the keys.

Far away, in a huge open-air theatre, a janitor shrieked. On a stage with no power and no-one else around, an electric keyboard had begun to play.

.

Fiction © Copyright Karen Soutar
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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