“The

Musician”
A Horror Short Story

By

Steven Spellman

“The Musician”

From a planet far, far away from our own, foreign intelligences watched. They

did not probe, they did not plot, they only watched. Or, rather, one of them
watched, for the rest had grown bored with earth and its endless exercises in
futility. That one that watched saw that the earth’s billions were always being

led by the few, always dancing to the tune of whomever held the loudest or
most clever instrument. That watching intelligence began to wonder how

might the earthlings dance for someone who could really play…

 INGRID WILLBUROUGH WAS ONLY in town for three days. It
was really longer than he wanted to be here, in the little lowly southern town

where he was born and raised, but it was his mother’s birthday and he’d feel
guilty if he stayed only a day. She was turning seventy and she was fond of

reminding Ingrid that any birthday could be her last, now. She also insisted

Ingrid walk her around the city whenever he visited. It had always been her

tradition when his father had been alive. She also might’ve insisted it because
she knew how much Ingrid wanted to forget the place he’d come from.

It was during one of these walks through the city’s largest public park

that Ingrid noticed a young man sitting off by himself near the narrow stream

that flowed past the park. The guy sat squat upon the ground with a harp

directly in front of him. A harp. Exactly like one would expect to find in the

hands of a baby cherub, surrounded by white, dressed in white, perhaps

floating on a cloud. Only this was a public park, and the harp was nearly as

large as the man. The guy strum it like he knew what he was doing.

“Alright, mom, we’re going to walk this way today.” Ingrid said to his

mother as he gently led her toward the narrow concrete walkway that would
eventually lead past where the young man was sitting with his oddly placed

instrument.

“Why?” Ingrid’s mother asked immediately “We are not leaving early.”

“No, mother, we’re not leaving early.” Leaving was the last thing on
Ingrid’s mind right now.

He slowed his mother’s pace as they drew near. He could hear the music
the young man was producing from the harp. Ingrid had some familiarity with
musical instruments and this young man was plucking the strings of this harp

faster than Ingrid had ever seen. The harp produced a strange sound that Ingrid

could actually feel in the hollow of his chest, more a rhythmic vibration than
melody. Ingrid could feel it just vaguely, in his teeth, in his jaw, in the bone of

his skull. A soft vibration, like the tremble in the ground of an approaching

eighteen wheeler. The young man continued to strum furiously upon the harp,

gazing steadily at a small smooth stone sitting in the dirt a short distance
beyond the harp. Ingrid looked more closely at the stone as he passed slowly

by. The smooth oval stone looked like any other, until Ingrid looked even

closer and noticed thin ripples emanating from the stone in every direction.

Slight ripples, frozen in place, like a peddle dropped into water and all time

suspended for that moment. Only, in the dirt. With this harp, this odd young

man could actually make a stone dance!

Impossible, Ingrid knew, except there it was. Reluctantly, he walked on

with his mother, following the path as it returned them back to his car. He

glanced back at the young man and noticed that he was looking on at that
stone still, but smiling broadly now. His hand rested lightly upon the taut

strings of the harp. Just before Ingrid could turn away, the young man turned
and looked him directly in the eyes. A delighted smile still played upon his

lips but now that Ingrid could see his full face he could see there was
something else highly unusual about this guy. His eyes. They were the

brightest, clearest, bluest eyes Ingrid had ever seen. Clear and blue as a
cloudless day, nearly as clear as glass, they shone with an unnatural light.
Almost like something other than a human soul lived behind them.

 THE NEXT MORNING Ingrid decided to take his mother on her walk
much earlier than usual. The sun had only barely risen before they began.

“What is going on, Ingrid Tennison Willburough!” his mother wanted to know
as he led her down the sidewalk in front of her house. “You’ve been acting

strangely since yesterday…is it really that difficult to walk with your aging

mother every once and awhile?”

“Of course, not, mother. It’s a joy to walk you around the city every
Christmas. Everybody could use a little exercise, right?”

Ingrid’s mother didn’t answer. She only watched him closely from the

corner of her eye and pursed her lips. “Uh, uh.” She finally said, beneath her

breath “Sure.” She knew her son wasn’t overly fond of these outings but there

was something else going on with him. Ever since yesterday, he seemed

suddenly distracted. Even now, he seemed in a rush to get someplace as he

shoved her along. Normally, she would’ve instantly protested, but today she

decided to play along and find out what was really going on. She usually
didn’t visit the same place on the same day on this walks with her son but she

had a feeling he would eventually led her back to the park. That seemed to be
the place where Ingrid had first become distracted. It wasn’t long at all before

her assumption was verified. The park was the very first place they visited.

Unfortunately for Ingrid, neither the young man nor his harp were there.

The dancing stone was still there, kicked to the side. The ripples in the dirt
were gone, trampled down by the feet of park patrons come and gone from
yesterday. Ingrid bent low and picked up the stone. He looked it over closely,

turned it over and looked it over more. There was nothing special about it,
nothing fabricated. Just another stone. How in the world had that young man
with strange eyes made this rock dance? Ingrid’s intrigue only grew. But the

man was nowhere to be found and Ingrid had no idea who he was, nor where
he could be found. He continued on, walking his mother around the city until

she was too exhausted for another step. He was searching for the young man.

He didn’t find him. It felt like he and his mother had walked an entire

marathon but there was no sign of the young man and his harp. Ingrid had
spent most of the previous night restlessly thinking about both. There was

obviously something vastly different about the guy. All Ingrid knew was that

anyone who could make a harp produce a sound like what he’d heard—or,

rather, felt—was someone he needed to talk to. At last, once he was exhausted

as his mother, Ingrid decided that perhaps he would never see the young man

again. He had certainly never seen him before—he would’ve remembered

those glassy blue eyes—and he seriously doubted he lived around here. It was

a disappointment that burned into Ingrid’s chest but there was nothing he

could do about it. He had drug his mother from the house so early that neither
of them had eaten breakfast yet. She was beginning to complain.

Well, there was that; one of the few things Ingrid still enjoyed about his

hometown was a little delicatessen near his boyhood home. The fare there was
exorbitantly expensive and undeniably southern. The deserts were excessively
rich in flavor as well as price but served in generous portions. Generous in size

and caloric intake. A single heaping slice of their homemade caramel apple
cheesecake brought with it nearly as much calories as two large meals. But it

was just so delicious. The assorted meats as well. There was premium cuts of
salami, pepperoni, and ham, amongst other things, and every thick slice of
meat was so heavily seasoned that Ingrid was certain he could feel the salt and

preservatives clogging his arterial cavities as soon as he entered the little shop.

Once, years ago, he had ordered an Italian sub with double meat, a selection of
hot and spicy peppers, and all of it topped with the shop’s signature spicy

mustard. He was into his second bite of the sandwich when he felt his

temperature spike, his throat begin to close, and his vision fill with yellow, as

if the mustard were being spread across his corneas. It had been his first
allergic reaction. The restaurant was neither kind to his wallet nor his blood

pressure, but it was supremely good to his taste buds, even after all these

years.

But the food there was just so damn good; it wasn’t long before Ingrid

convinced himself that as long as he stayed away from the spicy mustard and

extra peppers he’d be alright. He and his mother sat at his favorite window

seat now, her enjoying a turkey sandwich with none of the trimmings and he

brooding over a full size, double meat…Italian sub. He wasn’t brooding over

the sandwich. No, he was sure that was as superb as ever, but it really bothered
him that he’d probably never see that young man again. After this visit with

his mother, Ingrid might not return for an entire year. He would certainly
never find the guy again after that. Ingrid had some professional familiarity

with musical instruments just like that harp and he needed to know, he had to
know, how that young man could command such an unusual sound from it. A

sound that could make stones dance, a sound that could be felt in the bones.
He had to know, but there was no way for him to find out, no way for him to
even begin to locate that strange young man.

Fifteen minutes passed and Ingrid hadn’t touched his sandwich. “I know
something serious is on your mind now, Ingrid. You love those heart attacks

on a bun.” His mother said.

Ingrid only glanced down at the sub and drew a deep breath. He picked

it up. “You’re right mom, I did have something that I thought could be serious
on my mind but it’s over now it would seem.” Ingrid seemed genuinely

crestfallen. He took a bite of his sub but it was half-hearted. He raised it to his

mouth for a second bite and that was when he noticed a crowd beginning to
form across the street in from a small indie book store. That little book store

had never drawn a crowd like that, he knew. He smiled. He also thought he

knew what would draw a crowd like that. There was no way to see what the

fuss was about for all the people gathering upon the sidewalk but somehow

Ingrid knew. He knew it was him. Ingrid left his mother, left his thick Italian

sub, and walked across the street. Whatever was going on across the street, an

increasing number of other people were being drawn to it as well. The crowd

had begun to spill over the narrow sidewalk and into the street. Cars were

beginning to blast their horns as they were forced to swerve out of the way.

It was not until Ingrid was able to wedge himself into the crowd that he
saw what was attracting so much attention. It was the young man! With his

harp! He strum the instrument more delicately this time, producing a slow,
sultry tune. Ingrid could see real concentration in the way the young man’s
fingers plucked the chords, the way his feet manipulated the foot pedals, but

the young man’s eyes were steady upon the person standing directly in front of
him. A beautiful young woman, and not standing, pining. She was a few feet

in front of the harp, moving in a kind of slow manic dance of lust. She cupped
her own breasts, squeezed her own thighs, sensuously rubbed her flat stomach,
her face, as if as the harp’s music was filling her with erotic desire she could

not contain. She took handfuls of her own hair, massaging it, pulling it, as her

hips continued a slow sensual grind. She looked as if the harp were driving her
mad with sexual longing.

Even Ingrid could feel it, a certain heat rising inside him. It was the sight

of the woman but it was also the music of the harp. He could feel it inside him,

not in his bones, but in his flesh. Not a disconcerting vibration but a special
rise in temperature, a rise in arousal. The music from the harp sounded like

seduction. It sounded like sex. Ingrid found it difficult to take his eyes off of

the woman. It was seasonably warm outside and she wore a short jean skirt

and a white spaghetti strap top. A simple yet attractive ensemble, but one that

was being rendered increasingly more provocative by the woman’s gyrating

and roving hands. Her tight jean skirt was more like a mini skirt and it was

increasingly becoming less than that as the woman caressed her own thighs. It

looked like a peep show right there on the sidewalk. At one point, Ingrid

caught a glimpse of the fact that woman wasn’t wearing underwear. She toyed
with the stringy straps of her top as if she wanted badly to disrobe from it

altogether. Her hands disappeared into her shirt, fondling her breasts with
apparently no shame.

The crowd was continuing to swell, and not just with men drawn to the
show, but with other woman as well, all curious to see what in the world was

going on. Every eye was upon the woman. Only when Ingrid was finally able
to wrestle his own eyes away from her did he notice that other woman, other

men, in the crowd were beginning to slowly touch themselves. They didn’t
appear to realize what they were doing. Woman, young and old, were
beginning to distractedly smooth their pants, their dresses, their blouses and

shirts, with increased frequency. Ingrid could see the building passion in their

eyes, the same heat that was building slowly inside him. The music was
becoming hypnotic in its power. The louder the young man strum the strings

the greater the heat rose. Men fidgeted with their fingers, obviously beginning

to struggle to keep those fingers from the women around them.

The young man plucked the strings, his intensity growing. He brought
the music to a crescendo and so with it the heat of passion in the air. The

young woman looked and moved as if she would burst. It was clear that she

was fully prepared to come out of what little clothes she did wear, right here in

public, in broad daylight. Whatever reserve that remained was fading quickly

from her eyes. The fact that she was literally surrounded by prying, wanting,

eyes would make absolutely no difference in just a moment. When that

moment came and the young man at last brought the tune to its zenith, the

woman gasped and fell upon the neck of the man closest to her. Like everyone

else, the man had been staring at her fixedly the entire time. His eyes moved
with the erratic sway of her slender hips, his tongue licked his lips to watch the

woman claw at her own delightfully supple flesh.

The woman was upon him now, clawing at him, kissing his lips, pulling
his hair. The man offered only feigned resistance at first but the woman was
ravenous, one second her tongue fully extended into his mouth, the next her

teeth biting into his lips. And, always, her hands seeking, grabbing. There was
soon another gasp from another woman in the crowd, but it was not from

ecstasy. The woman stepped forward, separated the groping strangers, and
swiftly slapped the man across the face. There was heat in her eyes, not the
heat of lust, but the fire of fury, as she slapped him again. Then she turned and

in a wide arch, slapped the woman as well. With the resounding clap of these

three successive slaps, the man, woman, and the rest of the crowd were finally
broken from the spell. Many eyes blinked, as people became aware of where

they were, what they had been doing. More than one person looked

embarrassed, shocked. No one looked more of either, though, than the young

woman who’d inspired all this. Or rather, was inspired by a very unusual harp.
Played by a very unusual young man whom everyone had all but forgotten in

the young woman’s dance.

She looked mortified. She yanked at her shirt, at her skirt, as though she

would yank the scant fabric across her entire body. It was no use. She looked

around frantically, noticing for the first time that so very man people had

gathered around her. Her eyes bulged and her chest swelled. She would

hyperventilate if she didn’t get out of here right now. She was more

embarrassed than she ever would’ve believed possible. For a frantic moment

she searched for some means of escape, somewhere, anywhere, she could run
and hide. She glanced toward the book store door, but the young man was still

seated there. Her eyes settled upon him and as realization dawned, a glare
followed.

Somehow, he had done this to her! With that harp! She thought to smash
his skull in with that harp but she needed to get out of here, away from all the

watching eyes, away from the unbelievable spectacle she’d just made of
herself. She shoved through the crowd and ran around the nearest corner,

shrieking. It was almost as startling a spectacle as her recent performance.

Almost. Ingrid found that he had to shake himself out of his daze as well.
Eventually, the crowd began to disperse until Ingrid was the last person left.

He couldn’t stop staring at the young man. He wanted to introduce himself, to

ask a million questions, but it was clear to see that with this harp this young
with blue glass eyes commanded some kind of power—Ingrid thought it might

be best to watch him a little more closely before he initiated first contact.

“WELL…” Ingrid knew what was coming. He sighed beneath his

breath “Are you going to tell me what happened? It must’ve been pretty

interesting.” Ingrid’s mother chewed on a mouthful of egg as she sat on the

other side of her small kitchen table from her son. She’d been asking the same

question—what in the world had happened back there at the café?—since it

happened yesterday. Ingrid told her only that a female street performer had

drawn the crowd. A very interesting female performer. It hadn’t been a total

lie.

His mother hadn’t bought it. She didn’t buy it now either. She wanted to

know exactly what had happened. For one, she didn’t want to be the last one
in the city without the latest, juiciest piece of gossip. For another, this small

southern town didn’t have street performers, and besides, Ingrid’s mother
doubted that a person simply dancing upon the sidewalk could’ve attracted

that much attention, no matter how interesting she was. Then, on top of that,
Ingrid had decided to lengthen his stay, something he never did. Not the work

of some street performer. But Ingrid wouldn’t talk about it. He seemed as if
he’d seen something unbelievable, something impossible to explain. What

could have possibly happened on that sidewalk! Ingrid’s mother decided she
would find out.
 The next morning, Ingrid was up bright and early. He claimed he had
errands to run. In a hometown he only barely visited, filled with people he’d

much rather forget? Unlikely. But Ingrid insisted to his mother that she
couldn’t come along with him for what he had to do. She was forced to wait

for some other opportunity to spy out this riddle of his. Ingrid left and drove

the city, looking for any signs of crowds, any sign that something highly

unusual was going on. The young man would certainly be nearby. Ingrid drove
every major road in the city but he found so such commotion, no sign of the

young man. Then he remembered that the last time he’d seen the young man,

near the café, it had not been on a major street. Ingrid began to search every

street, not just the main ones. Days passed and still he found no sign of the

young man. Finally, he called off of work, took some sick time he had stored

up. Everyone at Ingrid’s job who knew him knew that he never took sick time,

or any other time, off. He must’ve stumbled upon something really important.

As far as he was concerned, he had.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to stumble upon it again. More days

passed, until Ingrid was again becoming certain that the young man had fled

the city, bound back to wherever he’d come from. Ingrid wasn’t as crestfallen
as he had been about it. After what he had seen, he was no longer as certain

that he wanted to offer this strange young man what he had in mind. That
didn’t mean he wasn’t still as curious about him. He was in town a week

beyond schedule, watching the area’s public access channel for any
advertisements of local events that he thought might attract the young man,
when he saw an open invitation to the engagement party of a couple that he

was very familiar with. Mr. and Mrs. Spellman. Actually the couple had never
officially been Mr. and Mrs. Spellman, they had always been Mr. Thomas
Basil and Ms. Edna Spellman. Thomas and Edna had lived together for as long

as anyone could remember but they had never made it official. It was no
wonder, since they fussed all the time. Especially when the kids—Ingrid

included—teased them by calling them Mr. and Mrs. Spellman whenever they

were out in public. Everyone knew that Edna had insisted that Thomas take

her last name if they were to ever be wed, and everyone also knew how it
infuriated Thomas. It may’ve been the main reason the contentious couple

hadn’t tied the knot sooner.

There were definitely other reasons. As much as the couple feuded, they

acted as if they had already been married. They fussed about Thomas’

hygiene, the fussed about Edna’s cooking. They fussed about Thomas’

behavior around other women, they fussed about Edna’s unfounded jealousy.

They fussed about how the bills should be paid, they fussed about how

Thomas’ should be making more money at his job. They fussed about a great

many things, and seemed to have no shame about doing it in public. Ingrid and
the rest of the kids had all been certain they would never see the day when

Thomas and Edna actually got married. Ingrid couldn’t pass up on the
opportunity to see their engagement party, now. At the very least it would

definitely be a welcomed distraction. The television said the party would be

held at the local library the following evening. Ingrid made plans for him and

his mother to be there.

When they arrived, the place was packed. Obviously everyone else in

town wanted to see the impossible as well. There were even dozens of curious
faces peering over the balcony of the mezzanine above. It took Ingrid a
moment to find a place to sit, preferably near a restroom for his mother’s sake.

Once he found those seats he left his mother and walked over to where

Thomas and Edna were already seated, to offer congratulations. The couple
was already seated…and already fussing. “A library, Edna!” Thomas

struggled to keep his voice low, without much success.

“Well, Thomas“ Edna returned, not even trying to keep her voice low

“maybe if you’d be a man and demand a raise at that place you call a job, we
could afford something more appropriate.”

“Well, how about you be a woman and get a job!” The gloves were off,

the couple were both fighting at full volume now. Ingrid began to back away.

“See, look how you’re embarrassing this young man with your antics, Edna!”

Ingrid tried to back away faster, but Edna caught his arm just as he was

about to pull beyond her reach. “Antics!” she bellowed “Why…why…” she

was sputtering with offense now “Young man!” she turned to Ingrid and he

could only sigh “Am I embarrassing you?”

“Well…um…I-I really don’t want to get involved…” he could only

sputter, himself, now.

“It’s a simple question, young man. Am I embarrassing you…at my own

engagement party?”

Ingrid searched around frantically for some means, any means, of

escape, but found none. Luckily, a very unexpected source came to his rescue.

A tune began to fill the air, a light and airy tune. A ballroom dance tune. It
started low but quickly built until everyone, Edna and Thomas included, were
hushed into silence. It sounded like a full orchestra was in the building. Ingrid
began to search around frantically again, but not for escape. He knew where
that music was coming from, he just had to find him. There he was! Up on the

mezzanine, harp in tow. How could the unmistakable sound of a full orchestra
come from a simple old fashioned harp? It was insane. It was also right before

Ingrid’s eyes. The young man plucked the strings, tossing his head as if he

were playing a guitar.

As the music continued to build feet began to tap all over the library’s
hard wood flooring. Men and woman well beyond the age for dancing, or well

before it, began to sway in their seats. Confusion was upon many faces,

confusion that was quickly morphing into smiles. People were looking around,

looking for someone who would stand and dance first so they wouldn’t look

like complete idiots alone. The music was like that. It had an ethereal quality,

a presence of power that made these people crammed into this little library

like too many fish in a bowl, want to dance. Not just any dance, but ballroom

dancing. As far as Ingrid knew, no one in his hometown even knew how to

ballroom dance. It didn’t seem to matter. When that first person finally stood
—and, low and behold, that first person was Edna!—others quickly followed.

Tapping their feet faster, harder, to the rhythm, as if it were becoming more
difficult by the moment to not simply burst out in a dance no one knew, some

began to move chairs and tables while others took the floor. The Spellmans
were in the middle!

They were given a wide birth, and there they were, Edna in Thomas’
arms and her actually not looking repulsed. Thomas spun her slowly in place,

building momentum. Other couples, some fathers and daughters, some

mothers and sons, even the children, were spinning too. Or else, moving one
foot, back, then forth, back, then forth, in sync. They were beginning to look

like professionals. Ingrid looked toward the mezzanine and found the young

man also glancing at him. The young man winked and turned his attention
back to the couple in the middle of the floor. Ingrid hadn’t noticed that his own

shuffling feet had taken him back to where his mother was now dancing in her

chair. He took her hand and lifted her from the chair and they began to dance

in earnest. Ingrid had never seen his mother dance, not once, had never
imagined it, but she was dancing now. Dancing with an expertise that she

shouldn’t have possessed. Ingrid shouldn’t have possessed it either. Neither of

them should’ve known what a line of dance was, but she followed it. She

shouldn’t have known how to swing her feet just so to keep them out of the

way lest she trip Ingrid up but she did. He did too, dancing with his mother

with more spirit than her aged body should’ve been able to handle.

Everyone was suddenly experts now, but no one more than Edna and

Thomas. They tangoed, they salsa-ed, they even Lindy Hopped with such

skill, such enthusiasm, that it was impossible to tell that they were nearly in
their seventies. It was somehow the work of the young man. With every glance

in his direction, Ingrid could see that his concentration was clearly focused
upon Edna and Thomas. His fingers assaulted the strings of the harp with

blurring quickness as he leaned forward, intent upon the couple. He seemed to

be willing the power of the harp upon them. The effects were clear. Thomas

wore a suit and Edna a dress that zipped up tightly in the back and together,
twirling and spinning, spinning and twirling, they looked like seasoned
professionals in some dance competition. One of the libraries most powerful

overhead lights shone upon them at just the angle to give them both a halo-like
glow. Even more shocking was that both of them were obviously genuinely
enjoying themselves. There was true glee upon both of their faces, glee that

Ingrid never remembered seeing before in either of them. At least not when
they were together. It was there now, though—they looked like kids, both of

them giggling like idiots.

They danced, and nearly everyone else danced, until the music gradually

died away and all was finally silent. Only once the last vestiges of music had
dissipated did the people returned to their senses. People everywhere blinked

again, like people coming out of a daze. No one thought to search for the

young man and when Ingrid finally thought to glance again in that direction,

he found that the young man and his harp were gone. With his strange powers

of persuasion the young man had struck again.

“I HAVENT DANCED LIKE THAT in years!” Ingrid’s mother said,

as they enjoyed another simple breakfast at her small kitchen table. She had

been raving about the experience at the library since it happened, days ago.

“You used to dance like that?” Ingrid asked, amazed. He was still
amazed to have seen her do any of what she’d done—not to mention himself
as well as the Spellmans—there.

“Heaven’s no, child. I danced, but never like that…I don’t even

remember where I learned to dance like that.” Ingrid seriously doubted that
his mother ever did learn to dance like that. Just as he seriously doubted

anyone else at the library had ever learned to dance like that. Such was the
power of the harp and the young man who wielded it, it would seem. Ingrid
decided that yes, he needed to introduce himself to this young man. No matter

how he did it, anyone who could make the Spellmans dance together and enjoy

it definitely deserved what Ingrid wanted to offer the young man. Ingrid began
to canvass the city in search of the young man again and luckily he stumbled

upon him before many days passed. He found him, of all places, back at the

city park, sitting at the same place near the stream. He had his harp, but

instead of a smooth stone there was a large bottle of soda pop before him this
time. It was a warm day and Ingrid assumed the pop was for drinking.

“Hello.” Ingrid said, as he approached the young man. He tried to sound

jovial, unthreatening. He didn’t want to give the young man the wrong

impression before he’d even had time to get a conversation started.

The young man’s fingers stilled upon the harp’s tightly wound strings

and he turned his attention quickly from the bottle to Ingrid. “My name is

Ingrid Willburough…”

“Ingrid?” the young man asked. His voice sounded like metal harshly
grating metal. Noticing the confusion upon Ingrid’s face, he cleared his throat

and began again. “Well, that’s a strange name for a male of your species, isn’t
it?” His voice sounded like a normal human’s voice now. As if he had had to

calibrate it that way. This young man was even stranger than he would appear.

“Well, I’ve never heard it put quite that way before, but yes, I suppose it

is unusual for a man to be named Ingrid. After so many years, though, I’ve
grown rather fond of my name. After all, my mother gave it to me.” Of course

Ingrid had heard many times before how strange his name was, but he hadn’t
come here to discuss etymology, “But I came here to discuss a job opportunity
with you. I was fortunate enough to witness your performance at the
library…”

“Did you enjoy it?” the young man asked suddenly. He seemed very

eager to know.

“I did.” Ingrid answered truthfully “Very much, so. So did my mother.”

“Good! Good!” The young man appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties

but those clear glossy eyes of his lit up instantly like he was a small child

who’d just been applauded for learning a new skill. “Soon, I shall be able to

make you humans really dance.”

This species and humans business was vaguely unnerving but Ingrid was

determined to press on. “I am the conductor of a rather prestigious chamber

orchestra in New York City. I would very much like to offer you a job.”

“New York City?” the young man asked “Isn’t that one of this planet’s

most crowded cities?”

Ingrid’s brows furrowed. “It is…you’re not from around here, are you?”

The young man smiled as if he knew something Ingrid did not, “You
could say that.”

Ingrid wanted to ask where he was from, why he spoke so oddly, but he
decided his interest here should be purely professional. This young man

seemed to wield the power of Ingrid’s entire orchestra. If Ingrid could

convince him to return to New York City with him, to perform for him, to

teach other musicians to do what he’d done with that harp, the results would
be phenomenal. If he could somehow secure this young man’s loyalty—or at
least bind him into an exclusive contract—he’d be the envy of every other
conductor for as long as he lived. Ambitious possibilities indeed, but as Ingrid

looked at the young man, he knew that if anyone could help him realize them,
it was this guy. Meanwhile, Ingrid watched the young man’s face more

closely. He seemed to be seriously considering the offer. He looked as if he

were warming to it.

“So, what do you think? Does the prospect of performing for thousands
of adoring fans sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“Thousands? Adoring fans?” The young man sounded awed. Just as

Ingrid had hoped.

“Well, they’ll be adoring fans after they’ve heard you.”

“Thousands.” Ingrid heard the young man whisper to himself “That

would definitely be a good start…” The young man looked up at Ingrid, “Yes,

Ingrid Willburough, I think I am interested in your offer.”

“Great!” Ingrid exclaimed. He cleared his throat “What I mean is, I’m

very glad to hear it. When can you start?” The young man thought about it. A
faint frown began to crease his smooth face. Ingrid added quickly, “No need to

worry, I’ll handle all the travel arrangements and expenses.”

“It’s not that.” The young man answered “Believe me, travel isn’t going

to be a problem…but I do need more time before I’m ready.”

“Oh, I assure you” Ingrid said seriously “you are very much ready.

Besides, there will be many rehearsals to help you get used to how things are
done in an orchestra.” Truthfully, Ingrid had never had need of a harp in any of
his orchestras but he knew he definitely had need of this one.

“No, you still misunderstand. I have a plan for this planet but first there are

some other things I need to learn to do first. It shouldn’t take long, perhaps a

week.”

“A week it is, then.” Ingrid said quickly; anything to get this

extraordinary young man within his employ “I have to return to New York
before I no longer have a job myself, but I will return in exactly a week’s time

to take you back with me. Is there a number or an address where I can reach

you?” The young man looked confused. “You know, a telephone number…

where you live.’

“Oh,” the young man said finally “I don’t live here. It’s becoming an

increasingly fun place to play my harp but I’m not yet ready to live here!” he

sounded appalled. Naturally, Ingrid thought the young man was talking about

the city, perhaps the state. Inside, though, he had a vague suspicion he was

talking of neither. Perhaps not even the planet.

“Is there any way I can get in touch with you? It will be imperative that I

find you once I return in a week.”

“Imperative?” the young man asked, confused.

“Extremely important.”

“Oh…there was still some nuisances to your planet’s language that I

must learn. As far as you finding me, though, there’s no need to worry. I’ll be

around.”

Ingrid wanted to tell him that that wasn’t good enough. On this planet,
you couldn’t make plans like this on such a vague promise. For some reason,

he wasn’t sure the young man would understand, and besides, he didn’t want

to alienate the guy before he even got him to New York. He swallowed hard.
“Is there no other way I can locate you?” he asked cautiously.

“Where I am your species cannot come…but I have an idea. Tell me

where you live and I shall be there when you return.”

Ingrid had to think about that for a moment. Of course it would make no

sense to give the young man his address in New York, but neither did he want

to give a near complete stranger his mother’s address. Especially considering

that the young man knew full well that he wouldn’t be there for another week.

Ingrid thought of his mother. She was small and old, but by no means frail.

She owned two small pistols, she kept one of them near at all times, and she

knew from experience how to use them. Besides, in this quaint little southern

town, everyone knew everyone. Ingrid’s mother’s neighbors would know if

the young man tried to sneak into her home almost before he knew. Certainly
there was nothing this young man could benefit from Ingrid’s mother anyway.

Ingrid wrote the address on a piece of paper and handed it to the young man.
He also wrote on the paper the date and time the young man should meet him

there.

The young man took the paper and met Ingrid’s eyes. No matter how

Ingrid tried to suppress it, those nearly transparent blue eyes were unnerving to
meet; Ingrid was almost certain that if he stepped closely enough and looked
hard enough he would be able to see inside this man’s head. “Again, you have

no need to worry,” the young man said, still holding Ingrid’s gaze “I will be
there; after I’ve honed the necessary skills this will be an opportunity I will
greatly welcome.”

Ingrid was glad to hear it. He had no idea what further skills this young

man could possibly still need to hone but he had agreed to be at the address at
the appointed time and Ingrid believed he would. That was enough for now.

Ingrid left to return to the New York later that evening. He thought of the

young man, the endless possibilities his talent symbolized, all the way back to
the Big Apple.

BACK IN INGIRD’S HOMETOWN the young man thought of him as

well. It was vaguely fascinating, a male of this planet’s species with a female

name. What was fascinating in earnest was the offer he’d presented. The

young man had been prepared to make the endless droves of people upon the

planet dance for his amusement but he hadn’t expected to draw in thousands

so soon. The opportunity Ingrid offered would indeed be a running start.

Today, thousands, tomorrow, millions. On the third day the entire population
of the earth would rise to the music of his harp. And dance themselves into

insanity.

First, there were those skills he still needed to hone. He was learning

fairly quickly how to make human flesh perform as he pleased but what
human’s called the Laws of Physics—he wanted control over those as well.

Ingrid had seen some of the instruments of his practice and hadn’t realized it.
The stone and the soda bottle. The stone had been a success but the soda bottle

was proving more difficult. The young man had made the stone to vibrate with
only a modest amount of effort but now he wanted the soda bottle to vibrate to
explosion. Ingrid had unwittingly interrupted his first practice session with the

bottle. The young man was in the park, now, upon his second or third practice
session.

Just as when Ingrid had found him, the young man’s glassy blue eyes

were intent upon the bottle as he leaned forward in concentration. He began

plucking the strings of the harp furiously right from the beginning. It was late
in the evening and, except for the young man, the park was completely

deserted. It was good that no one was there because that concerning tremor

that Ingrid had experienced in his chest the last time would’ve been amplified

now, to the point of serious danger. And still the young man put yet more

speed and force into his fingers as they assaulted the harps strings. Sweat was

beading upon his forehead, finally streaming down across his face. The bottle

danced in place, threatening to topple over at any moment, but it did not

explode. The young man played harder. The bottle teetered even more

precariously. But it did not explode. The young man’s body was beginning to
grow tired, he could feel the first signs of cramping in his fingers. He wouldn’t

be able to keep this up for much longer.

He gave one final push. The soda in the bottle fizzed, expanded, until
there was no room left. The bottle throbbed, tottered, until….until…it finally
exploded. The top burst upward into the sky like a cork flung from the mouth

of a volcano. A thick brown spray of aerated soda followed directly behind.

The spew of pop blossomed into something like a mushroom cloud before

splashing to the dry earth below. The young man was heaving for breath now,
flexing his sore fingers. Smiling broadly. He’d done it. Now he could continue
with the next phase of his experiment.

FOR THE TYPE of performances the young man had planned next, he

didn’t need a large audience. In fact, he’d prefer a very small one or none at all
until he’d had time to play for a few more test subjects. The young man

searched the city for somewhere he might find one or two of these unwitting

test subjects, somewhere he might continue his experimentation in relative

solitude, and found it more difficult than he had expected. The city was small

but well populated. There weren’t many places where prying eyes weren’t

plentiful.

There was one place that the young man eventually stumbled upon that

looked like it might be his best shot. It was a very seedy motel a few miles

beyond the city limit. The properties around the motel were all deserted and

condemned. The motel wasn’t much better. The doors had been ripped off of

some of the rooms and it was clear to see that those had been completely

destroyed long ago. There was fecal matter upon the walls, urine and trash
upon the floor, the destroyed cushions of old couches and mattresses

everywhere else. It was surprising that the motel was still operating at all, but
it was. There were only two cars there now, themselves as old and ragged

looking as the property itself, parked at two of the few rooms that still had
doors.

This was where the poorest of the poor of the city came to hide when
they had nowhere left to go. No one else would be caught dead here. Or, since

prostitution and drug dealing was common place here, dead might be the only
way anyone was caught here. The young man sat down before his harp near
one of the occupied rooms and waited. When someone emerged he would

begin his performance. An hour passed. Two. Three. The young man began to
think that maybe he should look elsewhere. He had only a matter of days, after

all, before he was scheduled to go to New York with Ingrid. He planned to be

ready to do anything with his harp by that time.

He was just about to give up on the motel when one of the room’s doors
opened. A woman peeked her head out of the doorway. She was young and

pretty—odd, for this place—and she looked as if she were trying to avoid

someone. Or perhaps everyone, since she didn’t step out of the room until she

was certain there was no one else in sight. It was only when she stepped

completely out that she noticed the young man. As soon as her eyes landed

upon the harp they bulged. She recognized it. And him. The woman held a

purse upon her arm. She immediately began rummaging through it furiously.

Only once she found what she was looking for did she turn her attention back

to the young man. She rushed toward him, murder in her eyes and a shiny box
cutter in her hand.

The young man recognized the woman as well. He recognized the

passion in her eyes. The last time he’d seen her he’d inspired a different kind
of passion inside her. It was the woman he’d caused to dance nearly out of her
clothes for all to see. That incident was actually why she was here, at this

unsightly motel. Word of her public strip tease was common knowledge now.
She had been a active part of her community but now she was seen as little

better than a prostitute. She began to receive lewd propositions after that dance
from many men she’d never met, and from the city’s women she received only
derision and spirited insults. In a small southern town like this, where

everyone knew everyone else’s business, the shame was overwhelming. She

been forced to retreat to this awful motel just to steal a moment’s peace. And
now the young man who’d somehow entranced her against her will with his

harp was here! It was too much to bear. She would see his blood upon her box

cutter if it were the last thing she did.

There was no time for the young man to stand and flee, no time for him
to save himself. It didn’t matter. He felt no need to save himself. In fact, he

saw opportunity in this woman’s mad dash. It would make what he’d come

here to do even more interesting. He set to it immediately, strumming the

strings in the opposite direction than he did usually. It produced an odd sound,

jarring, like something heavy being drug across concrete. Almost immediately

the woman’s spirited stride began to break. It looked like she was losing her

footing even though she sprinted upon a level walkway. There was only a

short distance between her and the young man and she was determined to

cross it and put her blade into his neck but her legs were growing heavier by
the step it seemed. She was forced to slow to a trot, then a walk. Her joints

suddenly hurt, her arms were suddenly dead weight. Her entire body felt…
exhausted. Meanwhile, the young man continued to play that awful, grating,

tune.

The woman pressed forward, every step a clear agony now. She was

mere feet from the young man when she felt she couldn’t take another step
without falling over completely. She just felt so very tired. The box cutter slid

from her grasp and dropped to the pavement. She didn’t even notice until the
clang of metal on pavement reached her ears. She looked down and it was
only then that she noticed that her clothes had worn badly, threadbare even, in

the short distance she’d traveled between her room’s door and where she now

stood. The fabric of her blouse and jeans, both of them in sound condition a
moment ago, now looked as if they had been sitting out in the elements,

slowly decomposing, for years. Shocked, she turned and saw her reflection in

the motel room window directly beside her. She covered her mouth in morbid

surprise. Her face, it was…old! There was a profusion of wrinkles above and
below her eyes—as well as everywhere else—the thick skin of her lips looked

like sandpaper, and her hairline had receded a considerable distance. Her skin

too, was suddenly ashen, thin, badly aged. The woman who stared back at her

from the window’s reflection was at least forty years older than the woman

who’d only recently come out of her motel room.

The woman tried to scream, but only a croak escaped her parched lips.

She slumped over from the shock but also because it hurt her back too badly to

stand straightly. She tried to turn, to return to her room, but her limbs were

stiff, her joints like they had fire in them whenever she moved. It was getting
worse by the moment. The young man kept playing. Things were becoming

blurry, dark. She began to hurt everywhere. Tears streamed down her face but
she hardly noticed. She still tried to turn, to find somewhere, anywhere, to sit

and rest but her body would not obey. It was not only the pain, not only the
stiffness, her body simply would not listen to her commands. She felt like she

was dying. At last, she collapsed heavily to the pavement below and her frame
was so ravished that she hardly noticed the fall either. She lay upon the
walkway, sobbing, broken in more ways than one. The young man finally

stopped his terrible serenade and stood to look down at the old woman that
had tried to kill him. With a smile, he nodded his head. Success. He gathered
his harp and left, satisfied with his latest performance. Two men passed him as

he walked toward the road. They watched him curiously as he passed, a

strange sight, here, carrying a large harp.

“What you think?” one man asked the other when they thought the

young man was beyond earshot.

“Naw, ain’t worth stealing. What the hell we gonna get for a harp?” the

other man shrugged his shoulders and the two kept walking until they passed

the woman crumpled upon the pavement.

“Now, that’s low” the first guy said “somebody done left they grandma

out here!”

The other guy looked down, gave the old woman a kick in the leg to see

if she were alive. When she stirred he scoffed, “Not my problem, man, I

probably won’t even be around by the time I’m that age.”

THE YOUNG MAN SAT upon the grass, gazing out silently upon the
water as it churned and frothed. He imagined it an ocean, an ocean of people
all dancing hysterically. Some of them laughing till their bodies ached and

some of them bailing to the high heavens as if their bodies did ache, but all of
them dancing to the tune of his harp. The harp sat a few feet away, as quiet as

the young man.

This was the young man’s moment of contemplation, of planning. Ingrid

would return soon and wisp him away to one of the planet’s most populated
cities. From there the young man and his harp would have a virtually
unlimited horde of subjects to experiment upon. From there he and his harp
could conquer the world. The young man thought about all this as he sat in the

grass of a small stretch private of water front property on the outskirts of the
city. There was a small business complex nearby but not many people were

around. No one in fact, except for the occasional car or the less frequent

pedestrian walking past, headed toward the apartment complex that was also

nearby. It was surprisingly peaceful after so much strumming of harp strings,

to sit here alone, with no need to perform, no need to practice. This little

planet was turning out to be a superb place to have a little fun indeed.

The young sat in the grass looking out upon the water until it calmed to

a gentle ripple. The breeze didn’t stir and neither car nor pedestrian passed for

some time. Except for the occasional call of a bird or the chirp of an insect,

there was complete silence. Eventually, even the birds and the bees moved on.

Things had been calm but now they were completely dead. The total silence

was beginning to become oppressing to the young man. He wanted some kind

of sound, the gentle consistent splash of waves upon the wooden retaining
wall that kept the earth from spilling into the river, the resonant hum of a

passing vehicle, the passing of a gusty wind. Something. He inched over

toward his faithful harp. He’d just play something soft, something quite, just

some gentle tune so that there at least would be some sound in the air. He
began to pluck the strings gently until a slow, tranquil melody lifted from the

harp. It was good, not too much, but just a little too slow. The young man
picked up the pace just slightly. It felt good, and sounded even better.

There was still no one in sight, no other sound in the air than the soft
melody wafting from the young man’s harp. The slight ripples in the river’s
edge became subtly more pronounced with the tune. The young man played

just slightly louder and the ripples likewise rose. It was fascinating, hypnotic

even, how the ripples rose and fell, bounded and crashed, to the tune. When
the music ebbed so did the ripples, when it flowed, they followed. The young

man made the music rise and with it the ripples became gentle waves. More,

and the waves began to crash upon the retaining wall. Soon, the young man

was in his own world, completely enthralled with his own command of the
elements. He played louder, until the water churned violently. Then louder

still, until dark, heavy storm clouds began to roll in. It wasn’t long before

those storm clouds actually began to descend heavily upon the water. It looked

as if the entire sky was darkening. It was promising to be an unusually

powerful storm for the area, potentially disastrous even.

The storm clouds were a huge funnel now; when that funnel connected

the heavens above with the frothing waters below it would mark the birth of a

storm even the young man wouldn’t have been able to stop. Still, he played

on. Lightening flashed now, stabbing the sky seemingly everywhere with
blinding bolts of white energy. The bottom of the funnel was just about to

make contact with the water when the young man at once stopped playing.
He’d felt a hand upon his shoulder. When he looked up he saw Ingrid standing

over him, gazing out at what the young man had created, awed and completely
terrified. Only now could the young man tell that Ingrid had been yelling for

him to stop; his screaming voice been lost in the gale. Now, with the air silent
and the storm receding, Ingrid could only look on dumbly. He began to back
away from the young man without a word. Ingrid’s car was nearby. By the

time he reached it the storm had nearly dissipated completely but he couldn’t
pry his eyes from where the storm had been. He had never seen anything like
that, except on news footage.

Ingrid had been so excited about the prospect of working with the young

man that he’d returned a day earlier to take him back to New York but now he
wasn’t so sure he did want to work with this guy. He’d realized the young man

wielded power with that bulky harp of his but he hadn’t known to what extent.

Now that he had been given a glimpse he was certain that no man should be
able to command such power. Still, what this young man could do for his

orchestra, for his name… Ingrid got in his car and drove off. He had some

thinking to do.

BACK AT INGRID’S MOTHER’S house the two of them sat at their

usual spot at the little wooden kitchen table. Ingrid’s mother was the only one

eating. Ingrid had surprised her with his earlier than expected arrival home,

and he had been surprising her ever since with his strange behavior. He wasn’t

himself, walking around like a zombie, distracted, aloof. He obviously had

something on his mind but, again, he refused to talk about it. There had been a

storm the day before, a really bad one by how ominously the sky darkened.
That was highly unusual for this time of year and made more bizarre by how

quickly the storm was over, without a single drop of rain. When Ingrid’s
mother asked him about it he only stared at her blankly. That was when she

first noticed that he was acting strange. Of course, the two couldn’t be
connected. Could they?

Now, at the table, before a plate of untouched food, Ingrid still stared on
blankly. He hadn’t said more than two words all morning and it wasn’t likely
that he’d be chattering away anytime soon. Then there was a sudden knock at

the door and Ingrid nearly leapt from his seat. He scurried from the kitchen
and left his mother where she was, surprised and confused. Whatever was on

his mind, it had something to do with whomever was at that door. Ingrid’s

mother followed until she was close enough to hear what was going on. After

a moment she could hear her son quietly telling someone that they’d have to
talk outside. As soon as she heard the front door close she walked to her living

room window and opened a slit in her curtains where she could see her entire

front yard and no one know she was looking. She saw her son and that young

man with the harp. Ingrid seemed tense now, perhaps even frightened, as he

talked with the young man. What did her son suddenly have to be afraid of

from this person? Well, there was a clear remedy for that. She’d just find

out…

Ingrid’s mother opened the front door and invited the young man inside

without any greetings or preliminary. Ingrid immediately protested and his

mother immediately reminded him that this was her house. She could invite in

whomever she pleased. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Ingrid. In his

mother’s eyes it didn’t matter that he was all grown up with a successful

career and a fancy apartment up in the Big City. He was still her little boy, still
her Little Ingrid. Once the young man was inside the house, Ingrid tried to pull

his mother aside, to explain to her that it might not be such a good idea having
this particular young man in her home, but she would hear none of it. She was
going to find out what power this person with his strange eyes held over her

son, and she was going to find out now.

 Inside the home Ingrid’s mother began grilling the young man for
information almost immediately. She wanted to know where he was from,

where his family was from, how had he and her son met. The young man gave
no information besides that pertaining to his relationship with Ingrid. He

explained that he was a musician with grand aspirations and that Ingrid was

offering a position that could help him fulfil those aspirations. Ingrid’s mother

continued her probe but the young man was surprisingly mum about
everything except Ingrid. She didn’t get the impression he was evading her, it

was almost as if he had no past to speak of. Finally, she asked the young man

to play a tune for her, since his music seemed to be the only thing he was

willing to talk about. The young man left and returned with his harp.

Meanwhile, Ingrid tried desperately to dissuade him mother from entertaining

the young man any longer. He warned her that the young man’s music could

have a certain undeniable…influence but she had no idea what he was talking

about and besides, she was determined to find out for herself.

She watched thoughtfully as the young man dragged the bulky

instrument into her living room. He sat the harp before Ingrid’s mother and

then sat himself down in front of it, while Ingrid sat close-by, looking as if this
all were a really bad idea. The tune the young man began to play was

awkward sounding, off key somehow. Like a record being played backward.
Ingrid knew from experience what fabulous music the young man could

command from that harp but the tune never improved. It was difficult to listen
to actually, some kind of weird reversed music. Ingrid eventually looked up to
see what his mother thought of all this and was shocked to find a wide smile

upon her face. There was no way she could’ve been enjoying such an
awkward sounding melody, but there she was tapping her feet soundly. Ingrid
turned his attention back to the young man.

When Ingrid heard a greater tapping upon her floor he turned and found

his mother out of her seat, tapping her feet harder. She moved like a younger
woman, but what was more shocking still was that she looked like a younger

woman. The skin of her face and hands had lost most of their wrinkles. The

grey had faded from her hair, leaving behind a lustrous black mane that Ingrid
hadn’t seen on his mother in many years. It was happening right there, before

his eyes. His mother was actually getting younger by the moment! It wasn’t

long before she had the figure of a woman barely out of her thirties and the

energy to match. She was spinning in place now, clearly having a blast

listening to music that sounded odd and off key.

Finally the young man stopped and Ingrid’s mother continued dancing to

the silence. When she stopped her clothes looked completely out of place upon

her young body. She walked over to a mirror and stared at herself. She touched
her face, her neck, her breasts, gingerly as if to make sure everything were

real. It was. After a long moment, she turned and leapt into the air, nearly to
the ceiling fan. Ingrid could only look on, wide mouthed. “Well, I’ve seen all I

need to see. You need to give this young man a job.” She said to Ingrid as she
smiled warmly at the young man.

Ingrid had been teetering between taking the young man back to New
York with him as planned or not. He decided now that, for better or for worse,
he’d stick to the plan; he figured his mother was as good a deciding factor as

any. And so, with that, Ingrid decided to take the young man to the Big City
and unleash him upon the waiting throngs. Only time would tell whether he
received renewed young or a terrible storm from this young man before the

final tune was played.

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