Bruyeres

A light horror story. 3rd place in the Wicked Writing contest.

*Inspired by Claude Debussy’s “Bruyeres” (The Heather)

The voice over is done by the wonderful

Nicholas Kircher

. A dark mood in the time of the year when the ghosts come out to play…

The doorbell rang. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, Joseph had been waiting for it all morning. She was late, as usual. He got up from the piano bench, assessed his looks in the mirror, straightened his collar and rushed to the door. The old floorboards sounded their crooked tune as he ran across the hallway of his grandfather’s house. As much as he loved the house, the floorboards he despised. The dissonance they created, frightened him, that’s why he always tried to walk carefully in his own house. Not to disturb the floorboards. Sometimes they cracked and squeaked on their own, the foul music of the demons! The old house was haunted, no doubt, but Joseph didn’t earn nearly enough to find another place to live.  Not with his health. Sometimes it appeared that a mere breeze could cause him pneumonia. Crowded places gave him anxiety. Here amidst the moors, he enjoyed the silence of the vast, starlit skies and the gentle whispering of the heather in the midday winds. The gentle sounds of harmony. She understood it.

Joseph opened the door to a pale, black-haired girl. Amelia had come to her piano lesson, as always, on Saturday. Barely eighteen, talented, with an immaculate taste in music, a passion for the classics and deep admiration of Claude Debussy’s creations. When her snow-white, slender fingers ran across the piano keys, Joseph could clearly sense the passionate fire burning within her frail chest. It was the love for the music that made her lungs rise and fall behind those well-rounded breasts, when she inhaled deeply to take the loudest chords. Joseph knew exactly how she felt. They shared their passion for Debussy.

“You’re late,” he said with the widest smile.

“As usual,” she replied, her pale cheeks turning red. Her father honked the horn of his pickup truck. He always came for her after two hours. Joseph always thought he came too soon.

Joseph invited the girl into the house. Amelia was a magical creature in his eyes. Though four years younger, she possessed an otherworldly wisdom, and a deep knowledge of music, which fascinated Joseph to the depths of his soul. But her most amazing quality was the way she walked. She never made a sound. Not once. The floorboards loved her gentle steps. It appeared she floated, barely touching the floor.

The old piano adored her. Even Joseph’s fingers couldn’t persuade the instrument to make the melodious sounds that Amelia could.

“Come,” Joseph invited her to sit by the piano, as he did every Saturday. He observed her sit down without a sound, her black ponytail swayed, the usual pink ribbon tied around it. She placed the sheet music book on the piano. His pencil-written notes had marked the edges of each page.

“Let’s start with the Bruyeres,” Joseph flipped the pages. Their eyes met with a smile - it was their favourite piece. The sound of the heather. Debussy knew. He understood the music of the heather. Amelia played. It started with a quiet melody, that poured into powerful, full-body chords. Joseph listened to Amelia play, standing by the window. The blooming heather swayed gently in the wind. So did Amelia’s body. Joseph inhaled the heavenly sounds and sights of her playing. A thought crossed his mind - oh, to stay in this moment forever would be better than heaven! The crescendo’s echoed through the old house, every surface reflected the wondrous melody and amplified it.

Joseph found himself staring into Amelia’s blue eyes. She had finished playing.

“Yes?” She asked smiling shyly.

“Very good! Excellent, but… I think there was this one passage, if you could just… may I?”

Amelia moved over so he could sit beside her and demonstrate. A whole swarm of insane butterflies exploded each time he sat so close to her. He played. She repeated. Their hands met. Just as every time.

“So cold… your hands are so cold. However, can you play?”

“Could you make my hands warm again?” She asked with an incredible sadness in her teary eyes. Joseph smiled nervously.

“Sure, alright, I’ll try,” his large palms enveloped her frail, pale hands. Cold as ice. Although it appeared he could not make them warmer, it didn’t matter. They sat too close, the silence between them was music of two hearts beating.

“Play for me one more time. Play Bruyeres, please,” Joseph whispered.

“I’ll play it one last time,” her reply was strange, but Joseph didn’t care. Amelia smiled through the tears as her fingertips danced over the piano keys.

His whole body trembled at her nearness, swaying with the power of the chords, teasing with the piano pianissimo melody. The sounds travelled through their bodies and turned into kisses, they played together both of their bodies perfectly tuned instruments, made to play one another. They weaved together; the melody of nearness was unstoppable. They laid on the carpet by the piano in silence, they made no sound, no floorboards gave them out. Their bodies created the most beautiful music together. Joseph knew, Debussy would understand. He knew the sound of passion. It was the clock, the treacherous hands of time that betrayed them. Had they got up sooner. Had they not lost the track of time. Amelia’s old man did not care much for the beauty of music shared by two loving hearts and two young, passionate bodies. He came back with his rifle a’blazin’ while Joseph tried to put his clothes on, tried to explain; it was the music, the passion, the heather, it all had come together, it was meant to be. The floorboards sang the song of rage with the man’s each step nearing Joseph. The man was drunk, that much Joseph could tell. The rifle knew no melodies of the hearts, but it knew damn well how to silence them.  Amelia jumped in the way of the bullets, but her fall wasn’t enough to stop the rifle’s song. Only when the two young bodies laid on the carpet, with their beautiful faces mangled by bulled wholes, and the blood oozing from the soaked carpet touched the man’s shoe soles, did he stop firing. Blood had splattered all over the piano. Bullet holes covered its wooden corpse. The man was drunk, but he wasn’t dumb. He wrapped the bodies into the carpet and dumped them into a deep dark pool of the moor. The heather took them into its silent embrace.

Amelia’s father loaded the piano into the back of his pickup truck with the strength only a drunk man possesses. He drove it to the moor and let a deep dark pool swallow it whole. The man cleaned the room. No blood, no bodies, no sounds. Only the floorboards moaned their grief; the music was dead.

Joseph was awakened from his daydream by the floorboards. It was Saturday, she would come soon, as every Saturday. He hoped the eerie sounds wouldn’t frighten her. He hoped they would not disrupt the music.

He did not see the people walking on the floorboards. Another family had come to look at the old house, despite the rumours. A beautiful, old house on the very edge of the heather-covered moors. The fresh air and the beautiful heather whispering, swaying its subtle violet flowers as far as the eye could see… they say one could hear melodious piano music played every Saturday at noon, even though there was no piano in the house.

The doorbell rang. She was late. As usual, she was late, but she came to play Bruyeres, the music of the heather.