Trilby's Notes: The (Un)Official Novelization (Chzo Mythos #3)

Chapter 5: Frehorn

The rooms of Jack Frehorn, July 28th, AD 1778

       "So, what trifle have you been wasting your father's money on now, Jack?"

       "What does it look like?"

       "It looks like a virginal."

       "A harpsichord, actually, in the Flemish style. Quite old, quite expensive." 

       "Well, I suppose I should be grateful that something is distracting you from the occult for once."

       "I fear you may be speaking too soon, my friend."

       "Oh, god. I should have known. You and your silly obsession. So, what devilry inhabits this magnificent instrument?"

       "The instrument itself as a whole is for the most part untainted by the ethereal realm. But its keys are what spark my interest. Unusually, they have been carved from centuries-old English oak."

       "And that's the interesting part?"

       "I will not be disheartened by that sharp tongue of yours. The wood has gone through many incarnations before being incorporated into this device. Items of furniture, building material, in fact, just over two hundred years ago, it was part of a wall. A wall of a certain inn on a well-travelled road in Wales."

       "The Unicorn?"

       "I'm so pleased you remember."

       "I could hardly forget it, the way you have been obsessing quite heartily over it of late. Your correspondents persist on filling your head with rubbish about ghosts and demons."

       "I count myself very lucky to have tracked down even a small piece of that hostelry, Wilbur. I know I've already told you some of the wonderful stories attached to it, and this instrument has had its fair share of mysterious happenings."

       "The usual batch of strange noises, sudden madness, and inexplicable deaths?" Jack smirked at him in confirmation. "See sense, my friend! This curiosity of yours for all things ungodly has no doubt already befouled your immortal soul."

       "You are a fine fellow Wilbur, but you have not a drop of romance in your body. Now, stop browbeating me for my inquiring mind and let us take dinner."

       That night, Jack was stirred from his bed by the sound of music emanating from his new instrument. Before even noticing the absence of Wilbur his first thought was anger, mostly because the harpsichord was an antique, never intended to be played. But then he listened to the haunting melancholy tune and felt his stomach roll inexplicably with fear.

       "Who's down there?" Jack called, but no one answered him. "Wilbur, is that you?" No response again. He lit the candle at his bedside, the room frightfully dark. The shadows cast by the candle made Jack shake more, but he descended the steps yet. 

       The music became louder as he silently stepped into the sitting room. The candle cast light across the room and the intruder sat at the harpsichord. It was not Wilbur, but some sort of figure. It was tall, skinny, and blood-stained bandages covered its boney fingers which slid beautifully across the keys, playing a melancholically tormentful tune. Jack could not take a step further, because he realized with a lurch that he recognized the fark figure that sat at the keys. He had read of this strange entity that recurred frequently in stories surrounding the Unicorn Inn and the objects that were later constructed from its wood. And he knew with absolute certainty that the tall man would destroy him, were he not destroyed first. Jack walked back up the creaky stairs, careful to make as little noise as possible to not alert the figure. He needed something, anything, to fight back. Looking across his desk, it was covered untidily in letters, notes, and papers he had been studying lately. After strewing papers around for a while, he found the flintlock pistol given to him by his father, which was gathering dust atop a pile of correspondence. Jack picked up the gun, the handle a polished weight in his hand, and slinked downstairs, eyes darting back and forth.