First attempt at terror/horror/supernatural
|Mr. Bigand hated coming back to his business premises after he locked up, but it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t sure he put away his accounting books and there was way too much in those numbers for prying eyes to see.
Mr. Bigand walked faster as he thought of these books. But as he came closer to his shop, he slowed down involuntarily. A bad feeling stole over him. He around—up and down the block. He was nervous. He never felt nervous. It’s bad for business.
He forced himself to walk, forced himself to stay calm. Soon he heard it. He stopped, his heart hammering, his heart in his throat. He frantically looked around. The street was deserted.
He heard them louder now, like the Tell-Tale Heart. There was no mistaking it—people were playing his violins. He unlocked his shop as quickly as possible. Maybe they are just playing his instruments; they couldn’t know his secrets.
He went to the back room. He wanted to cry out in fear—his violins were playing on their own—each and every one of them. In a Herculean effort, he tried to stop them but they danced away from him, playing a slightly dissonant tune that seemed to reflect his life—not right, not in accord with the universe.
He kept trying to shut them up. It was as if they were announcing his works to the world—all the stealing, inflated prices, selling fake merchandise, even the killing of former owners. Soon, people would come, he knew it, and the violins’ music was too loud and interesting. He tried to destroy them with his tools. He hacked, whacked, and lunged—all to no avail. He felt like he was falling into an abyss.
He froze. He heard someone knocking at the door. He debated whether to let them in. He knew if he didn’t, the person would probably call the police. He felt crazed with dark thoughts, thoughts that seemed to be killing him. He was panicky and out of control. He tried to think, but he couldn’t…and still the violins played.
He answered the door, “Hello.”
“Hi, I heard the music. It’s beautiful. I thought maybe it was a concert.” He said. He was his neighbor, Claude Roy.
“No, I’m just closing up.” Bigand said. “How could he think it was beautiful? It was discordant, terrible, weird, and dark.” He thought
“No. I’m just closing up.” He repeated, trying to stay calm and cool, though he was way beyond that now.
“Ah. All right.” He left.
“Thank goodness.” Bigand thought.
Just as he turned, the bell rung again, announcing another unwanted visitor. He used the same procedure. But this was a true music lover, a client, and someone who Bigand knew was pushy. She forced her way in and headed for the music. Now Bigand was crazy. Bigand didn’t have a choice. Those violins would give him away. He took the knife off the tool desk and stabbed her in what seemed time to the music. He was almost mad now.
It just so happened that the beat policemen made their way down to the shop like the others but this time they heard the screams of Mrs. Lys. The music stopped, but for Bigand the beat went on as the say.
The policemen, Stuart and Craig, knocked the down the door and saw Bigand with the knife and a look of complete madness, saw the body, and arrested Bigand then and there. Bigand didn’t care. All he heard was his violins.