Short Scary Stories

Martellato.

It was an expensive chair. The leather squeaked as I shuffled in it, betraying its purpose by failing to get comfortable. Disapproving eyes glanced up from the heavy mahogany desk that lay before me. After a pause the solicitor continued reading.

"And to my grandson, Alastair Kincade, I leave a sum of £30,000 and the following items..."

My grandfather Colin died of a heart attack in his sleep, after months of living in a home due to his alzheimer's. My father tried to care for him as much as he could but towards the end he needed twenty-four hour attention. Dad was still years away from retirement and wasn't able to give that kind of attention.

"And his violin." My ears prickled, and I looked up at the solicitor then to my father.

"Violin?" My father, Michael, took the words out of my mouth.

The man sitting next to me, my great uncle Torrance, waved his hand to tell my father not to ask questions during the reading. My curiosity itched and I squeaked in the chair again, the solicitor shooting another look before continuing to list my twin sisters' lot of inheritance.

In all, my sisters and I received ten percent each of his money, my father and aunt twenty five percent, and my great uncle twenty percent. The house had been sold before he died to fund his care, and numerous items distributed to each of us. I was glad for the money. While I didn't do badly for myself, the sum was easily enough to place a deposit for my own property: something that has become rapidly more difficult to generate in England the past ten years.

Once we were dismissed, both my father and I pounced our questions upon Uncle Torrance, "I didn't know Granddad Colin played the violin."

"Dad never owned a violin, when did he get that?"

Uncle Torrance raised his hands to again wave down our questions, while my sisters headed out of the solicitor's building to head home. "I'll tell you... in exchange for ale!" A cheeky grin spread out across his face, the way it always did when he told a story.

Dad drove to our local, The Cattle and Block. Once three glasses decorated the table, my uncle began to tell us the story of the violin.

"You probably know very little of my Grandmother Hildegarde. She died before you were born, Michael. I don't know much about Grandma Hildi before she married my Grandfather Bhaltair, only the stories she told use before bed. She was german originally, and grew up in the streets of York. She had only one possession apart from the rags on her back, and that was a violin. Grandpap Bhal heard her playing on the street, and fell in love with her instantly. He saw through the dirty blonde hair stuck to her shoulders, the scars and mud around her knees, and saw the beauty she wove over the strings. He got down on one knee, then and there, and told her she must marry him. He told her he could not live another day without that song in his heart. She said yes, and they were married."

He paused to take another long sip of ale. It was like a fairy tale and it was surprising to hear such a story about my own family. "So it was Hildegarde's?"

Uncle Torrance nodded and put the glass back down. "Yes. Now, my brother and I were raised by our grandparents. My brother was five when our mother died, during childbirth to me. My father - he was called Logan Kincade - turned up on Grandpap and Grandma's door step and begged his parent to look after us for a while. He was stricken with grief and needed some time to pull himself together, and figure out how to be a father without my mother. They accepted, and he never returned. We never knew what happened to my father.

A couple of years before your Dad had you, Grandpap Bhal passed away. Soon after, Grandma Hildi passed. You know what they say about a love bird losing their mate. That was when Colin inherited her violin. He always kept it locked up in the attic, I don't suppose he ever knew what to do with it. He probably sent it to you because you like music so much, Alastair."