Demonic Strings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: The Imaginarium

Submitted: October 29, 2017

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Submitted: October 29, 2017

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Demonic Strings

It just sat there on the bench, this battered, black violin case. It did not seem to belong to anyone, perhaps left, forgotten. But was someone really like to sit there and walk off, leaving what apeared to be a well-used case behind.

Of course, it might not actually contain any type of musical instrument at all. How many times had such cases been shown in movies to contain fire-arms of some sort. And there was always the ever-present possibility that it was left luggage containing a bomb.

Despite these possibilities, it seemed to be drawing a bit of a crowd. What could be so special about it? It’s effect was almost magnetic, pulling people in to it’s vicinity.

One man among the crowd drew closer than most, his hand reaching out towards that case with an apparent will of its own. The catch opens the instant his finger makes contact with it and the lid swings up revealing what is, indeed, a violin.

Everybody moves forward as one, as though the old and battered stringed instrument had beckoned them forwards. The wood was worn, scratched, knocked in places, but the strings and the bow seemed to gleam.

The man picks it up and in spite of never having played one, or anything similar in his whole life, knows how to position it perfectly. His fingers find the notes and the bow moves backwards and forwards with a will of it’s own.

The tune starts gently enough, playing it’s own notes. The crowd are held spell-bound. The man’s eyes are closed, not in concentration but more in a trance. His fingers fly faster and the bow keeps pace. What was a gentle tune is quickening, into something almost frantic. Where are the voices coming from that seem to be wailing and chanting along with those notes? There is no one in the crowd that is producing them.

And now the notes are whirling, swirling; the audience are pulled in to the sound, to twirl and thrash, to dance and crash. The man opens his eyes and they gleam a blood red. He does not look like the same man at all. His mouth is pulled in to a devilish grin but he is not watching the dancers. Whatever it is that is making him smile is for his eyes alone.

And then it stops. Silence! The dancers freeze, seem to come to themselves, confused to find that they have moved at all. Do they remember the music? The frenzy? From all appearances it would seem that they do not.

The man places the violin and the bow back in side the case, and the top shuts itself, gently but soundly. The catch is closed. Did his fingers do it? He doesn’t remember, shakes his head, and along with the now dispersing crowd carries on as if the entire thing had never taken place.


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