Night Terrors Vol. 14: Short Horror Stories Anthology

6 hours and 41 minutes

205 pages

Serenade
By Craig Crawford

“If Grandma and Grandad catch us, we’ll be in trouble.”

“We’ll sneak downstairs quietly.”

“Grandma caught you last night.”

Scotty had a point. I thought it over. “Okay, we’ll go before. Go to bed, get some sleep. I’ll stay up and when the moon rises over the trees, I’ll wake you and we’ll go. Grandma won’t wake until the violin starts and when I don’t come down, she’ll assume we’re sleeping through it.”

Scotty stared at me through his muss of brown hair, a perturbed look on his face. I don’t know how long we sat there, but I understood it was a test of wills and if I faltered, he’d back out. Spooky stories didn’t scare me, but having Scotty beside me would take away my imagination.

“Fine,” Scotty said. “But when I say it’s time to go, we go.”

“Okay. Thanks. Get some sleep.”

I headed to my room, but instead of going to bed, I propped myself by the window. I watched night take over the farm. The peaceful night sounds lulled me, so I preoccupied my mind with science formulas to prevent sleep from overpowering me. I dozed off more than once and chastised myself each time, shifting to new positions.

I gauged the height of the moon versus the previous night. Judging the time, I decided it was close. I grabbed my hiking shoes but kept to my bare feet as I woke Scotty. It took a lot of shaking but his eyes finally popped open. Carefully, we snuck out and down the stairs.

The real issue meant getting out of the house without waking Grandma.

The bolt proved to be the problem. A head taller than Scotty, I cautiously slid it back, feeling like a cat burglar slipping past security. It took me a long time to quietly slide the bolt and let it dangle before even attempting the door.

Old farmhouse doors are born to make noise and this one tried to rat us out. Easing the door open, I waited for Grandma to appear, little creaks and squawks killing the quiet with each inch. My eyes continually flitted behind me but no one roused.

We finally escaped and closed the door without Grandma appearing. We slipped off across the yard, me now wearing my boots, not daring to talk until we reached the tree line. I looked upward, expecting to hear the violin at any moment.

“What are you waiting for?” Scotty hissed.

Scotty’s eyes darted everywhere. He was already spooked. No breeze accompanied us, and every little movement created sounds. The tree frogs and the crickets partied all around us however, making me feel better. “We’re waiting for the violin. Soon.”

“So, let’s go.”

“The forest is big. We don’t know where he’s at until he starts playing. Just be patient.”

“I don’t like it, Sam. You know we’re going to be tired tomorrow and they’re going to figure out what we were up to.”

“No,” I told him. “We’ll be fine. We can catch up on sleep in the afternoon when Grandma and Grandad take their naps. Relax.”

The streak of the bow across strings sounded, and Scotty jumped. I probably did too. It felt like the beginning of a concert as the violin launched into song. The same tune started—it replayed so many times the night before that I started to anticipate the notes.

I nodded to Scotty and stepped into the woods. The music rose from somewhere off to my right, and I trudged ahead, still not sure why I needed to see this man. The idea of someone being so broken he could only find solace in playing music alone in the heart of the woods brought a sadness upon me. I couldn’t explain it to anyone. Not even to myself.

Scotty followed right behind me, and more than once, he stepped on the back of my boot. I shot him a look when he did it but I understood: between the dark tree silhouettes and the music, he was creeped out.

The shift of the trees around us created the illusion that things moved in the darkness alongside us. It didn’t do my imagination any good either. Every snap, as one of us stepped on a stick or crunched leaves, set our eyes alert. Despite having Scotty right behind me, my imagination reminded me of every monster I’d ever watched on TV.

We discovered a glade.

Deep in the trees and removed from the sight of Grandad’s farm, it opened up; an offering to the moon. I saw clearly from the light above, the moon full now and beaming. Across the expanse, I saw him.

Sitting on a stump, I spied the man, his back arched and caressing the strings on his violin. He swayed on his perch, his arms working the violin as if his life depended on it. The song ended, and he began again, picking up the pace, rubbing the bow across the strings more feverishly than before.

A solid stone’s throw from Pete, we both knelt behind the trunk of a tree. Peering at him from the side, Scotty hunched so close over my shoulder I felt his breath on my ear. I watched in awe, my mind wondering what thoughts ran through his head as he played. Was he reliving the accident over and over? Was he paying tribute to his poor wife, trying to make amends as Grandad suggested?

The few wisps of clouds crossed the moon, and the light faded from above for a few brief moments. It didn’t slow the violin, the man seemingly oblivious to everything but his instrument and his bow. He played his concerto, intent in his own world.

Reaching the end of the tune for the second time, he suddenly stilled. I watched in confusion as his head darted back and forth. He tentatively pushed off of the stump. His focus shifted to his right, and Scotty sucked in a breath from behind me.

“What?”

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