Photo by Joel Wyncott on Unsplash
The ghosts were at it again. Squeaking the attic ceiling vents, walking back and forth on the wooden floorboards, and Rascal sounded like he was about to hit the pots and pans in the kitchen. I had to sleep tonight; tomorrow the new job starts and I needed to be fresh. Ugh.
I got out of bed and crossed to my violin collection. So far, I had been nice about all the noise, after all, I just moved in. But enough was enough. They wanted noise, they will get noise.
Do you know just how shrill you can push a treble violin?
I put in my ear plugs, grateful for the lack of neighbors around this old Victorian I picked up for a song, and started playing. After the screecher I nicknamed Nails on Chalkboard in my head, to establish dominance, I switched to my fiddle and rocked Fire on the Mountain.
The temperature in the bedroom dropped enough I could see my breath. The four annoyances were an audience now.
Putting away the fiddle, I reached for case number three of the night, my normal violin.
Looking at their hazy forms, I addressed them for the first time with more than curses.
“Alright, you and I, we need an agreement. I need sleep time to make money to pay for the house. Keep it repaired and a roof over our heads. I assumed you want that since you aren’t going anywhere.”
I waited to see if I would get a reaction. I could feel a hole, an anticipation, a waiting.
“You let me have my eight hours, and I will play a song a night. Don’t let me sleep, and I will find the most hateful songs you have ever heard.”
I could hear them laugh at that.
“Oh, you don’t think I won’t play ‘Be Kind to Your Webfooted Friends’ for three hours? Try me.”
One of them tightened up their mist.
“Oh, you know that song. Good.” I moved my bow to point at the others. “Tell them. Tell them I will find other songs, something from their eras if I must. Trust me that I will find something.” I lifted the violin up. “But I’m not here about the stick. Like I said, a song a night if I am healthy and getting my sleep. Do you want to hear one?”
Two moved, the hole to be filled returned.
I poured Verdi’s Dies Irae into it.
(words 410; first published 10/20/2024)