Short Stories

Ghost

She strummed her guitar mindlessly as she lay on the window sill. Rain wailed hard outside, coating the windows in a thick layer of water, and turning the skies grey. Thunder clapped nearby, and the house's foundation shook with a force that only the gods could muster. The sky lit up for a brief moment as the jagged lines of lightning trailed outwards, like a tree's roots.  Buckets had been set up to catch the water that seeped through the cracks in the roof. Every little splish echoed throughout the room, barely drowned out by the sound of the guitar. Not a word left her lips as she played, as words were not needed. Everything she had to say was plucked out as her adept and nimble fingers danced along the neck of the instrument, telling of her stories and sorrows. On the wall adjacent to one she lay on, a window blew out, and water flooded the room. Still the music did not cease. It floated outside, instead, like a fog of music notes and emotion. It settled on the townspeople like smoke, enveloping them in a gentle hug. Despite the grim situation, the guitar never stopped playing. The notes that left the instrument were like a prayer to anybody who bothered to stop and listen. Day in and day out, the guitar played, always the same song, and yet it never failed to encapsulate the residents. Nobody had ever seen the artist behind the song, nor had they ever heard a voice go along with the melody. For all they knew, the house was empty. The outside portrayed an image of a rather desolate home. The brick had begun to crumble into dust, and the windows were all cracked, broken, or missing. It was also in a rather remote part of the town, about a mile and a half from any of the other houses. Despite the seemingly empty house, music still came from it everyday. Residents just chalked it up to a squatter having laid claim to the house. 

Today was different, though. Regardless of the storm wailing on them, a rather vicious group of townsfolk had decided to see who was behind the music. Brandishing torches and knives, they set off. No more than a half hour later, they had arrived, and just like every other day, music played still. They communicated solely through facial expressions, and once they had reached an agreement, broke down the door. Their torches cast a dismal light over the room, and much to their dismay, it was empty. There was nothing, nobody, in the house besides some buckets on the floor. The music had only grown louder, though. 

Deciding enough was enough, the leader threw his torch onto the ground, and lit the home on fire. Then, and only then, did they see who was behind the music. A woman in her early twenties sat on the window sill to their left, strumming a guitar. Her whole being was transparent, and she had a somber look on her face. She never looked towards the flames, only out the window. The party's faces drained of blood and they stumbled backwards in fear. The commotion did not stop the woman's fingers from plucking out her tune. 

"No..." one of the men whispered. He had finally recognized her. "Charlotte..."

All heads snapped towards him, and all eyes went wide. Thirty years earlier, that very group had tormented a talented musician, and two months later his body was found hanging in his home. Exactly seven days afterwards, his fiance had been found in her bathtub, which was overflowing with water. 

"The storms..."

"She created them!"

Horrified, the group ran for the door, but it had been slammed and locked. Fire raged inside the house, and soon their pleas for help turned into violent screams of agony. Then, it was silent, save for the melancholy sound of Charlotte's guitar. Then, for the first time ever, a voice accompanied the music. 

"Just the two of us, we can make it if we tried. Just the two of us, building castles in the sky. Just the two of us, you and I..."