When My Guitar Gently Screams (standard:horror, 2757 words)
Author: Robert G Moons	Added: Oct 28 2013	Views/Reads: 2810/1916	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young, mediocre guitar player comes across an unusual, antique guitar that turns him into a world famous rock idol.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

his tie-dye T-shirt that was worn loosely over his bell-bottoms. 
“Sorry. Did I scare you?” 

“No, it was just a bit... unexpected,” Nathan lied. 

“I collect and sell older products, as you can see. Repair some too. See
anything that interests you?” 

Nathan scanned around the shop, but came back to the guitar case at his
feet. “What type of guitar is in this case?” 

“Oh, that? It's just an old electric guitar. Not worth much. I was going
to get rid of it, but I'll give it to you, if you're interested.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It's free of charge, but only if you don't open the case until you
leave these premises. Think of it as a grab bag or door prize, and with 
a hope, by me, of your future patronage.” 

Nathan thought that was a strange request. Still, an electric guitar for
free? Even if the guitar inside was crap, the hard-shell case alone was 
worth something. 

Nathan thanked him, grabbed the case, and was out the door before the
crazy, old man changed his mind. It was probably a piece of junk, like 
the instruments hanging on the wall, but he was eager to know what was 
inside. 

II 

Back at his small, one bedroom apartment, Nathan placed the case on the
floor, snapped open the latches and slowly creaked open the dusty lid. 
He was shocked and ecstatic to find a 1960s Fender Stratocaster, a 
guitar worth thousands of dollars! What the f@#%! 

Sure, it was old and a little beat-up, but it was in good condition and
looked quite playable. The only thing strange was the colour of the 
fingerboard. He expected maple or rosewood, but it was painted a 
red-brown colour. What moron would paint over its beautiful, wood 
fingerboard? 

Nathan removed the rusty, old strings and began wiping the fingerboard
with a damp, white cloth. The paint came off easily, too easily, 
appearing a brighter red on the cloth. Odd. Paint shouldn't come off 
this effortlessly, unless it was a water-base paint, or.... No. That 
was a crazy idea; he put that thought out of his mind. It was just some 
sicko who painted it to look like blood. Yes, that was it. He continued 
with the cleaning. 

When he was finished, the fingerboard was back to its natural, maple
colour. He strung it up with a set of new strings, tuned them, and 
plugged the antique guitar into his small, practice amp. 

Nathan grabbed a pick and began playing a few rock licks he knew well.
They sounded better, actually, much better than on his other guitars. 
Hell, they sounded great! He sounded great! Maybe all he needed was a 
superior guitar? Yeah. He continued to play. Soon, he was playing 
riffs, chords and rhythms he didn't even remember learning. The music 
just flowed out of him. He became the music. Emotions triggered musical 
ideas, and his fingers instantly played whatever he felt. As Nathan 
continued to play, he recognized the iconic sounds of some of the 
greats: Hendrix, Clapton, Vaughan, and many others. Their sounds were 
under his fingertips, and he weaved their melodic riffs together with 
unfettered ease. What was going on? He was never this good. But 
something urged him on, tempted him. He wanted to keep playing, he 
needed to keep playing, and he didn't want it to stop. 

He couldn't stop. 

III 

Warmth caressed Nathan's face as he slowly opened his eyes. The morning
sunlight was beaming in, flooding the room with white light. He was in 
bed and could feel the heavy but familiar weight of the guitar on top 
of him. He had fallen asleep, under the sheets, and with the guitar 
still in his hands. Nathan grimaced when he moved his left hand still 
grasping its neck. His fingertips hurt and felt sticky. He looked down 
at the sheets in the direction of the pain and gasped. 

There, on the white sheet that covered his left hand, was a patch of
blood. He threw off the covers and examined fingertips that were bloody 
and raw. Nathan sat up and recoiled at the sight of dried blood coating 
half the fingerboard. Red fingerprints were dabbed between many of the 
frets, as well as several smears where the strings were bent. He didn't 
remember playing till his fingers hurt, much less continuing to play 
after his fingers bled, or even coming to bed. 

Now, fully awake, he couldn't ignore the four painfully throbbing
fingertips. It felt like someone had gone to town with a wire cheese 
slicer on them. Nathan slid out of bed and went into the bathroom, 
washed his hands, winced when he used the disinfectant, and bandaged 
all four fingertips. He wouldn't be playing guitar anytime soon. 

IV 

A month later, Nathan found himself standing on a stage with a
three-piece band. His Strat was slung low at his waist, and was 
handling it like an extension of his own body. 

Nathan was auditioning for the lead guitarist spot with ‘Devil in My
Closet', one of the hottest blues/rock bands in the country. The 
previous guitarist died (not so unexpectedly) from an overdose of 
heroin and alcohol, and now the band was desperately seeking a 
replacement. A brief online sample of his playing was enough to peak 
their interest. Now, he had to prove he was the one on the recording 
via a live performance. 

“OK, anytime your ready,” said the bass player. 

Nathan nodded and the drummer took over counting it off. “One and two
and....” 

The band started playing a standard twelve bar blues in the key of
B-flat. Nathan turned up his volume and started off playing some Albert 
King inspired licks over the shuffle chord progression. On the second 
chorus, he channeled Stevie Ray Vaughan with all his passion and 
abandon. His homage to one of the greatest players was then followed by 
his own unique style, a synthesis of history's greatest players, 
turning it into something fresh. His sound soared to new heights; it 
screamed, it growled, it strutted, and he raised the musical bar too 
high for most to reach. 

When finished, the band members were blown away and practically begged
Nathan to join them. He was delighted and agreed. Over the next few 
months, he would be integral in reinventing the band's sound, and 
taking them from national to international acclaim. 

V 

Nathan, aka ‘The Alchemist of Rock' was alone, relaxing in his dressing
room. 

Chicago, the fifth city of the band's world tour was finished. There
were forty more cities to go. Each time he came off the stage, he felt 
a little more drained, as if something was sucking the life out of him. 
His weight loss began at the tour's onset and he now looked quite 
gaunt. He was making the covers of some tabloids, all were implying he 
had a drug addiction, but that simply wasn't true. He was just tired, 
very tired. 

He looked down at the fingertips of his left hand and lightly rubbed
them. The lighter set of guitar strings was helping, but his fingers 
were still hurting bad. At least he didn't have any cuts that needed 
sealing with crazy glue, like back in New York. 

“It is time,” came a low whisper. 

“What?” 

Nathan looked puzzled at the old guitar that lay on the counter next to
him. He must be more tired than he thought. He packed his travel bag, 
grabbed his guitar and left the theatre for the hotel. 

Back at his luxury suite, he took a relaxing, hot bath and went to bed
immediately after. Sleep came for him quickly. 

In the middle of the night, when all was still, a voice – like a lover
seeking a favour – whispered to him through his dreams. 

“I require an Offering.” 

“A life in exchange for your continued virtuosity.” 

“I have done much for you.” 

“It is time.... This is what you will do for me....” 

VI 

Crystal was leaning against the red brick wall of the bar that had just
closed. One black-booted foot was on the pavement, the other, flat 
against the wall. It was a slow night; time to pack it in and go home, 
she decided. She shivered. Besides, it was getting too cold standing 
around the street in her skimpy ‘working' clothes. The young woman 
pushed off the wall, turned to her right and started walking down the 
dimply-lit sidewalk. 

When the small woman sauntered past the first alley, she was startled by
a man in a black overcoat, staring at her from beneath a brown fedora. 

“What will this get me?” he asked calmly, pulling out a handful of
hundred dollar bills from his inside coat pocket. 

“Honey, that will get you everything your little head desires, and then
some,” her red lips smiled. This night was going to turn out all right. 


He put half the money back and held out the remaining bills. “Here, half
now, half later.” 

She walked into the dark alley and approached the ‘John'. 

He handed her the money, and while counting her windfall, he quickly
circled behind the whore and wrapped a wire around her neck. The man, 
partially hidden in the shadows, loomed over her and yanked upward with 
inhuman strength, pulling her off the pavement. Crystal dropped the 
bills and instinctively grabbed for the wire strangling her, 
desperately trying to get it off, breaking most of her fingernails in 
the process. She couldn't breathe or scream as it cut deep into her 
neck. Blood began to flow, making it an even bet whether she would die 
from suffocation or loss of blood. The pile of cash beneath her kicking 
feet, teased by a light breeze, remained where dropped as blood drops 
splattered on and around them. The struggle lasted about two minutes 
for the killer, an eternity for the victim. 

After her legs stopped thrashing, Crystal's lifeless body was dropped on
the ground like a cloth doll, a doll that no one would claim. On the 
streets, the lost were rarely found. There would be no family to 
advocate for her murder. She was the perfect victim. 

VII 

At 9:15 a.m., Nathan woke up. He vaguely remembered having a nightmare,
and yet, he felt refreshed. Hell, he felt better than he had in months. 
Maybe all he needed was a long, deep sleep? Wait. What happened to the 
constant pain? He looked at the fingertips of his left hand and was 
surprised to see no blood, grooves, or even redness; his fingers were 
completely healed! 

His mood changed when he looked around the hotel room. This wasn't how
it was left when he came to bed. His guitar was now out of its case and 
leaning against the wall. Also, a bath towel lay on the floor just 
outside the bathroom. Was someone in his room while he slept? 

He walked over to the guitar; the sixth string was missing. He didn't
remember breaking it. Strange. 

There was a knock on the door. He went over and looked through the
peephole. Recognizing the drummer of the band, he opened the door. 

“You haven't seen my lucky drumsticks, have you, Nathan?” he asked, as
if he already knew the answer. 

“No, sorry.” 

“OK, no problem. I thought I left them on the bus, but they weren't
there.... Anyway, we're packing it up and heading for Atlanta in about 
an hour. You going to be ready?” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Hey, you look good by the way. We were starting to get worried about
you.” 

“Yeah, I do feel good. Finally got a good night's sleep.” Nathan closed
and locked the door. 

He walked over and picked up the white towel. It felt damp. He turned it
over. On the opposite side was an area of light pink. Was this blood? 
Then, he noticed the bathroom's trashcan. Something odd was in it. 

Nathan went over and looked down. Nausea overwhelmed him as he fell to
his knees and vomited. He had solved both mysteries. In the trashcan 
was a blood-covered garrote, constructed with a pair of drumsticks 
broken in half and the missing guitar string. “Fame doesn't come 
without some Sacrifices,” his guitar whispered. “You'll get used to it. 
They all do.” 

THE END 

(Cue music) I look at the blood see the hate there that's hiding When my
guitar gently screams... 

Copyright 2013 Robert G. Moons 

***** 

All my ebook (PDF) stories with cover art are free to download here:
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This work of fiction is the sole property and copyright of Robert G.
Moons. Please do not print or use without permission of the author. ALL 
RIGHTS RESERVED. 


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