Into the last week

Image by Thomas Picard from freeimages.com

I have only four flash stories left to write this month for FlashNano. The prompts have certainly been challening, though in the last few days I have set out to use them as ways in to particular genres, and I have managed a sci-fi and a couple of spooky stories. One of them I would like to share with you. This will be my last share of the month. The prompt for this was to write 10 things I am grateful for and then use one to write a story. One of the things I am grateful for is music. It has been important to me in life, and I cannot imagine life without it. Like books, music is an addiction and I am so grateful for being given a decent voice and the ability to harmonize to with anything once I learn the tune. So, music formed this story. Here is something a little ghostly. Enjoy.

The apartment below me

The music woke me on my second night in the flat. At first it drifted into my dream where I was rehearsing a part for the next concert, except I kept getting stuck on the same bit and everyone else in the orchestra was staring at me. Coming out of the dream, I realised the music was coming from one of the other apartments in the building.

My clock said 3am. I turned over, trying to ignore it. I recognised the piece as Weismann’s Variations for Oboe and Piano. I had played it many times. A short haunting piece that shows the oboe’s range as it soars and falls. In my dream, I had become stuck at one of the more discordant notes. Now as I lay there, the short piece was playing on loop almost teasing me. At some point, I drifted back into sleep.

My nights became a pattern of getting to sleep, the dream and being woken around 3am to the haunting sounds of oboe and piano drifting up from the apartment below. I had by then found the source of the music because one night I had got out of bed, wrapped a coat over my PJ’s and slipped on my converse shoes to go in search of the music. Creeping around the landings of the building at night was slightly creepy, though light sensors flicked into action as I entered the hallways. I listened at my neighbour’s door before going downstairs. There were three apartments here, and the sound was more obvious. I located the door where it seemed loudest and lifted the flap of the letterbox. Yes, it was definitely coming from Flat Two. Darkness. That’s all I could see when I looked through. I caught the whiff of polished wood, smoke and that strange unwashed smell you get sometimes in charity shops. I pulled back. Satisfied I’d found the right apartment, I retreated to my own.

The next day I bumped into Susan, who lived next door to me, and I asked her about the apartment downstairs.

‘It’s been empty for six months. The owner tried letting it, but people didn’t stay. So now it’s on the market.’

I had my key in my door before I asked, ‘Who lived there?’

Susan shrugged. ‘A bit before my time, but the guy in Flat One said it was a conductor, you know, of music. Died in a fire there, apparently.’

I told her about the music at night. ‘Don’t you hear it?’

‘No.’

‘Has anyone else complained about it?’

Susan shrugged. ‘Not that I’m aware of. The only oboe I hear is when you play.’

I blushed. ‘I hope I don’t disturb you.’

‘I like it. The guy who lived in your flat before you used to play rap music at all hours. Now, I did complain to him about that. Actually, he said a funny thing, come to think of it. He said he was drowning out the noises in his head. I took it that he was on something. Always a strange weedy smell around him, if you know what I mean.’

I tried a whiskey before I went to bed in the hope I could sleep through, but I woke at the same time every night to the same piece of music playing. This was getting ridiculous. I was becoming irritable through lack of sleep. At rehearsal the following week new pieces were introduced for a coming concert and on the programme was Weismann’s Variations for Oboe and Piano. Anthony, our conductor, chose me for the solo. My heart flipped. Normally, I would be in my element. A time to show off my dexterity, but this did not sit well with me. At the first rehearsal, all was going well until I reached that part when the oboe soars into the discordant notes and I lost it. I stuttered, apologised and went back a few bars, and played again. The same thing happened. I stood up and walked out into the corridor. Anthony came to find me.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry, I think you should ask one of the others to solo.’

‘Why? You’ve played this many times before.’

I shook my head. ‘I just can’t play this piece right now.’ And I walked away from him.

That night I dreamed the same dream, getting stuck at the same point. I woke in a sweat and the same piece drifted up from the apartment below. I’d had enough. I donned my coat and shoes and marched downstairs. I was angry and didn’t care if I woke anyone. The music was louder than usual and I banged on the door of Flat Two. When there was no answer, I pushed against it. The door swung open. The anger was replaced by fear, yet I walked into the dark flat. A light flickered from the main room and I followed it.

The old man turned around as I entered. Music filled the room. The air was bitter. I shivered. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. He lifted an oboe leaning against the side of the chair and held it out to me. ‘You just need a little practice.’

And even though I knew this wasn’t real and that he couldn’t be real, I took the oboe from him. The wood was cold in my hands. I watched the conductor light a cigarette and lean back, waiting for me to begin. A musty smell emanated from him like unwashed clothes, and then he dropped the cigarette, swore, and brushed it away. He looked at me. ‘Begin,’ he said.

As I put my lips to the mouthpiece, flames began to spark around him. He ignored them. My frozen fingers welcomed the heat of the flames and I began to play, faultlessly, and true.