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Scifi and Fantasy short story Audiobooks Creepypasta
The Violin By Robert Lee Beers
Play me The voice echoed in my head.
It snarled, snapped and screamed the demand.
The volume almost painful.
The tones metallic and grating.
"No!"
I screamed out the word, backing away from the glass of the museum display.
Play Me It was louder.
I could almost feel the blood running from my ears, nose and eyes.
Play— "Sir," Are you all right?"
I looked up at the voice.
I hadn't realized I'd fallen to my knees.
The museum docent looked down at me, a mixture of concern and apprehension nudging each other
for dominance on her face.
"No," I said, and then corrected myself as I got to my feet, "No, I mean, I'm
alright, it was just a spell."
I hoped that worked, it should for a man at my age.
She looked closely at me and then backed away, "Well… all right, if you say so."
I saw some of the other patrons giving me the eye.
The city was supposed to be the one of brotherly love, but in my experience it had been one
of "brotherly shove".
It did not pay to fall on the sidewalk in my neighborhood because you never knew what
the helping hands had stolen while they "helped".
I used to be a musician, and by that I mean I performed music, not this mindless thumping
dissonance so popular today, but proper music with melody, rhythm and soul.
First chair was my position and my instrument was the violin.
I had the ability to play with your emotions, I could send you into the depths of despair
and bring to tears with waves of joy.
Music was my tool, my lover and my god.
Was is the key word here.
A simple stupid accident and it was all taken away.
Now all I can do is collect the meager check the disability trolls send me and try to avoid
dreaming of what once was.
I first heard of the violin in a small article in the back of the newspaper's living section.
It was the description that grabbed my attention.
As a collector, I used to find a great deal of intrigue in how the various makers plied
their trade.
Antonio Stradivari was not the only genius among the makers.
His was mostly luck, the good fortune of being born during a portion of the Little Ice Age
where the tone woods grew to a standard unreachable in warmer climes.
Days, weeks, months and years I poured my mind, my vision, my very soul into the knowledge
of what went into the making of a world class instrument.
So it was no surprise a paragraph describing a violin with the image of a creaming face
worked into the soundboard would open my eyes.
I had to see it, and, if possible touch it.
I did not know it could speak.
The display case was positioned in the back of the museum where the more…unusual items
were kept, the gross, the disgusting and the macabre.
As a guest I stood out.
It was not just my age, but also my attire.
Well wearing tweed is usually something that remains in the background, so normal and average
it vanishes from the memory.
In that section of the museum I was a sore thumb, recently struck by a hammer.
Black was the order of the day, black with so much metal the youths wearing the outfits
could have supplied the mills in Pittsburg for decades.
To a one, they all bore the same dissolute expression as if already wearied by the weight
of years.
Even in my own similar state of mind I could not help but find that funny.
Imagine being so self-absorbed that even before reaching your second decade you already feel
old, useless and worn out.
One of the youths, a skinny girl with dead black hair and even deader eyes overheard
my chuckle.
"What's so funny, old man?"
She asked the question, emphasizing the last two words as if they would somehow be an insult.
She had no idea they merely confirmed my own opinion.
I didn't answer her back.
It would only have made an uncomfortable day even more unbearable.
I think she may have snarled something else at me, but I wasn't listening, I had a place
to be.
It was even more fascinating than I had dreamed.
The soundboard was the same dead black as the girl's hair.
I could see, either worked by the hand of an absolute genius, or perhaps some trick
of the grain itself, a face, complete with eyes, nose, mouth and expression lines.
The expression was a complex one, part grimace, part scream and altogether evil.
I could almost feel the lust for death, pain, suffering and despair radiating off of it.
I could feel it looking at me, considering, weighing, reaching for a decision; and then
deciding.
Yes.
What was that?
It sounded as if a voice was coming from the instrument.
I looked around to see if anyone else had heard it.
No, they were all as mindless as I assumed them to be.
Yes.
"Are you speaking to me?"
I asked the violin, but as softly as possible, for all the obvious reasons.
Yes.
"Why?"
I remained as quiet as possible, my nose almost touching the glass.
Play me.
I raised my useless left hand.
"I cannot.
I couldn't even hold you, much less finger the strings."
Play me.
This time it wasn't a subtle whisper, but a demand.
The demands increased in ferocity and volume until I screamed out my own refusal and fell
away from the glass.
That is when the docent came to my aide.
The pull of the violin was still there.
I could feel it in the back of my mind, as if a piece of its personality had merged with
my own.
I understood now, I understood those poor people I would see in the park, or walking
along the sidewalk carrying on a conversation with another that no one else saw or heard.
Could it be that they too had come across some other malevolent mind as I had?
Play me… please.
I stumbled out of the museum, the thing's voice still whispering, pleading, and now
begging to be played.
It continued as I made my way to the subway and on to the poor walkup that was my home.
It was a stupid thing to do, I realize that now, but isn't that the way we humans are?
We take the easy path because it is far too difficult to deal with the harshness of reality.
I ignored the voice as best I could.
Distance did help but it was still there, imploring me to come back, to play it, to
free its voice into the air.
To my mind, I thought a drink or two would erase it entirely.
I keep a bottle of cheap single malt in the cupboard under the sink.
I keep it there because no one does that, and so I am reasonably sure that, if I am
ever burgled, the scotch will still be there.
This problem figured to be a three-finger issue.
I poured and drank all in one continuous motion.
The cheap spirit burned all the way down, and then I waited.
That's when I chose to be extremely stupid.
It was impatience, impatience fueled by irritation, and if I'm honest, fear.
The voice was still there, still doing its best to wear me down.
I poured another drink and threw it back, and then I kept repeating the action until
the bottle was empty.
There was a moment of waking, at least I think so.
I did open my eyes and I did look around to be aware of my surroundings.
I did not, however, any a single notion of where I was.
I looked down, nor why my hands were stained with what looked like blood and why I was
holding four three foot lengths of what seemed to be animal gut.
Those of you unaware of the history of stringed instruments, especially the violin, should
know that the first, and in many of the traditionalists' minds, the best strings came from gut.
Called catgut, it was actually a type of cord made from the fibers found in the linings
of animal intestines, usually sheep, goat or cattle.
A cat's would be nowhere near long enough.
There are some who believe the original term was actually cattlegut and it became shortened
over the years.
In order to prepare catgut, the small intestines are cleaned, freed from fat, and steeped in
water.
After that, the external membrane is scraped off with a blunt knife.
The intestines are then once again steeped for some time in lye and then smoothed and
equalized by drawing out, or stretching, as it were.
Over the years it was found that the leaner the animal, the tougher the gut.
Once dried and prepared, the gut strands are twisted together to make the string.
The diameter of the string is determined by the thickness of the individual guts and by
the number that are used.
For example, a very thin string such as a violin E will use only three or four guts,
whereas a very heavy string, such as a double bass string, may use twenty or more.
The lowest string for a violin, a fine instrument such as a Stradivari would need only twelve.
It is said that the purest tones come from gut.
In comparison, the finest metal strings, even those made from gold alloy screech in comparison.
I had no idea what I was holding, but I still had what was needed to turn the gut into proper
strings.
A short walk told me I wasn't that far from my apartment, and, a few smelly, messy hours
later, I had a set of rather serviceable gut violin strings.
Bring them to me.
I shook my head.
The voice was even more in the forefront of my mind than before.
Even more than when I turned back into a drunk.
Before I realized it, I was at the door and then out onto the sidewalk, heading toward
the subway, the strings in a brown paper bag.
Hurry.
Hurry.
"All right, all right, stop nagging."
I saw some of the looks the other passengers on the subway were giving me.
They were probably right.
I'm fairly sure I deserved them.
Who else but a nutter would be telling a voice only he can hear to stop nagging?
By the time the subway slowed to a stop at the terminal near the museum I had my end
of the car all to myself.
There is a clock on the wall, visible to anyone getting off the subway if they care to look.
I looked and saw the time.
It was either extremely late or very, very early, I wasn't entirely sure.
What I was sure of was that the museum would be closed.
Very, very tightly closed.
In many ways, museums are much like music halls and large theaters.
They have a lot of doors and a very small security staff, often consisting of one rather
mature individual with a flashlight and a television set.
I had no reason to think otherwise with this museum.
The main doors were not an option.
One, they are very well lit, even in the smallest hour of the night.
The windows visible from the street, they too would not be worth considering.
As the building occupied an entire city block, I was fairly certain there had to be a variety
of delivery entrances, and more than likely a couple around the back of the building and
maybe one or two going into the basement.
I was correct, but the security staff had to be more diligent than not.
Every door I tried was locked.
I started on the windows, working my way around the driveway that was hidden from the direct
view of the street.
There was another door.
More of a garage door, one of the corrugated type that rolls up.
I grabbed the handle and rattled it, lightly, careful to not make any noise, if at all possible.
Hurry.
Hurry.
"Shut up, you.
Give me a freaking break," I whispered, and then I nearly landing on my behind.
The door loosened and began to rise.
The wheels squeaked in the channel.
I could only hope the guard, or watchman, whatever his title was, didn't hear it.
As carefully as possible, I raised the door, just enough to enable me, arthritic knees
and all to crawl under and into the museum.
I took the time to lower the door.
It didn't seem right to leave it open.
I was actually making a delivery, and as I keep telling myself, whatever else I may be,
I am not a thief.
On the other side was storage, consisting of lots and lots of wooden boxes.
A few of them were open and filled with that fluffy popcorn all the environmentalists complain
about.
I saw tops of vases, figurines and a few things I'd rather not think about.
What I did not see was what pleased me the most, the watchman.
If I remembered correctly, the violin was kept in the gallery on the far back left-hand
corner of the museum, if you based that looking at the building from the front steps.
All I had to do was find a way out of a basement I had never been in.
This way.
With the voice came a strong pull in a specific direction.
I followed it and found the stairs leading up.
This way.
Now a turn, and then another.
Hurry.
Hurry.
"I'm hurrying.
I'm hurrying."
"You!
Stop right there!"
"Damn."
I turned to see the guard shining his light on me.
He came closer, tilting his head as he looked at me.
"I… know you," he said.
"I've seen you here several times before.
What were you doing, casing the place for a job?"
I held up the bag, "Umm, no, actually I'm delivering something."
"Huh?"
The light waved as he tried to work out what I just said.
Kill him.
Maybe it was the tenseness of the situation, or perhaps it was the sheer power of the voice
inside the museum.
I really can't say, nor do I care.
A red wash filled my eyes and the next thing I remember, I have the bag in my hands, the
stains are back and I'm standing before the case with the violin.
Play me.
Playmeplaymeplaymeplayme.
It began to sound so eager it was babbling.
"I can't play you without strings," I said, shaking the bag before the glass.
String me.
Stringmestringmestringme.
I went through another blank period and then the violin was in my hands and I was fitting
the E string, the heaviest to the head.
It tightened properly, and then I did the next.
Yes.
Yes.
"I'm glad you're pleased," I said.
Again, I noticed the stains on my fingers.
What was that stuff?
I tightened the last string, the high string, and lifted the hand-carved rest to my chin.
The bow was in my right hand.
I noticed it was a Vuillaume, supposedly one of the best in the world, except the man never
made one by himself.
He only employed the makers, but they did produce the best there was during the day.
The bow moved across the stings with a smoothness I only half-remembered.
A sweet, resinous E filled the gallery.
Use your fingers.
"I can't," I said, "They won't close."
They will now.
Play me.
So I played, and, wonder of wonders, my fingers closed and then they fell into the almost
forgotten patterns of Chaconne by Bach and then flowed from there to Caprice No. 1, Paganini's
opus.
Yesssss.
The voice rejoiced, Play me.
Right then the mood changed.
My fingers began flicking across the strings into the mad melodies of the Danse Macabre
and then into the three unadulterated minutes of violinists hell entitled Locatelli's Caprice
in D major Op. 3, no.
23 'Il labirinto armonico'.
I had always thought the piece to be impossible, playable only by mutants and savants, and
I whipped through it as easily as if I was playing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.
"Yessss!"
I exalted Yessss!
The violin screamed out its joy along with mine.
I'm not sure how long I played.
It felt like hours and it felt like seconds.
Imagine yourself being denied the greatest joy of your life for nearly thirty years and
then suddenly being given the ability to not only re-embrace it, but to do so at a level
you only dreamed of before.
We must go.
I blinked.
It may have been my imagination, but I thought I could hear the rattle of keys coming from
the front doors.
That way.
There was that directional pull again and I followed it without thinking.
It took me back along the way I must have come.
In the hallway leading to the passage that would take me back down into the basement
I saw a body.
The light was bad, but I thought I recognized it.
It was face down and resting in a wide pool of blood.
I reached down and turned it over.
To me shock, it was the guard who had stopped me earlier.
His shirt was open and his belly…
I almost vomited, He'd been disemboweled, messily.
Ropes of intestines, black in the poor light snaked out of his open abdomen and onto the
floor.
They been cut… or eaten.
I didn't care, I needed to get out of there.
Hurry.
I hurried and in a short amount of time I was back on the sidewalk; the violin, the
bow and the paper bag in a brown leather valise I'd grabbed in the basement on the way out.
It was that hour of the day when the city streets were almost barren.
I didn't even see a cab on the way to the subway entrance, and the only other passengers
in the car were either drunks, homeless or both.
Neither of them seemed aware of their surroundings.
It was the same on the walk back to the brownstone.
I did catch a glimpse of the milkman, being very old-fashioned, the neighborhood still
had one, but he was the only moving body I saw.
Back in my apartment, I opened the valise and pulled out the contents, the case and
the paper bag.
I noticed the bag was leaking, and I smelled…feces.
When I opened the bag I knew what I was looking at, the guts of the guard and then I knew,
as sure as I knew a cloudless sky was blue, where the material for the new strings on
the violin came from.
Play me.
If you hear music, beautiful soul-soaring music coming from a violin, do not, under
any circumstance answer the door.
It is probably me, and I'm looking for a new set of strings…
The Violin is a short story by Robert Lee Beers, author of The Tony Mandolin Mysteries,
the best unknown supernatural mystery series on the planet.
While this stand alone horror piece was provided for a bit of Halloween fun, The Tony Mandolin
Mysteries is his bread and butter.
They take place in and around today's San Francisco, and in style are a mash-up of Nero
Wolf, Harry Dresden and the Vimes novels of the immortal Sir Terry Pratchett.
There are seven finished novels in the series, an 8th in the works and several short stories
offered for free on Kindle Unlimited.
If you go to http://asmbeers.wixsite.com/robertleebeers everything is there and more.
In addition, Graphic Audio the Movie in Your Mind audiobook publishing company has released
Tony Mandolin Mystery books 1 and 2 as all cast audiobooks available in CD and download.
Hey guys!
So I decided a little while back that I was going to narrate something special for Halloween.
And then literally that same day Robert Beers contacted me asking if I would like a horror
piece to read for the holidays.
Being one of my favorite authors to work wth, I jumped at the chance!
So I hope you guys liked the story, and have a happy Halloween!
I'm Chris Herron, and that's it for today's tall tale tv.
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