Two months ago, I almost died. When you imagine your death, most people think they’re gonna go peacefully in their sleep at a rip old age. Very few imagine you’ll die because you slipped in an oil puddle in your driveway and cracked your skull on the cement. That’s what happened to me, though. My car, an aging beater I had kept for longer than any rational person would have, nearly took me out before I had a chance to sell it. The betrayal cut me deep.
I live in an area most people consider “the country,” but it’s really not. It’s on the farthest edges of suburban sprawl, but it’s still within the city limits. That being said, the houses out here are spread out like the teeth in a meth head’s mouth, so the odds of someone seeing me fall were slim.
Thank God for the US Post Office.
My mailman found me and called an ambulance. They stabilized me but thought I might have a brain bleed and swelling. I was rushed into emergency surgery, where the most amazing team of doctors spent hours fixing me up. When I woke up, I was greeted by friends and family, and some of the best medical professionals I’ve ever met. I was confused, as I had no memory of my fall or anything immediately before and after it, but I was grateful to be alive.
After a few weeks of recovery, I was able to go home. I still had a lot of therapy in front of me, but I was ecstatic to be home again. The emotional gut punch I felt crossing the threshold of my house after my ordeal was unexpected. As soon as I walked in, I felt an ocean of feelings crash over me. I was grateful and comforted to be returning to some normalcy. Still, I was also terrified and excited at the new lease on life I had been granted. I kept coming back to the thought that something out there made the stars align just how they were supposed to and saved my life. I was lucky, and I knew it.
I sat on my couch and started sobbing. It was mostly tears of joy and relief but also some sadness. I wouldn’t know the extent of my brain injuries for some time. I knew some damage had occurred, but the doctors were still running tests. My life would alter, and change can be scary.
The first significant change was selling my car. I sold it for a song and decided to reward my new lease on life with a modern vehicle that was designed to keep me safe. I still haven’t figured out all the bells and whistles in my new ride, but whatever. It wasn’t trying to kill me, so that was a win on its own. When the person buying my old car drove off, I muttered, “I’m still here. You lost, bitch.”
Childish, sure, but I felt I had earned my moment of victory over my would be killer.
The other big change was I decided to start living my life instead of wasting time. Once you see the last stop on the line, you suddenly beg for a longer train ride. I made plans to do things I’ve always wanted to do, go places I’ve always wanted to visit, and speak with old friends again. I was going to stop making excuses to not do things and start making new memories.
That’s what led me to a music store. Now, I had never played an instrument and had little sense of rhythm or timing, but I always harbored a desire to learn. My friends in high school tended to make fun of band kids, and I went along with it to a certain extent, but my heart was never into it. I secretly wanted to be there with them but never did.
But I wasn’t in high school anymore. Those old friends had gone on to lucrative careers in crime and fraud. I no longer cared to or wanted to impress them. I was free to do whatever I wanted to do. And I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to learn how to play the trumpet.
I’ve always found the trumpet to be one of the coolest instruments. I always gravitated to bands that employed a horns section, and the sound of the trumpet was the major reason. They are good in an ensemble or as a solo. Trumpets are historically significant – Gabriel played one, and they were in all kinds of wars. Miles, Louis, and Dizzy are names we all know because of that horn. The guy at the shop had a used one he could let me have for cheap. I was sold. I bought it and headed home to toot til I dropped.
What no one tells you about the trumpet is that it’s so goddamn hard to play. The greats really undersell how much lung capacity you need and how difficult fingering the horn (which, I know how it sounds, guys) really is. I should’ve known this, but I was so bound and determined to try it that I just went all in.
Either way, I was going to learn if it killed me. I turned to my favorite tutor, Youtube, and watched some beginner videos. It was hard at first, but I slowly started improving. When I first started playing, it sounded like a duck was dying from emphysema. A week or so after, my playing sounded like a duck dying from whooping cough. A touch better, but not much. I didn’t care, though. I had fun learning.
My routine was to step out onto my back patio in the evening, stare out at the thicket of trees behind the house, and start playing. Every time I blew my first note, the birds in the trees would scatter like a predator showed up. Eventually, they’d return to the trees, but I think it was more out of concern for what they assumed was a fellow feathered friend being assaulted and not my ability as a horn player.
A little about the layout of my quasi-country home. Like I said, I’m on the edge of the sprawl and nature adjacent. The woods around my house aren’t a sprawling forest by any means. More curb appeal than a natural preserve. Eventually, the woods give way to a field of tall grass and a wide, shallow river. On scorching summer days, I liked to walk out to the river for a little swim. On the opposite side of the bank is a more extensive forest that gets thicker the deeper you walk into it. It was easy to get lost over there.
Rumor has it that escaped slaves had used those woods as a safe passage to the north. I’ve also heard there are countless hidden hideouts and shacks in the forest where teens drink and do other teenage things. In the present times, the talk around town is that there is also a decent transient population back there. I never go that far, though. No need to take any more unnecessary risks.
About a week ago, I went out to do my nightly playing as the sun started to set. I had just played a barn-burning rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and was taking a breather when, on the evening air, I heard the faint sounds of someone else playing a trumpet. At first, I wasn’t sure if my mind was playing tricks on me, but eventually, I realized I was hearing it. I couldn’t determine where it was coming from, but it sounded like it was down by the river.
They were good – really good.
I glanced up at the sky and saw the sun arcing toward the horizon. If I hurried, I might be able to get to the river before it darkened. I was about to step off my back porch when common sense grabbed me by the collar and held me up. Why did you need to go out there? I didn’t have a good answer. I think I was just excited someone nearby was a trumpet player…and a good one at that.
I decided that venturing into the forest at night for a random rendezvous with a stranger at the banks of the river sounded too much like the start of a blues song for my liking. With my recent luck, I’d show up in time to catch a musician selling his soul to the devil and get folded into the whole affair. I made a point to listen for the playing the following day before the sun started going down. If I heard something, maybe I’d sally forth and see who’s blowing that sweet, sweet sound.
The next day, I practiced a little earlier in the evening, so I could have time to head out into the forest in case I heard that trumpet again. Alas, I didn’t hear anything. Instead, I spent the evening sipping a glass of whiskey and watching the sun slip away. Instead of the saucy brass, I heard the hooting of the nearby owls.
I eventually headed back inside for the evening, not only for a refill of my booze but also to catch up on the latest offering from Netflix. Were the series forgettable? Mostly, but they were good wind-down shows. A few episodes, a few more belts of whiskey, and then a night of restful sleep. Sounded fantastic.
That didn’t happen.
While I was exhausted when I dragged myself to bed, my brain reactivated as soon as my head hit the pillow. Instead of a peaceful slumber, I started thinking about anything and everything in my life. I remembered a conversation I had five years ago with a girl I had a thing for at work. I thought we were tiptoeing down dating street when I must’ve said something that made her detour to friends boulevard. Replaying the conversation over and over wasn’t helping me sleep any faster.
Realizing I was doomed to stay awake for a while, I got up and headed for my back porch. I thought a little cool air might help. I took a seat on my wicker chair, kicked my feet up, and closed my eyes. As I was trying to unburden my mind, I heard the faint sounds of somebody playing the trumpet off in the distance again.
I opened my eyes and strained my ears in the direction of the sound. Since it was night, I could hear it a little clearer, and I discovered they were playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” It was so well done I figured this had to be a professional. But why would they be playing in the middle of the woods at night? Was there some sort of secret jazz venue deep in the woods I didn’t know about? Was this sound carrying from farther than I thought possible? Was this a side effect of brain trauma, and I wasn’t hearing anything?
Regardless, being outside hadn’t shut my brain off and made me sleepy. It energized me. I had a wild idea; what if I started playing too? If I could hear them, they could hear me. They may not enjoy my playing as much as I did theirs, but it was worth a shot.
I grabbed my horn and started into my version of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” After I bleated a few notes, I paused and listened. There was nothing at first, and I thought they might have been more offended by my playing. But then, blowing in like a stiff breeze, I heard someone playing the song back to me.
I laughed and smiled. It had worked. I played the next line and waited. Again, this unknown trumpeter played the following line. I did this several times until I saw my distant neighbor’s porch light turned on. I quickly hustled back inside and shut my lights off. I was so excited with the connection I had forgotten it was past midnight.
Even though I was excited about a trumpet friend, albeit one I did not see or know, my body finally convinced my brain to power down. I laid back down, and within ten minutes, I was out. I slept so soundly that night, unaware that it would be one of my last nights of good sleep.
The next morning, I woke up and made a cup of coffee. I headed out to my porch to refill my bird feeders and was surprised to see a note under a rock just outside my door. I looked around but didn’t see anyone. I shrugged and picked up the note. It read, “you need to work on your breath support” in scraggly handwriting. It had to be from the person I was playing with the previous night. I was a little excited to get a free tip from someone that good but also a little freaked out that they had been able to track down where I live.
I didn’t dwell on it, though. I did look up some videos on breathing control and found some excellent tips that showed right away. Suddenly, I could play for longer stretches at a time without needing a break. I could improve it still, but it was getting better. It still sounded terrible, but I could play a song poorly for longer, which was a win. I think.
Around mid-afternoon, there was a knock on my front door. I walked over and was surprised to see my friend Susan standing there. She and I had gone to college together and have stayed close ever since. She was one of the first people to greet me when I woke up from my head injury. We hugged, and I welcomed her in.
We laughed and had a few drinks, and reminisced about old times. We both were getting hungry, so I ordered food from my local Indian spot, and we had an amazing meal. During samosas, I surprised her by bringing out my trumpet. She laughed.
“What in the world?”
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to play, and now I am.”
“Are you any good?”
I answered with a quick attempt at my new favorite jam, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Susan was polite and listened until I finished. Once I was done, she nodded. “That was…”
“Bad,” I said for her so she wouldn’t have to.
She laughed, “Well, you’re still learning, right?”
“It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“God, no. I give you credit for even trying.”
Just then, through the open window, I heard the trumpet from the woods. They were playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” again. Susan caught my look of excitement and screwed her face up in confusion.
“It wasn’t that nice of a compliment,” she laughed.
“Don’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“The trumpet in the distance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t hear it? They’re playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In,’” I said. “Listen close. I think they’re down by the river.”
“Why are they down there?”
“I don’t have a clue,” I said. “But can you hear it?”
“I…I don’t.”
“It’s faint, but it’s there,” I said, cocking my ear towards the window.
“Maybe you’re developing an ear for the trumpet,” she said with a shrug.
“We played together last night,” I said, before adding, “well, kinda.”
“You met this person?”
“Not really,” I said, “They were in the woods, and I was on the back porch. We played ‘Twinkle’ together, line by line.”
”’ Twinkle,’” she said with a look, “That’s what you’re going with?”
“In the jazz game, you gotta shorten things down to the basics, baby.”
“Oh my God,” she said while rolling her eyes so hard the Earth’s axis moved an inch.
“They left a note on my back porch this morning,” I added.
Her face changed suddenly. “What?”
“They told me to work on my breathing. It was good advice.”
“They know where you live?”
“I guess they figured it out,” I said, “there are only so many houses out here. Probably just guessed.”
“Do you have security cameras?”
“I don’t,” I said, “do you think I should be worried?”
“I would be,” she said.
“But we were just jamming.”
“They came to your house without you knowing. That’s not jamming. That’s stalking.”
I had to admit she had a point. But, even still, I wasn’t overly concerned. There hadn’t been anything sinister about the encounter. I mean, what stalker gives you helpful hints on your new hobby? But the look on Susan’s face wasn’t likely to change if I went down that path. Instead, I nodded.
“Maybe I should pick up some cameras or something,” I said.
“I think that would be wise,” she said. “Now, let’s hear another tune.”
“You sure about that?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to hear.”
I nodded and played another song. Poorly. We laughed, had a few more drinks and samosas, and left on great terms. She never heard the distant music playing outside. As I watched her drive away, I looked out towards the woods. I prayed to hear the familiar tooting of the horn player, but nothing came to me. I shrugged, walked back inside, and called it a day.
I double-checked my locks, just in case.
My sleep was not good that night. I tried to lie down but couldn’t get comfortable. I kept replaying the conversation with Susan in my mind. She had called the horn player a “stalker,” and I couldn’t get that image out of my head. Was she right? Should I be concerned? I hadn’t thought much about it because the note had been harmless, but the more I dwelled on it, the more terrifying it became.
They had found my house after I had stopped playing. Even if they guessed, it’s still a pretty good job. The houses are spaced out but they aren’t miles apart. This isn’t farm country. But still, they knew where the music had come from.
I decided to get out of bed and check on camera prices online. I convinced myself it might not be wrong to have regardless, but in the dark parts of my brain, I had to admit Susan had gotten to me. I needed to be safer or, at the very least, get good photographic evidence of the person that would kill me. Either/or, really.
I picked up a cheap camera setup (the reviews were solid enough) and was about to head back to bed when I heard the first couple of lines of “When the Saints Go Marching In” start playing. I should’ve climbed into my bed. I should’ve closed my eyes. I should’ve gone to sleep. But I couldn’t. I wanted to hear the song.
I walked out to the back patio and sat in my wicker chair. Like last time, the song was perfectly played, and I started nodding to the beat. I had to fight every instinct to go grab my horn and join in. I don’t know why I felt that way, but the groove of the music had its hold on me.
I gripped the arm of the chair and held myself in place. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I kept my feet planted. But then the player started into “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” I felt they were calling for me. I broke from the chair and grabbed my trumpet. I started playing.
We played together across the vastness of nature but felt intertwined. They were better than me, but at a certain point, it didn’t matter. The horns mingled and danced with each other. I kept blowing, my cheeks exploding out, and sweat beading on my forehead. For a few brief and fleeting notes, we were one sound.
When the song ended, everything went quiet. The fever in me had broken. I was drenched in sweat but warm from the afterglow of an incredible performance. Or I thought it was. In truth, I knew how bad I was, but I didn’t remember it that way. For a minute there, I lost myself. I was transported somewhere. Back in the cool night of reality, I was just some new trumpeter standing on their back porch with a horn in their hands and doubt in their brain.
I walked back inside and locked the door behind me. I placed the trumpet on my table and sighed. My body felt suddenly exhausted. I had to grab the table to keep myself from falling. My knees were weak. I decided to head to bed and hoped sleep would make me feel better.
That night, I had wild dreams. I can’t remember the specifics, but I know I was being chased by something. I was scared, as the basic idea of being chased was not comforting, but there was also a calm with the chase. Like I was both predator and prey. I tossed and turned all night, and when I woke up, I saw that I had managed to jettison all my pillows and blankets off the bed.
I stumbled out of my room, still tired but moving, and suddenly stopped cold in my tracks. There was a note propped against my trumpet. I glanced around but didn’t see anything out of place. The door was closed and, weirdly, still locked. I didn’t understand anything.
I walked up to the note and picked it up. In the same scribbles as before, they had written, “You need to work on your posture when you play.” I dropped the note, grabbed my keys, and ran to my car. But before I could drive away as fast as my modern but modest hatchback could take me, I slowed my gallop to a walk and then stopped altogether.
A thought came to me at that moment. Was there another horn player at all, or was this a manifestation of brain trauma? Was I hearing music that wasn’t playing? Was I the one writing the notes? I had several days of fitful sleep. Was it possible I had gotten up and done these things in my sleep? Was I sleepwalking and sleep writing and sleep playing? Was the other horn player just what I thought I could be if I kept at it?
What if I was just making it all up?
This fringe idea slowly gained traction in my brain until it became my dominant, mainstream thought. It did make sense. Susan couldn’t hear the other trumpeter even when it was clear as day. The door to the back was still locked this morning, indicating no one had come through the door. Now that I thought about it, the handwriting looked a little like it would if I wrote a note with my left hand.
I didn’t go driving off in a panic. Instead, I turned around and went back inside the house. I had a warm cup of coffee still waiting for me. I determined then and there that if I heard the trumpet today, I would venture out to the river to get a closer listen and call out to the unnamed player. If it was all in my mind, the lack of a response would clear it up.
Then I’d have to go check in with the doctor to talk about my delusions. Those might throw a wrench in my life plans. I mean, I probably shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery or anything like that if my mind was going ka-blooey.
The rest of the way went by as it usually would. I didn’t hear any horns playing. I did take the note to heart, though, and watched some videos on proper playing posture. Again, the tip paid off. The new positions made playing more straightforward and more effortless. I could play for longer without pausing, and it was getting easier.
As afternoon shifted to evening, there was a knock on my door. I walked out to find the backside of an Amazon delivery driver as he walked back to his truck. He had left a present I forgot I had purchased – security cameras. I wasn’t sure I would buy these now, but since I had already done so, I decided to set them up. I put one on the front door and one on the back. If someone delivered another note, I’d see them.
As I finished twisting the last screw, I heard the sound of a trumpet start playing. I excitedly turned toward the sound and couldn’t help but grin. I felt the music seep into me. I glanced up at the sky and determined that I had time to get to the river before the sun went down. It was a risk, sure, but what’s life without risks?
I grabbed my horn and bolted out of the house and through the woods. The closer I got, I suddenly started hearing someone harmonize with the trumpet. It sounded like a saxophone. They sounded so good together. I picked up my pace and tore through the open field.
Now I was joined by a third sound, the rushing river. It was wide and shallow, but in the summer, it moved quickly. My feet crunched underneath the rocks at the water’s edge, and I came to a stop. I took a seat and let the noise wash over me. I pressed my lips against the trumpet, flexed my fingers, and was about to blow when the music suddenly stopped.
My body felt instantly cold. I stood and looked around but didn’t see anything on the other bank. The sun was starting its slow descent towards the horizon, and I felt naked and exposed out here. I shrugged and debated going home and giving up on this silly endeavor. But then I grabbed my horn and thought I’d throw a hail Mary. I blew the first opening lines of “Twinkle” and hoped someone would respond.
The notes echoed into the woods, but no music came back.
“I’m here,” I yelled. “You ready?”
Silence.
I hung my head and turned to leave. As I moved into the tall grass, I heard a noise from across the river. It was a steady drum beat. I stopped and turned back towards the water. The drum beat picked up in intensity and was soon joined by the sax. I didn’t know the song, and it sounded like they were just jamming, but then I heard the trumpet come in, and, sure enough, the noise rounded into “When the Saints Come Marching In.”
I smiled. The sun dropped out of sight, but the music was lighting up the sky. I pressed the horn to my lips and started playing. I didn’t know the song, but I felt the beat in my soul. I wasn’t sure if I was improving or ruining it, but no one seemed to care.
I honestly don’t know how long I played for, but the stars were overhead when the trumpet finally came off my lips. I was exhausted and gasping air back into my lungs. My body was vibrating, and I felt like I could collapse.
“Who are you?” I yelled out. No one responded. It was worth a shot. I turned and headed back to the house. Confused didn’t begin to cover it, but I was happy.
That night, I woke up when my phone started pinging. Through my sleep-crusted and bleary eyes, I stared at my phone screen and saw that my security cameras had detected movement at my back door. I shot up and clicked on the feed. I could see my back patio, but there wasn’t anybody there. I started to think that maybe a raccoon or something had dashed across the camera’s field of view when I noticed another note on the wicker chair.
I jumped up and ran out of the house to the back patio. I stepped outside and didn’t hear anything but the sounds of the woods at night. I plucked the note from the chair and looked at the same scraggly handwriting as before. It read, “You wanna jam some more, you gotta learn to move them fingers right. They’re too stiff.”
I nodded to nobody in particular and said to the wind, “I’ll get better.”
I felt motivated to train. I went back inside with a purpose. I was going to learn proper finger technique. I was going to learn to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” so I’d be ready the next time we jammed.
I put down my horn and pulled out my phone to find a video when I saw that I had a video capture from my camera. Two of them, actually. I clicked on the first video and was greeted with my back patio before I walked out. Suddenly, the camera flickers, and the note appears on the chair before the screen cuts to black.
The second video was from a minute after I came back inside. Again, it was my back patio, and again, the camera glitched out. Then, it zoomed in on something in the bushes just outside my patio and snapped back to the typical wide shot before cutting to black.
I clicked the second video again because something was off about it. You saw the door close as I walked in, the glitch, and then the zoom. I paused it and nearly dropped my phone on the ground. In the bushes was a set of eyes staring up at me. The branches obscured most of the face, but those eyes shined like saucers in the porch light. Once I saw them, I couldn’t unsee them.
I felt a chill go up my spine. This was wrong. All of this was really wrong. My whole idea of my own mind manifesting this stuff was dead wrong. Someone was out there. Someone had found my house. Had gotten into my home. Had seen me sleeping. Watched, waited, and decided to leave. I shivered.
I didn’t know what to do. I had downplayed the events, but now I was petrified. This was proof that it wasn’t my mind making shit up. There were people out in the woods, and they were watching me. I thought about my decision to walk to the river and shuttered. Nothing had happened, but it could’ve. I needed to start thinking with a rational head.
But whenever I heard the music or held my trumpet, that part of my brain seemed to shut off. Suddenly, the most important thing was laying down some sound. Just playing with them transported me, ya know? It was an out-of-body experience and felt amazing. It’s why I kept putting myself in dangerous situations, to get that feeling again. Rationally, it made no sense (worse, I was aware it didn’t make sense) but we aren’t rational creatures. We’re dumb apes, and if we find something in our brain that makes us feel good, we’re not going to stop smashing that spot until we die.
Until we die.
The clarity came to me in that moment. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I knew it stemmed from my trumpet. I had lived here for years but had never heard any music from those woods before. Why had the clerk been so willing to let this go for so cheap? A million different questions pointed towards one obvious decision. I knew what I had to do.
I had to toss out my horn.
I stormed across the room and grabbed it. I was bound and determined to throw it away. I was, but…but I couldn’t bring myself to do it for some reason. I paused. Was I being unreasonable? Didn’t the fact that they came into the house but didn’t do anything a sign that they weren’t bad people? Hadn’t they only given me tips on how to become a better player? Was it unorthodox, sure, but was it evil? I didn’t think so.
I placed the horn back down and picked up my phone. I pulled up Susan’s name. I knew it was late, but she was the only person who knew my dilemma. I had pulled up her number when I got a new notification that something was setting off my rear door camera.
I froze.
I was mere steps from my backdoor and couldn’t remember if I had locked it when I stormed in earlier. I ducked down to try to hide myself from whoever was haunting me out there. Once I was out of any line of sight, I pressed play on the video. The short clip only showed a raccoon dart across the patio. It looked like it was chasing something. I sighed in relief.
But something in me told me to check the live feed. Again, a little nagging feeling ate at my mind like the last time I watched a video. I had missed something, maybe. It was worth a second look. I pressed the live feed and nearly dropped my phone.
What I saw was someone’s eye staring into the camera. They were so close. That’s all I saw. One extreme close-up of a jet-black eye. I cursed myself for moving from my previous spot. Sure, I was out of sight, but now I didn’t have a straight on look at who was standing outside my door. I needed to peek out the nearby window and see.
As I slowly moved around to get a glimpse, my phone buzzed again. There was someone at the front door now. I clicked on the video and was greeted with another black eye staring back at me. I wasn’t sure if this was the same person or someone else. I was starting to panic. I brought up my phone and dialed 911.
“Hello, 911. What’s the emergency?”
I opened my mouth to speak but stopped. I heard a drumbeat start playing from just outside my door near the back patio. The high hat was setting a steady beat. They were waiting for a horn player to join in.
“Hello, is anyone there?”
“I,” I started. The music enthralled me. I flexed my fingers and wondered why they weren’t already on my trumpet. I licked my lips and could feel the cool brass valve against them like some sort of phantom limb.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to send over a cruiser?”
From the front door, I heard the sax start playing. They were warming up but damn if they didn’t sound hot already. I fought an urge to start snapping my fingers to the beat.
“I’m going to send someone over. If you’re there, please respond.”
A note was pushed under my door. I stared at it as I heard the trumpet player I had come to obsess over start to play with the band. They were just jamming, buying time until someone else joined in with them. I knew that person was me. They were trying to coax me out.
I kept the 911 operator hanging as I switched to my live camera feed. The eye was gone. I didn’t see anyone in the back or front yard, but I knew they were there. I could hear their music. I could hear the 911 operator doing their damnedest to get my attention, but I was transfixed. My body and mind weren’t my own anymore. Not totally.
I scrambled over to the note and opened it up. In the same lousy handwriting, it read, “We need one more saint for the parade. You ready to march with us?”
I looked over at my trumpet. My hands felt sweaty. The music was coursing through my veins now and nesting in my brain. My heartbeat synced up with the beating of the drums. My foot was tapping along to the sax. Everything in me was screaming, “grab your horn, join the band, become a legend, and live forever!” But I stayed put on that patch of the floor because my gut – the only part of me still working as it should – told me that if I headed outside, I won’t ever come back.
I wasn’t given a second chance at life to throw it away.
“Please,” I said into the phone, “send a cruiser. Several men are outside my house, and I think they want to hurt me.”
“I already have one en route. Please stay on the phone with me, okay?”
As quickly as the music started, it stopped. It was like someone had flipped a switch. There was nothing but silence now. I walked to my window and stared out into the backyard and saw nothing. The music ceased.
It hasn’t started back up again, either. About fifteen minutes later, two cops showed up outside my home. I told them what had happened and tried to show them the videos, but when I did, there was nothing on them. It was like they didn’t exist. No eyes staring back at me. No strangers playing music. Nothing. Just my backyard and the treeline behind it.
The police looked around the house and didn’t see anything out of place. They walked the property as well but didn’t see any signs of people. They took my statement and were nice enough, but I knew they thought I might be crazy, especially when I hit them with my last request.
“Can you guys do me a favor,” I said, “could you, umm, take that trumpet with you when you go?”
“What?” the plump cop asked.
“I know it’s weird but, if you could help me out, I’d appreciate it.”
“We ain’t garbage men,” the cop started, but his skinnier partner touched his shoulder.
“Where is it?” the skinny cop asked.
“On the table. Could…could you grab it? I don’t want to touch it,” I said with a shrug, “I know it’s weird.”
“Bad juju or what?” the plump cop asked.
“Something like that.”
The skinny cop grabbed it and nodded at me. “Thank you,” I said. “I mean it.”
“Sure thing,” he said as they walked out of my house.
I watched them leave and felt relief wrap me up like a blanket. I didn’t hear any music or anything. In fact, I felt a shift within me, too. A sense of normalcy returning. It was like whatever had burrowed into me had swiftly been dug out. I felt like me again.
I also felt tired. I climbed back into bed and drifted off to sleep. My brief foray into the musical world ended that morning. The only music I’d ever play again would be from my phone’s speaker. I was fine with that. I had other hobbies to look into, anyway. Model trains looked fun…and not as intense.