The Haunted Tuba
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This one’s more of a black comedy, but ‘technically’ speaking, there’s a verbally abusive dad, gore galore, and, oh yeah, a cat gets eaten, so…tread carefully, I guess?
"Daddy... I think my tuba is haunted."
Paul rolls his eyes. "What have I tol' you bout callin' me daddy? You're too ol' for that shit." He crams some cereal in between his lips and bites down with enough force to break the spoon. Munch munch munch. Speaking with his mouth full: "Only whores say daddy. You know what a whore is?"
Patty shakes her head.
"Your bitch of a mother, that's one right there." Paul swallows with a wince. "So if you don't wanna end up like her, I suggest you clam it."
The girl nods and her father goes back to doing what he does best- namely, looking at his tablet.
Every now and again, Patty's curiosity will get the better of her and she'll risk peeking over his shoulder. Typically, he'll be playing a game, that, or maybe commenting on a web forum. Once or twice she's come face to face with the same open-mouthed, drooling, big-breasted lady. On such occasions, should Paul catch her in the act, invariably, it'll put him in a sour mood, will merit at the very least a talking-to. Daddy values his 'right to secrecy' almost as much as his being-left-alone.
And so, wisely, Patty decides to let the subject of the haunted tuba rest, lest she spur Paul's wrath. She knows better than to poke the bear, especially not in his present state, when he's in what Momma used to call 'one of his moods'. Problem is, he's been in 'one of his moods' ever since Momma left. No... the haunted tuba will have to wait.
Oh well. Patty takes the first bite out of the breakfast she made for herself, jam on bread. The toaster's on the fritz again. Much like Daddy, it's better left avoided. Nodding solemnly to herself, Patty goes back to doing what she does best- namely, sitting in silence.
It ain't fair.
Rightfully, Ms. Christie should have assigned the tuba to one of the boys. It only makes sense. They're bigger and stronger than Patty, surely they'd have an easier time lugging it around. As it stands, the thing weighs near as much as herself, feels like. Hauling it onto the bus twice every weekday is a real pain in the ass, especially because it takes up so much space on the seat that she can't even sit with her friends. And no, she can't leave it at school, not for the first week, at least, not while she's 'breaking' it in. She's old enough to know it makes her look ridiculous; lucky if she can go a whole day without accidentally swinging the thing behind her and clipping someone in the head.
She can't even imagine what would happen if she missed the bus one morning and Daddy made her walk with it. Her arms would probably damn well fall off!
And if all that wasn't enough, the damn thing just had to be haunted.
Ms. Christie insisted Patty was the only student who she trusted enough to play the tuba. Patty doesn't know where Ms. Christie got that idea, but the woman's her favourite teacher, and so, naturally, she was elated. But what she initially interpreted as a gift turned out to be something closer to a curse.
To be fair, though, it's only been three days. Three days since the instruments were assigned. Three days Patty's been lugging the ungainly brass horn to and from school. Three nights she's been woken up by it.
Night #1. Monday. It's 3 AM and Patty comes to with a start- a sound, the rattling of a pane of glass, perhaps, has disturbed her. She usually leaves her window open. For one thing, she doesn't have AC and Daddy hogs the only fan. For another, there are a couple of neighbourhood cats she's befriended that like to pay her the odd visit, the later the better. Sometimes they'll even curl up by her feet and take a nap.
In any case, it doesn't matter what time it is, whensoever Patty is woken up by a cat, she's delighted. Sometimes she rewards them treats, but only sparingly. Treats are expensive and she doesn't have an allowance. When she buys them, it's usually with the coins she's managed to collect from off the street. Alternatively, some of her friends own cats and will 'lend' Patty little baggies full of kibble on occasion, just enough that their parents won't notice.
Although she's never had a pet, Patty often dreams of owning a yappy little beagle, that or a chunky, fluffy Maine coon. She feels bad for black cats because they're supposed to be unlucky, and so fewer people want them. She wouldn't mind taking on a few sleek, skinny black cats, too.
But as for right now, on this particular night, at this particular moment, she has other things on her mind. Laid up in bed, Patty's eyes flutter open. Her ears perk up, homing in on a singularly mysterious sound. Faintly, very faintly, "Awhwhwhwh." If she didn't know better, she'd think it was the wind.
As her eyes attune to the darkness, however, she notices, firstly, that her curtains aren't billowing, and second, that there is no draft.
"Awhwhwh." There it is again. A plaintive moan, like a cry for help, and beneath it, an accompaniment- skritch, skritch, skritch.
Patty freezes. Whatever it is, it isn't coming from outside.
The tuba's case lies on its side. It hasn't moved from where she last left it, only a couple of metres from her bed. She stares at it. It's just a tuba, she tells herself. An indiscriminate, harmless tuba....
"Awhwhwhwh...."Another groan, fainter, like a faraway whale song, an animal in pain. The second it peters out, the scratching resumes. As if something is trying to claw its way out.
A shiver runs up Patty's spine. She whimpers. Takes a deep breath. She feels like she's going to cry.
"Hello?" she murmurs, voice quiet, marked by trepidation. "Hello?"
The tuba's case fidgets. It gives a little jerk, like the start of a dance, and then falls to its side.
Patty shrieks and covers her mouth. Thirty seconds pass – half an hour it feels like – but nothing happens. The noises stop. Whatever it is in her tuba's case, it sleeps.
Eventually, Patty forces herself out of bed and tiptoes over, giving the tuba a wide berth, to the light switch. Click. The dastardly shadows slink back whence they came. Patty, steeling herself, finally approaches the case. In one mad dash, she undoes the clasps, flips the top open, and leaps back, coming face to face with-
A tuba. A plain, old, indiscriminate tuba. Huh.
Patty's courage resurges. She sets upon the instrument, hauling it up out of the case and examining it for a good five minutes, inspecting it from every angle for any slight or deficiency. She even checks the spit valve. Perhaps there was a draft in the case? Can that even happen?
The tuba itself is clearly old, but in decent enough condition. Placing it back down, Patty runs through the possibilities. Maybe it was all a bad dream. Still, turning off the light, slipping back into bed, she can't shake the unmistakable feeling that something isn't right.
That is, until Virgo, her favourite of the neighbourhood cats, shows up. He's a mottled grey, fleecy thing, like a sullen, sentient stormcloud, but with the personality of a summer day. The second he sets foot on her window sill, he sets to purring like a locomotive. Only after taking Virgo into her arms and trapping him beneath her covers, only after the cat resigns himself to his present predicament and opts, per his wont, to sleep his way out of it, is Patty finally able to get some much-needed shut-eye herself.
On Night #2, Tuesday, the tuba forms words. It's worse than the moaning, for obvious reasons. It speaks in a whisper so faint, so fragile, that Patty could be forgiven for misinterpreting what's been said. Unfortunately, to the contrary she understands the rasping, terrible words perfectly. They come to her in her dreams.
"I crave... the flesh."
A hacking noise tears Patty from her sleep. Her eyes fling open. Before she's fully cognizant, she sits up in bed. A shiver runs up her spine. Her arm hairs stand on end. She stares into the darkness.
Once more, the croaking sound, four wet, gravelly words, discharged from the back of a bile-filled throat.
"I crave... the flesh."
The voice is deep, liquidy, raucous. It resonates about the room, sandpaper to the girl's eardrums. The man in the case, for it is surely a man, wheezes, retches, and gasps for breath. Patty can't see it yet, but she can hear it. The tuba's case convulses.
Meow.
Patty blinks, honing her eyes. She can discern the faintest tinkle of a bell. Virgo is here, pawing at the case.
Suddenly, without a thought for her own safety, Patty throws off the covers, slings herself out of bed, and races for the switch. Under the newfound light, she comes face to face with the inquisitive kitty. He spares her a friendly turn of the head before resuming his exploration. She breathes a sigh of relief.
If it weren't for Virgo, she might have remained petrified, on the verge of pissing herself, for who knows how long. Thankfully, now, it would seem the noises have stopped.
Approaching the cat, Patty scoops him up and places him on the end of her bed. Then, she returns her attention to the case. It's the same as she left it except... two of the four clasps are undone. The lid is slightly open. An eye peers out.
Patty gasps. It disappears. She remains frozen in place until Virgo's meow calls her to attention. Think, Patty, think.
She's still not entirely convinced all this isn't in her own head, and taking the problem to Daddy before she has irrefutable proof is out of the question. If he'd only lend her his tablet she could just record it next time, maybe leave it on all night. He'll say she's sleepwalking otherwise.
Still, there is one other thing she can try.
Sneaking into the garage, Patty gets the duct tape from one of Daddy's drawers and wraps the tuba's case in it. Then, for extra security, she leaves it in the hall. After all that, she still sleeps with the light on.
On Night #3, Wednesday, Patty repeated Tuesday's procedure, once more wrapping the case in tape and then leaving it in the hall. Unfortunately, Paul had the late shift, and when he got home, allegedly stubbed his toe and tripped over it. Seconds later, he came crashing into Patty's room, giving her one hell of a fright. As if she wasn't on edge enough as it was...
"The fuck you thinkin', leaving shit in my hall? Why are your lights on?!" He shuts them off. "You're wasting electricity! Why the fuck is this thing covered in tape!" And so on and so forth.
Patty, tears flooding her cherubic cheeks, has no choice but to tell her father the truth. The tuba is haunted. She's at her wit's end. There is someone, or something, living inside it.
Paul isn't having any of that.
"The tuba stays with you, where it belongs," he says. "If I see it in the hall again, I'll make you sleep with it."
With that, he slams the door.
Patty cries and cries, until, eventually, she forces herself to get up and examine the case for any obtrusions. What she finds, however, does little to help her resolve. Around the interstice where the lids meet, the tape is torn ragged, as if something inside the case has been sawing away. With a fingernail, perhaps, or a tiny blade. Three of the four clasps are undone.
That does it. Scampering back to bed, Patty grabs her cat treat stash and shakes it like a maraca out the window in an attempt to lure any out-and-about felines. After five minutes of tsk tsking and still no takers, she resigns the baggie to its drawer and settles back into bed. Using her tongue like a window wiper, she licks up the salty mix of tears and liquid boogers coating her upper lip and takes a dim satisfaction in this, the only pleasure she'll get the long night through.
Today is Thursday, and Patty, with giant bags under her eyes, has set upon a new course of action. If Daddy won't listen to reason, she'll just have to put an end to this herself. First thing, music class, she'll go up to Ms. Christie and ask for – demand it, if she has to – a change of instruments. She doesn't want to embarrass herself, however, so she'll need a viable excuse. Things can't go on like this.
"Ms. Christie, can I speak to you in private?" For the past three days, Patty has been noticeably tentative to play, let alone touch, her tuba- even in class. Now she can't even look at it. "Ms. Christie?"
Patty's voice is so quiet that Ms. Christie has to strain to hear her sometimes. Not that she minds. Patty, for all her quirks, is the woman's favourite student. Possibly ever.
The affection is mutual.
And so, when Ms. Christie offers Patty her hand, even though she's a little too old for that, even though her friends snicker as she passes, Patty allows herself to be led into Ms. Christie's snug, little, instrument-laden office. Here, Ms. Christie offers Patty the comfier chair while herself assuming a squat. She's always been the cheerful sort, eyes brimming with ebullience. Hands on knees, she beams into Patty's pretty little face.
"Your hair looks nice today, Patty."
"Thanks, Ms. Christie." Patty blushes. She brushes some of said hair behind her ear.
"Now what seems to be the problem?"
Ms. Christie's smile never fails to put Patty at ease. She takes a deep breath. "I was wondering if I could get a different instrument." She feels bad lying to her teacher, but she's smart enough to know the truth will make her look like a lunatic. "It's too heavy."
"Too heavy?" Ms. Christie's eyebrows teepee with concern. "Yes, I suppose it must be."
Patty nods vigorously, encouraged. "So can I switch?"
"Hmmm..." The woman pouts. "Well, the problem is, we don't really have any other instruments available right now."
"But-" Patty deflates.
Ms. Christie takes her hand. "How bout this, just try the tuba for a couple more days. Just a couple. A new instrument always takes some getting used to. If, by next week, you still don't like it, I'll find something else for you to play. How's that?"
Patty gulps and nods briskly, diffident. She's never been one to put up much of a fuss, even in matters as grave as this. "You promise?"
Ms. Christie offers her her pinky. "Swear it."
Patty grins.
"I'm sure if you give it a chance, you'll grow into it. The size is nothing to be intimidated by. Maybe play some of what you've learned for your father tonight, will you do that?"
Patty shrugs. "I'll try."
For the rest of music class, Patty keeps her playing to a minimum, only pretending to put her lips to the mouthpiece.
At home, Patty does what Ms. Christie asked and, however unwisely, attempts to practice the tuba in her father's presence. Naturally, Paul isn't having any of that.
The second the instrument issues its first, sonorous bellow, he throws his paper across the room and plugs his ears in protest. He gives Patty a threatening stare. She stops almost as soon as she started.
"What the fuck you think you're doin’?"
"Ms. Christie said-"
"Get that thing away from me!" Paul scoffs. "You sound like a dying foghorn, fuck!"
"Ms. Christie said I should play for you..." Patty insists.
"You think I care what Ms. Christie said? She's a whore. Don't think she's any different than-"
"She's nice."
"Yeah, nice for a whore, and you can tell her I-"
"She's not."
"I- Don't interrupt me! Jesus, haven't I taught you a lick of manners? All you girls are the same."
Patty frowns. She gives her tuba a rebellious toot. Paul points an admonitory finger at her. Never a good sign. "What did I just say."
Gritting her teeth, swallowing her pride, Patty does as she's bid. However reluctantly, she leaves the room.
Sitting on her bed, she looks the tuba over. It never seems so scary in the glaring light of day. Maybe there's nothing wrong with it. Maybe it's all in her head.
And then she sees it. A roving, bloodshot, jaundiced eye... staring at her from inside of the mouthpiece. The mouthpiece still rimmed by her saliva. She screams.
"What now!" Paul yells from the other room. By the time his voice reaches her, the ghostly eye has vanished.
Come night-time, Paul has hidden the duct tape, and so Patty is left with little recourse but this: to store the tuba elsewhere. The thing is most definitely haunted. But where to put it... Obviously, the hall is out of the question, so she opts for the garage, behind some old sports equipment. It's one of the few places she can hide something so big. She waits for Paul to go to bed.
Unfortunately, Paul suspected as much might happen. So soon as Patty finishes brushing her teeth and is laid up in bed, he enters her room. "Where's the tuba?"
She stares at him.
"Where is it?"
"I hid it," she admits.
He sighs and shakes his head, leaving her to her lonesome. A minute later, he comes back and sets the case on her floor. He must have heard her playing around in the garage. "It's time for you to grow up," he says. With that, he shuts the door.
Patty sinks deeper into her bed, praying Virgo pays her a visit tonight. Otherwise, she doubts she'll get a wink of sleep. If she survives the night, she's going to have to have an honest conversation with Ms. Christie.
Thankfully, Daddy didn't find the flashlight she stored under her pillow just in case.
And so she contents herself with reading, for as long as she can, until, around 1 in the morning, by which point the haunted tuba has yet to make a peep. Her eyes begin to flutter of their own accord.
"I crave..."
Patty sits up straight, blinking erratically. She rubs her face and checks the digital clock on her nightstand. It's suddenly 4 AM.
Pat, pat, pat.
Something is happening, but she can't see. She strains her eyes against the darkness. Across the room, the tuba's case lies prostrate. Virgo is standing over it, meowing inquisitively.
All four of the case's clips have come undone. The lid is slightly open.
"Virgo!" Patty hisses. Frantically reaching under her bed, she pulls out the cat treats and shakes them. "Virgo!" The cat is enraptured.
The fourth clasp has come undone. Slowly, very slowly, the lid begins to open.
Patty freezes. She holds her breath.
Without her or Virgo doing anything, the case comes all the way open. Inside, there is the tuba. Just a tuba. The cat meows at it. Meow meow meow.
Patty shakes the treats desperately.
Virgo doesn't pay her the least attention. Instead, he gets up on his front paws and ducks his head into the gaping bell of the instrument itself, sniffing around.
"Virgo?"
The tuba doesn't make a sound. The words have ceased, as has the grinding, the moans.
Suddenly, the cat arches its back. The hair on its spine stands on end. It hisses.
"Virg-"
In the blink of an eye, a skinless, human hand shoots out of the horn and grabs the cat by the scruff of the neck, cutting it off mid-hiss. Virgo claws and flops onto his back, a growl trapped in the back of his throat.
The hand reels him in. The cat disappears. From inside the instrument comes a prolonged mewl, the sounds of a scuffle, and then... silence.
Patty screams. She scampers out of bed and hits the lights, praying it's all a bad dream. The tuba seems to glisten. She gets down on her knees, keeping her distance, and peers into the tuba's bell. Beyond a single dot of blood, there is no trace of any cat.
Sobbing, Patty whispers his name. "Virgo?" She crawls closer. "Virgo?"
"What the fuck is all this racket!" Paul comes storming into her room. Without thinking, Patty clings to his pajama leg, whimpering.
"Virg- Virg-"
"Oh, not this shit again!" Paul drags Patty over to the tuba, shoving her face right up into the bell. "It's just! A fucking! Tuba!"
Out of the darkness, inside the instrument, there appears the faintest silhouette. A blood-red face. Perfect white teeth. "I crave... the fles-"
Patty screams and screams and screams and-
In class. Patty looks like hammered shit. Her eyes flutter open. Remaining awake, let alone cognizant, has been a struggle all day.
She remembers the hand that shot out. It was a weird-looking hand, red and black, all muscles and tendons. Long, gangly fingers, big palms. A man's hand, most certainly.
She remembers the face, as her father held her head in the bell. She feels like she could vomit.
In music. She holds the tuba at arm's length. She stares at it with a mixture of fear and revulsion. This is the first time she's opened the case since last night. She doesn't know what she expected to find. Hauling the thing up, she positions it in her lap. It's just a tuba, she reminds herself. It's just a tuba.
Except it's not just a tuba.
When class is over, she'll tell Ms. Christie about it. She'll get a replacement. This can't go on. It won't.
And then she notices the blood. Just a little bit, leaking from the water key. The spit valve. It dribbles out, pools over her fingers. She swipes at it and stares at her hand in mute horror. A tuft of red-smeared fur juts out of the mouthpiece at her, like lip balm or toothpaste. The girl swallows hard, staving off a shriek.
"Patty?" One of her classmates asks. "Patty, are you okay?"
"I lied before," Patty murmurs. "The truth is, my tuba's haunted." It feels good to get that off her chest.
Ms. Christie, contrary to what Patty might have thought, is taking this very seriously. Very seriously, indeed. "Haunted?"
In all seriousness, "Yes," Patty says.
"Haunted by who?"
"I don't know. But it is... It ate my neighbour's cat." She sounds stupid saying it. "And sometimes, in the night, it says things."
"Such as?"
"It says..." Patty crooks a finger, beckoning Ms. Christie closer. She leans into her teacher's ear and does her best imitation. It's uncanny. "I crave... the flesh."
Ms. Christie leans back. "I crave the flesh?" She flutters her picture perfect eyelashes in disbelief. "Whatever does that mean?"
Patty shrugs. "I'm not making this up," she blurts out desperately.
"I didn't say you were, dear."
"You don't believe me though?" Patty's heart sinks.
"Well... you're not one to lie, so I don't know what to think. We all hear voices sometimes though, especially in the night. Are you sure you weren't asleep?"
Patty shakes her head. "It ate. The cat."
"Mmhmm..."
She slumps in her seat. There's nothing for it. This is a losing argument. 'It's going to eat me next,' she thinks.
The little girl's distress is readily apparent. Ms. Christie feels bad. "Tell you what. I'll take a closer look at your tuba today, then you come pick it up after last period, okay? I'll even drive you home." Ms. Christie's smile widens. Patty admires her teeth. "I'll give it an inspection, an exorcism, huh? How bout that? And then, if it's still bothering you, we'll change it out on Monday."
Patty nods, relieved. "I'd like that."
"Did your Dad have a look at it?"
Patty shakes her head. "He never believes me about anything."
Ms. Christie frowns. "Well, he should have. If it doesn't work then make sure you get him to look at it. Until then, just leave it to me."
"Be careful," Patty warns. "I don't want it to eat you, too."
At this, Ms. Christie throws her head back and laughs. "There's nothing for us to be afraid of, dear."
After last period, Patty returns to the music room in search of Ms. Christie, hoping the woman remembered her promise. If she's late getting back, Daddy might get mad. Plus, she doesn't want to have to walk the tuba home.
Outside Ms. Christie's office, then, she stops and listens. She can hear something inside. Whispering, but not like before. She puts her ear to the door.
Whatever it is, it doesn't sound like English.
Patty hesitates. She tries the doorknob and the entry opens just a crack. What she sees is Ms. Christie, crouched before the open case. The tuba is seated in a swivel chair. She seems to be talking at it, into it. Her lips are moving, at least, but there's very little sound.
Patty shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what she's looking at. Suddenly, she feels bad for spying on Ms. Christie.
Shutting the door as quietly as she can, she gives it a second, then knocks.
"Just a minute," Ms. Christie calls. Twenty seconds later, she appears with a flourish. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Patty."
"That's okay." Patty looks past Ms. Christie, indicating the tuba in its chair. "Is everything okay?"
Ms. Christie rubs her palms together. "Never better."
"Did you see... the ghost?"
"Um... no. But maybe he was just nervous. Ghosts can be shy too, you know?"
Patty nods tentatively.
"Are you ready to go home?"
In Ms. Christie's car, sitting shotgun, there's a woman Patty's never seen.
"Patty, this is my mother, Rhea. Rhea, Patty."
"Howdy," Rhea says. She sports a vulturesque buzzcut like many an old lady, her face a looser version of Ms. Christie's own.
"Hello," Patty says. She funnels into the backseat, buckles up, and stares at the passing, suburban scenery. Her tuba is in the trunk. Nobody says anything for a good few minutes. Then, "My daughter tells me you're her favourite student." Rhea addresses Patty through the rear-view.
Patty smiles to herself and wriggles her legs. "She's my favourite teacher."
Rhea grins right on back. "That's an awful big tuba for such a young woman."
Patty nods and sighs, nonchalant. The secret's out. Surely Ms. Christie will be telling her mother what already happened, so why not just say: "There's a man living in it."
"Is there?" Rhea laughs delightedly. She spares a glance at her daughter. Ms. Christie's eyes are glued to the road. "What makes you fancy that?"
"I hear him sometimes," Patty insists. "Scratching. Making gross mouth noises. He ate my favourite cat."
Rhea chuckles good-naturedly. Her eyes crinkle at the edges. "What does he say, dear?"
Once again, Patty does her best to imitate the guttural whispering. "I crave... the flesh."
Rhea stops laughing. She turns upon her daughter and blinks. "I crave the flesh?"
Ms. Christie meets her mother's eye. "Sound familiar?"
Rhea thinks to herself. "Where have I-"
Before she can finish the thought, "Here we are," Ms. Christie says. They pull up into what passes for Patty's gravel parking lot. Rhea finally turns around, patting Patty's knee with motherly concern.
"Thanks for driving me, Ms. Christie," Patty says.
Ms. Christie smiles into the rearview and gets out to fetch the tuba from the trunk. Patty makes to follow when she feels the hand on her knee tense. Rhea pins her with a look. "Do you know where we live?"
Patty shakes her head.
"716 Forest Glen Lane. Can you remember that?"
The girl nods.
"If you hear any of that 'crave the flesh' nonsense again, you come and see me, alright?" She gulps. "You'll be careful, yes?"
Patty screws up her eyes. Just when she was beginning to accept she must be crazy. "Alright."
Ms. Christie had wanted a word with Patty's father, but he was out. Still is. And so, the girl sits by her lonesome. Daddy forgot to make dinner again, so she just heated herself up some soup in a can. After that, she retreated to her bed. The tuba is in the hall. When she hears Paul's key in the door, she'll drag it back into her room, where it belongs. Sure, she could stick it in the closet, but better to keep it in view. She runs over her conversation with Rhea, but can't make heads or tails of it.
She should have asked Ms. Christie for more duct tape.
Eventually, however, she tires out. She changes into her nappies, brushes her teeth, and goes to bed in quick succession, by which point Paul still isn't home. Not wanting to risk it, she drags the case into her room and then lays down, keeping an eye on it. She's still so in shock, she realizes she hasn't had a chance to mourn Virgo. His owners must be missing him.
Patty shakes the treat bag, but no cats come. She sniffles to himself. It's her fault he's dead, she should have left the window shut. Wracked with guilt, she sobs into her pillow until, mercilessly, sleep overcomes her. For the next six hours, she is subsumed by a twitchy, dreamless slumber, only to be woken by a bump.
She sits up, not in a daze for once, but fully alert. She listens intently for any murmuring from beyond the crypt.
"I crave... the flesh," a disembodied voice says.
Except this time, it's distinct, unmuffled by fabric or brass.
Alert though she is, Patty's eyes need time to adjust. She sits up, rigid, taking deep, calming breaths. And then she sees it.
The thing stands over her, naked and trembling, little more than flesh and bone. The moon ventures a peek through her window. A shaft of light illuminates a tall, gangling man – what's left of Virgo's corpse draped over his hands like an oblation. He has no skin, no clothes. More than that, he is wet, dripping onto her covers, her sheets, her carpet, a mixture of blood and spit. He feasts on Virgo the way one might a corn on the cob. The cat's loose, scruffy body is torn through with ragged bite marks.
"I crave..."
Patty stares, eyes stretched wide in horror.
"-the-"
She screeches.
Suddenly, the flayed man covers his ears. From deeper into the house comes the sound of Paul's yells. "What the fuck!"
The flayed man turns on his heels and lopes across the room. On hands and knees, dragging the cat, compacting himself as best he can, he slithers into the bell of the tuba with a sickly squelch. Patty continues to scream.
By the time Paul kicks open the door and turns on the light, any trace of the flayed man is gone. The tuba case has shut and reclasped on its own. All that remains are the spots of bother, of blood, on Patty's carpet and blanket.
"WHAT THE FUCK!"
Patty points at the case, eyes brimming with tears. She's shaking all over. "There- there- there's a man!"
Paul marches over and shoves a finger in her face. "Enough! Of! This! Fucking! Nonsense!" He grabs her shoulders and thrashes her. "I'm trying to fucking sleep, you dumb bitch! Goddammit!" He raises a hand as if to back hand her, but, noticing the blood on her sheets, thinks better of it.
Patty's cries have devolved into rambling whispers. Paul looks down upon her, not quite sympathetic, but pitying. "Aren't you too young for that shit?" he sneers. "Pull yourself together."
Leaving, he grabs some of Patty's mother's leftover tampons and chucks them at her. "No more noises."
Hitting the lights, he slams the door in his wake.
Over breakfast, Paul watches Patty with a kind of crazed intensity that somehow borders on detachment. The girl looks dead tired. "I don't wanna hear anything about no tuba today, understand? You just eat that damn breakfast I paid for in peace... capeesh?"
Patty says nothing. She takes a bite of her plain, white bread.
"Do you have to chew so damn loud?"
They were all out of jam.
It's a Saturday. No school. As soon as Patty finishes her meal, she bundles up her cursed instrument and steals outside. While Daddy was showering she stole a glance at his tablet and memorized the directions to Ms. Christie's, then deleted it from the search history. It's about a twenty minute walk. Whether she leaves a note or not, it's doubtful he'll notice she's gone.
And so, determined, she heads out to put an end to this nonsense, once and for all. Rhea seemed to believe her. Maybe Rhea will know what to do.
Knocking on Ms. Christie's door, Rhea answers. Before the woman can even say hello-
"It happened again," Patty says. "He came out last night. He was looking at me."
Rhea, to her credit, doesn't even blink. "What did he look like?"
"He didn't have any skin."
Rhea nods, contemplative. Taking Patty's shoulder, she steers her inside. Ms. Christie appears in the den. "Patty! What a pleasant surprise!"
"She's here about the tuba," Rhea murmurs. Taking the case out of Patty's hand, she unclips the clasps one by one with delicate precision, as if it were a prized briefcase containing a fortune. Opening the lid, she unveils the ungainly brass instrument. Her fingers tremble. She frowns to herself.
"Is it still giving you trouble?" Ms. Christie asks.
Rhea runs her hand along the brass, closing her eyes, murmuring something under breath. Finally she plucks the tuba up and holds it above her head, inspecting it from all different angles, just like Patty once did.
"Mom..."
Hugging the tuba to her chest, Rhea gives it a blow. Toot. Patty winces. Rhea blows again. Toot toot toot, followed by an awful, discordant honk, like the cry of a giant, mutant albatross.
For ten minutes, she examines the thing, picking it up, putting it down, all the while chanting under her breath, lips moving more subtly than a ventriloquist's.
The entire time, Ms. Christie's smiley demeanor never falters. She brings Patty a plateful of cookies, freshly baked, as if she expected Patty to arrive today, and the two watch in contemplative silence as old Mrs. Christie concludes her analysis.
"Well," Ms. Christie says, as her mother places the tuba back into its case and redoes the clasps. "Did you find anything?"
Rhea sighs and narrows her eyes at her daughter. "You look after this," she says. "I need to check on something. Patty, you'll come with?"
"Mom," Ms. Christie laughs incredulously. "Where are you going?"
Rhea frowns. "The library."
"No, we're not going to the bloody library."
After backing out of the driveway, Rhea merely drove round the block.
"Well... where are we going then?" Patty asks, disappointed.
"I need you to trust me," Rhea says. "We're going to play a little trick."
They listen to a song on the radio – one of Patty's choosing – after which, Rhea spins the car around and they venture back in the direction of Ms. Christie's house, albeit, parking a few houses down. Before they clamber out of the car, Rhea brings a finger to her lips.
Taking Patty's hand, she leads her down the sidewalk and then into a neighbour's backyard. From there, they hop the fence – Rhea is surprisingly spry, Patty notes, for sixty-something. From there, now in Ms. Christie's backyard, they approach the back window.
Patty feels bad for spying on Ms. Christie like this, but given it's on the woman's mother's instructions, it can't be that bad. At the window, Rhea peers past a slip in the blinds.
"I knew it," she spits out. She shakes her head.
Patty can't see. "What?"
But Rhea has already flung the back door open, is already marching resolutely towards her daughter's door. She kicks it in. Patty follows her, craning her neck to see past Rhea's hip. She gasps.
The flayed man sits next to Ms. Christie on her bed, his slimy head on her shoulder. They are holding hands.
Patty feels like she's going to puke. Late to the punch, Rhea steps to one side in an attempt to block the girl's view.
The second they realize they've been found out, the flayed, naked man covers his exposed genitalia and scurries towards the tuba on the floor, leaving a snail trail of blood and spit in his wake. His bloodied footprints stain the carpet and duvet where he so recently sat. Slipping into the bell, he disappears just as he did not hours before.
"Mother!" Ms. Christie exclaims.
"What the fuck-" Rhea clasps a hand to her chest. "Excuse me," she pats Patty's head. "What's going on here?"
Ms. Christie puffs out her chest and lifts her chin. "You tricked me."
"Of course I tricked you!" Rhea nods at the tuba stuffed in the corner. "Who is that?!"
"His name is Marcus. He's a 13th century composer. He was bound to-"
"What have I told you about binding spells!"
"It wasn't me! I found him like this!"
"What, in the instrument room?"
"No, mother..." Ms. Christie rolls her eyes. "I got him off the grey market."
"Why..." Rhea takes a deep breath. "Why is he in a tuba? Why does he look like that?"
"He was tortured for bedding a nobleman's wife."
The tuba mumbles something.
"Allegedly," Ms. Christie corrects herself.
"And what are you doing with him, exactly?"
"Don't you understand mother?" Ms. Christie pouts. "We're in love!"
Rhea sneers. "Oh, God..."
"He just needs a host and we'll be free to live as we please-" The flayed man pokes his head out of the tuba's bell like a penitent dog. "Marcus!" Ms. Christie demands, "Marcus, come out and introduce yourself."
Marcus slinks back into his shell.
"Marcus..." Ms. Christie reprimands him.
Timidly, the man sticks his skinless, wet hand out of the tuba and wiggles his fingers. "I crave the flesh."
Rhea inflates. "And you thought you'd use a little girl?!"
"Not the girl!" Ms. Christie protests. "Her father. The man's a pig, he's the best candidate you could ask for."
"But who will take care of her?"
"We will. She'll be better off, trust me."
"I need to sit down." Rhea gulps, looking rather winded. Patty does her due diligence and assists the older woman to the bed. There, Ms. Christie takes her mother's hands.
"He was never going to hurt her, mother, you have to know that. He just needs to inhabit the father. If everything had gone according to plan, that would have happened days ago. She'd have never known. She'd just wake up one day and he'd be a different man, a better man, don't you see!"
"What about her mother?"
"Out of the picture." Ms. Christie turns to Patty. "Patty, I'm sorry, I never meant to scare you. You understand, what we're trying to do is in your best interest, yes?"
Patty hesitates, trying to wrap her head around all this. "So... he's actually nice?"
Ms. Christie sighs. "Marcus, get over here."
Suddenly, Marcus's arms and legs protrude from the bell of the instrument. Shifting into an upright, or upside down position, he waddles over to the bed half-hidden, like a hermit crab. Ms. Christie plucks his tuba up and cradles it against her chest as if she's about to play. A soaking wet hand reaches out of the bell and strokes her cheek affectionately.
Patty meets Marcus's roving, bloodshot eye in the spit valve. She sneers in disgust, but manages to wave hello nonetheless.
"I've had enough of this." Rhea raps the brass with her knuckles. "Come out of there, young man. There's no need to be embarrassed."
"I crave the flesh," the tuba mumbles.
"Marcus," Ms. Christie commands.
Slowly but surely, the flayed man makes his exit. He stands up, looming over Ms. Christie's lap. Tentatively stepping over the bell, cupping his genitals, looking awkward as all hell, he takes a seat to the woman's left. There, he gives Patty a little bow and offers her his hand.
Patty grimaces, but shakes it. Her palm comes away sticky and wet.
"I crave... the flesh!" he says.
"Why does he keep saying that?" she murmurs.
"He's cursed sweetheart," Ms. Christie explains. "Don't be scared. He can't say anything else while he's trapped like that. He's a good person."
The flayed man – Marcus – nods, evidently ashamed at his nakedness. His flesh is slick as a newborn babe's, dripping with saliva, and beet red all over. No matter how long Patty stares at him, he gives her the creeps.
"But he ate Virgo..."
"He was just hungry," Ms. Christie defends him. "Living in a tuba will do that to you. He didn't know any better... Trust me."
Rhea hangs her head. "You have to realize this isn't right. It's not up to us to decide what's best for," she nods in Patty's direction.
Ms. Christie sighs. Squatting before Patty, she squeezes the girl's hands. "How bout it?"
The flayed man, Marcus, groans. "I crave-"
"Shush," Rhea says.
Patty frowns. "But then what'll happen to my dad?"
"Oh, he'll still be your dad," Ms. Christie says. "I mean, he'll look the same. But he'll be... a new man. A better man. And then you could come live with us. Wouldn't you like that? And it would be so easy..."
Patty gulps, doubtful, but not objecting.
All this time, Ms. Christie just goes on smiling her wonderful smile. "Well, what do you say, Patty? Wouldn't you like to come live with us?"
The girl looks between Ms. Christie, Rhea – who looks away – and the flayed man. She takes a deep breath. "Just tell me what to do," she says. "And I'll think about it."
Sunday morning. Patty sits down to her non-existent breakfast – they're all out of bread and she's lactose intolerant – after her first good night's sleep in a week. Her father, chomping down on his cereal, staring into his tablet, acknowledges her presence with a grunt. The girl falls to contemplation.
"Don't you have school?" her father grumbles.
"It's Sunday," Patty murmurs.
Paul sighs, squinting at her, as if that's somehow her fault. When he doesn't get the intended reaction, he goes back to his tablet. The next he looks up, Patty has made her decision. He watches her place the tuba, in its case, upon the kitchen floor. Watches her undo the four latches, prop open the lid, and unveil the prized brass instrument within.
"No, no, no," Paul murmurs testily. "I thought I told you, not while I'm home."
"I'm not gonna play it," Patty assures him. "I just want to show you something." She hauls the tuba up and out of its case. Paul grumbles, but goes back to the screen in his hand. Distracted an instant, he fails to notice the telltale screech of chair legs being dragged, fails to notice his daughter creeping right up beside him. By the time he does, the tuba is upside down, hovering above his head. Paul looks up, straight up, into the bell. "The hell you doin'?" He sounds faintly amused.
Patty lowers the instrument as if it were a hat. For a moment, Paul is too astonished to react. "Hey!" His voice echoes. His head is encased. He tosses the tablet onto the table and reaches up to remove it.
Meanwhile, Patty has let go of her grip on the valves. She steps down from the chair.
Paul grabs the rim of the tuba's bell with two hands and tries to pull the thing back up and over his head. Somehow, it sticks to him. "What the fuh-" Suddenly, his body seizes up. He stands up straight. His seat topples. "What the fuck! What the fuck is this!" With his one hand glued to the tuba, Paul uses the other to blindly swipe at the air. Patty moves away from him. He stumbles in the opposite direction, upsetting the table. Bowls crash. There goes his cereal.
"Patty!" he screams. Paul goes back to using both hands to try and rip the instrument from his head. It's no use. "Patty! Pah- AHHHH! AHHHHH!" The tuba begins to bellow, a low and ominous noise, like a foghorn warning of imminent danger, a nuclear test. Paul dances in place, rendered manic. He falls to the floor and flops. "AHHHH!" His gurgled screams reverberate about the kitchen, getting louder and louder, in tune with the rising, raging bellow of the tuba. "AHHHH!"
Suddenly, a geyser of blood sprays from out of the spit valve, dousing everything from the floor to the walls to the ceiling. It covers Paul's clothes and skin. He continues to screech at the top of his lungs. "AHHHHH!" The horn is getting louder, seems to pulse, the bell-end widening and constricting, a guzzling motion, with Paul's every breath, until it reaches a deafening fever pitch. "AHHHHH!" Standing in the hall, away from the ruckus, Patty plugs her ears and winces.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops. Paul goes slack, lays motionless, the tuba still attached to his head like some ungainly helmet. The kitchen is a wreck. Patty uncovers her ears. She opens her eyes.
Paul sits up, bloody as the day he was born. Tentatively, as if unused to his own arms, he removes the tuba from his head and places it in his lap. He stares at Patty from afar, clearly dazed. She braces herself, biting her bottom lip. "Daddy?" she murmurs. "Are you okay?"
To that, Daddy does something he never does. He smiles at her. "Never better."
