One Last Lament

“The banjo is such a happy instrument - you can't play a sad song on the banjo - it always comes out so cheerful.”
- Steve Martin

And so, with a silent smile the murderer pulled the blade out of his victim and wiped it clean. He picked up his banjo and played one last lament for the poor man, a melody of death to complete the ritual and remember the moment.

They never did find him…


Henry finished typing the last few words of his story with a smile. He sighed and saved the document. This would be his best story so far, and the first time he had met his deadline. He just knew this was his chance at fame, at a better job and a better life. Henry kicked back in the chair proudly. If he had a cigar to light, he would’ve.

The young man turned his gaze to a corner of the room. There, sitting on a worn chair, was the inspiration for the whole story: a scarlet banjo. Henry thought it such an odd color for an instrument, but when he saw it at the flea market he just had to buy it. Something about it captivated him. Was it the uniqueness in its color? Other than that, it was a pretty dull and old banjo. It only had two strings, the wood was chipped and the drumhead torn. It couldn’t be played and was worthless. Worthless to anyone else, but not to Henry. It had provided him with more than he needed.

He rolled the chair back and stood up. Henry gave his arms a good stretch and then walked to the door. He could go to sleep happy for once. As he reached to flip the light off, Henry turned and noticed something most strange. The banjo wasn’t on the chair. It wasn’t in the room at all. His eyes scanned every single corner but he didn’t see it. Henry couldn’t understand this.

A warm breeze tickled Henry’s neck. He turned quickly and noticed a shadow standing before him. It was a good half a foot taller, dark and foul in its form. He could hardly make out any details from it besides a few strands of wild hair and torn clothing clinging to a thin and ghastly body. The only thing that was clear to Henry’s eyes was what the shadowed man held in his right hand. There, clutched firmly by the bridge, hung the banjo. The scarlet paint glistened almost like blood and Henry swore he saw it dripping to his carpet.

The figure smiled a disturbing smile, letting his yellow and crooked teeth glisten for Henry to see. The young man’s eyes were distracted only for a second before something else caught his attention. In the figure's left hand was a knife.

They never did find Henry’s murderer, or the banjo.