Thunder rumbled in the middle of the night.
The woman, however, did not stop the music. Her hand’s movements, broad and intense, at no point were shaken by the growl of the storm, or by the thick droplets of rain that crackled in hasted stacattos over the roof of the theater. They resounded in such a manner that if the man standing beside her did not focus his hearing, it would not be possible to listen to the details of the beautiful piece she performed.
Chopin’s Nocturne, opus 9, number 1. How fitting.
“Keep playing, ma chere,” the man purred over her ear and laid silky kisses on her neck. The woman sighed.
The song weaved below her fingers, in precise tuplets and trills that brought a satisfied grin to the man. It was his favourite song. It craved perfection.
His lips strolled over her neckline until they settled on her heaving cleavage. The pianissimo cadences quickly grew in a fiery crescendo until she hammered ecstatic chords that echoed along with her moans as the man sneaked his hand under her dress.
“Are we alone?” she pleaded in a faltering whisper.
“Yes. Not even the Phantom of the Opera would dare disturb us in my theater.” A second thunder reverberated, and the lights flicked in menace.
“Careful, love, he might hear you and drop the chandelier over us,” she teased. The man chuckled.
“Are you afraid of ghosts, ma chere?” He slid his fingers deeper up her inner thigh, ripping a blissful lament out of her.
“Never… ” The woman’s voice was barely audible. “Not while… not while you’re with me:’
Thunder blasted a third time. A primeval roar that shook the very foundations of the old building and killed the lights for good.
“Merde,” the man whined as they were both engulfed in darkness. “Stay here, ma chere, I have some candles in the back.”
“Candles?” She put the hem of her dress in place, covering her bare legs. “Is it safe with this much wood and cloth around us?”
“A fuse must have blown, but I’ll have to wait until morning to change it. Don’t worry.” He placed one last kiss over her shoulder. “It’s perfectly safe.”
The man ambled across the place, his unwavering steps creaking over the wooden floor until he reached backstage. He did not need the light to orient himself. He was familiar with the distance between every door and knew where every pin was placed inside his theater.
It did not take long for him to reach the drawers of a closet, where several candles were stashed for eventualities. The man brought the thick beeswax stubs and placed them ritualistically around the piano. The rip of a match cut through the darkness as he distributed the fire through the stubs, one by one.
Flickering flames filled the penumbra! stage in haunting shadows and hellish orange lights. The woman in the red satin dress, flushed and slightly disheveled by their former action, looked absolutely ravishing sat by the grand piano in candlelight. He thought the image was splendid.
“Now, ma chere, play it again.”
The wailing notes of the Nocturne filled the theater again, its melody frayed by the constant murmur of the storm. The piece sounded like a recording from a gramophone, the man thought.
He let the woman tend to her technique-no lustful distractions this time-and reveled in the music. Eyes closed, head tilted back, and a smile on his face. The last chord sequence dropped in an agonizing fortissimo that dimmed like faltering flames occasionally blown by a breeze until it faded, dissipating in the air. He could almost grasp the ineffable remains of that last subtle note.
“Brava,” he announced between slow resounding claps, before pulling the woman into a lavishing kiss.
They almost knocked down the piano stool in their desire, as the man pinned her against the floor and made his way through her skirts once again. The woman heaved and agonized below him, her voice filling the stage in a daunting crescendo until exploding in a high long note of golden ecstasy.
A flick of metal glinted in the man’s right hand.
In swift and precise motion, he slid the silver razor in a line over the woman’s neck. Her hands trembled and hurried for the wound, but he held them in place as the blood squished through the cut and bathed the man’s face. A few seconds is all it took for the light to leave her eyes, eternizing the pleasure mixed with horror on her beautiful face. Such a sight made the man finally squirt himself inside of her.
The man gasped for air for a moment or two and got up, admiring his latest work. He was covered in red, deep and bright as the late woman’s satin dress. A sadistic smile took his thin lips. Now they matched. He loosened his collar and sat back at the piano, for his pitch-black heart craved for music.
Chopin filled the murder room once again. The blood pool spilled and dripped over the stage, but the killer did not mind. He would fix that in the morning, along with the burned fuse. Now it was time for a celebration.
An image flashed in the dark.
The killer blinked to be sure, but the corner by the curtains was as empty as ever. He shook his head. The excitement pumping in his veins was making him see things. But then, near the scenery panel, there it was once again.
This time, the killer jolted up.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” he howled, but again, the mirage disappeared.
He did not sit. The hair in his arms prickled, and the nape of his head glazed ice cold. The killer was not superstitious. Why, then, was he feeling this way?
“Are you afraid of ghosts, mon cher?”
The killer’s eyes widened in astonishment.
It was the first woman. The one pianist he followed for months in his longing youth until he realized what he hungered for was more than the flesh between her legs. There she was, dashing long hair, astute eyebrows, and a silky gown, as if she had not aged a day. Her image, however, was translucent.
It did not prevent the first woman from leisurely strolling towards him. “I am not afraid of things from beyond. You cannot touch me.”
The ghost smirked. “Are you certain?”
The killer dropped stiffly over the piano stool against his will. As much as he would fight it, he could not get up. His arms gruesomely raised in front of him and rested on the marble keys. His skin felt glacial, like he just took a dive into a frozen lake.
“How are you doing this?” he spat.
Answering his question, another figure appeared. The second woman, holding him down by his shoulders. A third set of hands held his right arm, a fourth held his leg, then the fifth, the sixth, and so forth. All of his women, trapping him.
The ghost’s faltering expression twisted in a victorious smile as she approached, leaning until her face was only a disturbing inch away from him.
“Now, mon cher, play.”
As if controlled by a puppeteer, the killer’s fingers resumed the absent melody and Chopin’s nocturne echoed, again and again, until his digits ached.
The first woman circled around him, listening to the music. Her countenance was unreadable. After countless rounds, she strolled to one candle, sticking a translucent barefoot by the stub.
Her face twisted in a devious smile.
The candle tilted to the side, spilling its flame across the stage. It wasn’t long before the fire spread. Wood creaked and charred, fabric crisped to cinders, and metal sizzled and blazed alight.
The man, however, kept playing.
He did not stop when the fire reached the piano and the cords were consumed, plunged one by one in dissonant shrieks. He did not stop when the flames glued the sole of his shoes to his feet, turning them into an amalgam of burned skin and leather. He did not stop when his fingers filled with crimson blisters, when the stench of carbonized fat was too nauseating to bear, not even when he convulsed after inhaling too much carbon monoxide.
The music stayed, long after the killer was gone.
An accidental fire was what the newspapers announced the day after. An incautious theater owner who placed candles on his stage and scorched himself and his mistress along with the building.
A tragedy soon to be forgotten.
The ruins of the old theater were later turned into a store complex that burned to the ground after a reckless employee decided to smoke next to highly flammable goods. Then, it became a supermarket that was incinerated after an electric malfunction, until people deemed the site cursed and gave up on it.
In every incident, rumours speak of a melody that was heard within the flames.
Sinuous and lurking, like a haunting lament. Chopin’s nocturne, opus 9, number 1.
About The Author
M.C. Rodrigues placed 3rd in the Ghost & Horror Short Story Contest, October 2021, with her award winning story Chopin In Candlelight. She won the $40 cash prize and publication in Indie It Press’s forthcoming Anthology, 2022: COURAGEOUS CREATIVE.
M.C. Rodrigues is a cardiologist by day and writer by night. She gravitates between various genres, but has a personal affinity for stories featuring queer characters. A lover of black coffee, chocolate and cozy wool jumpers, Rodrigues lives in São Paulo, Brazil with her husband and two dogs.
