Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story

by Alyson Santos

  “Sure. Here.” I climb around her to help adjust the instrument in her hands. The sweetest giggle erupts from her lips when she brushes her fingers over the strings and makes a sound.

  “It’s amazing!” Her face shines when she looks back at me. I can’t stop my grin anymore.

  “It really is. Want to play a chord?”

  “Yes!”

  Her fingers shake with excitement when I take her left hand. God, it’s magic the way it molds to mine as I guide it over the frets. I don’t want to let go. I could sit here caressing her soft skin for hours. She might punch me if I stall any longer, though.

  “You need to relax,” I laugh against her ear, grabbing a quick nibble while I’m there anyway. She ducks away with another giggle.

  “I’m sorry! I’m just excited.”

  “I know, angel. But it doesn’t work if your fingers are stiff and shaking.”

  She draws in a deep breath and puffs a lock of hair from her eyes. “How about now?”

  “Hmm…” I pretend to study the fingers now impatiently squeezing the strings against the neck. “I guess I can work with that.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a diva,” she mutters.

  With a smirk, I lean over and start positioning her fingers on the frets. “Okay, now hold them just like that and push down as hard as you can.”

  She nods, teeth sinking into her lip, eyes squinting in concentration. Yep, I’m totally drawing that as well. “Now what,” she gasps out.

  “You don’t have to push that hard,” I laugh. “Just enough for the strings to stay against the fret. Like that, good. Now you strum with your right thumb.”

  She focuses hard to align her thumb where I point and gives me one last look. I nod my encouragement, and that tongue I’m dying to suck squeezes between her teeth when she finally lets go.

  I cringe, laughing along with her at the worst G chord the universe has ever heard.

  “That wasn’t right, was it?” she asks, twisting her face in amusement.

  “I mean… it wasn’t great.”

  She giggles. “Again?”

  I move around to the front this time to line up her fingers. “Okay, so this is an easier chord. It’s an E minor. It’s pretty though.”

  “And it’s just these two fingers?”

  I snicker at her skeptical look. “Trust me.”

  She still doesn’t seem convinced, but finally pushes down and strums what could passably be considered an Em chord.

  The shriek that follows, not so much.

  “I did it! I did it! Did you hear that? Oh my gosh! Milo, I played the guitar!”

  The poor instrument gets abandoned on the blanket as its player comes flying toward me. I laugh and catch her in my arms. Is she crying? She buries her face in my neck, and my chest starts to tighten.

  “You did,” I say softly against her hair. Her arms constrict around me.

  “I can’t believe it. I just played music,” she whispers.

  “You totally played music.”

  She pulls back, giant crystal irises reflecting through a thin sheen of tears. Magical. If this is the start of the music I was missing, we’re in for an incredible run. A lump lodges in my throat as I take it all in.

  She breathes out an embarrassed sigh and hands the guitar back to me. “Okay, your turn.”

  I stare at her, instinctively balancing it on my lap. “You’re giving up already?”

  “What? No way! But we have plenty of time for lessons. Right now, I want to hear you. I’ve been waiting so long for this.” She waves her hand over me and scoots back a few feet. Leaning forward, hands tucked between her knees, she’s the picture of a star-struck fangirl about to have her mind blown at a private show.

  I swallow, suddenly frozen. What song could possibly be good enough for this moment?

  “Play your angel song?”

  I meet her gaze, so full of hope. For me? How is that even possible?

  I clear my throat, forcing a quick smile. “You mean your song.”

  “My song?”

  “Yes, angel. It’s your song.”

  Fresh tears fill her eyes. Humans shouldn’t look so beautiful when they cry, but this one transcends. I have to force myself to look away to find my bearings. A freaking boulder sits beneath my ribcage right now, so how the hell am I supposed to sing? I buy time to compose myself by searching the case for a pick. Even that proves to be ordained when I fish one out that’s the exact gauge I like. No excuses left, I guess, and I draw in a deep breath.

  Mystic girl of mine, in time you’ll see your beauty

  You’re the song in my head

  The heavenly bells that even the dead hear ringing

  I don’t look at her, afraid the boulder will make its way into my throat and ruin the melody. There’s already an extra rasp in my voice, and this needs to be perfect. The song, the moment, the air we’re breathing, needs to exceed ungodly standards because this girl deserves Heaven and Earth. I’ll never understand why she came to Hell to find it, but now that she has, I’ll be damned if I let her settle for anything less.

  Oh singing angel don’t let the doubts invade

  The space between us, so void of night when your light shines in

  That fucking light that fills voids and stops time and makes monsters believe and demons hope.

  Mystic girl of mine, in time you’ll see your shine

  Chosen, frozen in time by the love of one who’s eternal

  How long have I been alone? How do you quantify time in a void? And here she is, blue gaze telling me secrets I’m starting to believe. That love and light can expose even the harshest shadows. That sometimes excruciating beauty comes out of the deepest pain.

  Refine those angel wings for they’ll bring you flight

  To celestial heights

  To radiant light

  Does she know what she is? Does she still think she’s just a sick girl dying in a sterile hospital room? Maybe that’s what she was, but not now. Now she’s the sun. The star. The angel who came to the depths…

  To the arms of a sinner like me

  Chapter Twenty:

  Mystic Seasons

  Rachel will not put down that freaking guitar. She’s determined to learn “The Angel Song” before she… Never mind. She’s determined, and no amount of warnings will convince her otherwise. I’m teaching it to her in an easier key, at least, so we have some prayer of success. Then again, she also refuses to accept that this song is about her. “It’s too beautiful to be about something so simple.” Simple? Yeah, we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that.

  “Ugh!” She nearly throws the guitar down, and I’m just glad we’re on our blankets. What’s the return policy on spiritual gifts? I take her fingers and blow over the raw, blistered skin. Her grimace turns to a sigh when I kiss them.

  “How do you play for hours? Day after day? It hurts so much. And my back is worse than my fingers!”

  I smirk and loop around her to start digging my thumbs into her shoulders. She groans, distracting my body in all kinds of inappropriate ways. After planting a quick kiss on the side of her head, I whisper, “practice.”

  “But I am!” Is she whining? Of course that’s cute as well.

  “For years. Not a day.”

  She grunts and leans back against my chest. I wrap my arms around her and rest my head on hers. “I don’t have years, Milo. You know that.”

  I close my eyes, trying to focus on anything else right now. “Then how about we take a break from the guitar and work on the vocals instead?”

  She twists back with a glare. “I told you I can’t sing.”

  “And I’m telling you, you can.”

  “But your voice is so incredible. Why would we ruin the song with mine?”

  I shake my head and reach for the guitar. She adjusts to face me when I pull it into my lap. “Just try, okay? I know you think you can’t, but you can. I heard it in your soul that day and we’re going to find it aga
in.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Rachel?” I feel a sudden urgency I wasn’t prepared for. “I need to hear it again.”

  With a sigh, she nods, face flushing.

  “We’ll do it together,” I say gently.

  She lifts her gaze to mine, and I almost stumble in the simple progression I’m playing. Pure, unadulterated trust flashes back at me. It sinks into my soul, down deep where I secure it with everything I have. I open my mouth to speak, but there’s nothing for this moment. Only one thing. The same thing that got me through a lifetime of pain. I take a deep breath and release the music.

  At first, she’s too shy to try. I’m a solo act shooting her encouraging looks that become death stares the longer she delays. After a not-so-subtle head jerk in her direction, she finally blushes and starts squeaking out the tiniest sound. I can’t hear anything except thin evidence that she’s giving in.

  By “the space between us, so void of night when your light shines in,” I’m starting to fear this is all we’ll get. That maybe the glorious song of my dreams was only that—a fevered fantasy of a broken mind. After all, isn’t my entire existence a twisted battle between real and imagined? I can’t trust a truth from this morning let alone days ago.

  Then, the Mystic comes to life.

  I stop singing. My throat closes against all sound when her voice reinvents “Mystic girl of mine, in time you’ll see your shine.” Shine. That’s not the right word anymore. Somehow I keep my fingers steady on the strings, but my mind is far off in that fairy princess forest again, lost and drowning in the best possible way.

  Eyes closed, her face is serene with a joy I can’t even imagine. She’s the picture of the angel she thinks she’s not. I stare, absorbing every detail of the moment. For now, for later, forever, because this, right here, might be the closest to heaven I’ll ever get. Maybe her body can’t sing, but her soul is drenched in music.

  “Sing with me,” she says during the interlude. “Please, Milo. We’re supposed to do this together.”

  I draw in a deep breath.

  “Refine those angel wings for they’ll bring you flight,” I sing, harmonizing beneath her haunting melody. My voice grows stronger with, “To celestial heights, to radiant light.” I love how her smile colors her tone, warming every part of me.

  So beautiful. So perfect, Milo.

  And when we hit the end at the same volume, I know—I just know—the last line will be magic. My heart thuds in my chest. My gaze locks on hers. I hear the joy in my own voice as well when we lock in exquisite, resplendent beauty: “To the arms of a sinner like me.”

  Once the floodgate opens, there’s no slowing the music. She may not be able to play for hours, but she can sing for eternity and seems intent on exactly that. I don’t know how many times we run through “The Angel Song,” but one hundred and two hundred feel the same after a while. And yet, it’s impossible to want anything else when my human angel hemorrhages music in front of me, radiant in a way that rivals Lena’s pass into the next life. Macabre I know, but there’s no other word for the way it gushes out from lungs that refused to believe it was there. That’s music though, isn’t it? Slave and master to its destiny. For me it’s been a contentious companion, and as I guide another into its grip, my own journey becomes fresh.

  My heart hammers in my chest, anger mounting at the way he drops the battered case so callously on the gravel beside him. Doesn’t he know what he has? I force a calm front, though. Have to keep the price down to the level of the only bargaining chip I have.

  Dickie Leeds eyes me up and down. His skepticism is a good sign. Means I might have enough.

  “You really want this piece of shit?” he asks, motioning to the case.

  “Yeah. So what?” Don’t look at it. He can’t know how much.

  “It’s practically unusable. I skimmed it off a donation pile, you know.”

  Lucky bastard doesn’t deserve to touch it with his grimy hands, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “You want the wallet or not?” I ask, fanning the contents to sweeten the pot.

  “You say you swiped it from some rich dude?”

  “Yeah, and it was a clean break. He probably doesn’t even know it’s missing yet. You’ll have plenty of time with the cards but not if you keep running your mouth.” I swallow. Don’t look at it, Milo! But it’s screaming at me now. Begging me to take it and treasure it and bring it back to life. “We doing this or what, Dickie? I don’t got all day.”

  He grunts and leans over to inspect my offering one last time.

  “Fine,” he says, snatching the stolen wallet from my hands. I nod and manage a steady approach to the guitar case. The handle snapped off on one side so I have to cradle it in my arms, but I don’t mind. I’m secretly grateful, loving the feel of the instrument so close to my heart as I walk away. After a fortunate turn around a corner, once I’m sure it’s safe, I free the giant grin that’s been pushing to come out.

  “That was this guitar?” Rachel asks quietly, drawing me from the memory. I let out a sad smile and study the instrument in my hands.

  “Yeah. I mean, whatever this one represents.” I hold it up and laugh dryly. “It was missing two strings when I got it, but I played around with it the entire rest of the day anyway. It was another two weeks before I was able to get a full set.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nine.”

  My fingers glide over the scratched, dirty wood. Still the most beautiful instrument I’ve ever seen. The expensive equipment Sinclair supplied for me years later had nothing on this piece of crap. I would have fixed it up and played it in a heartbeat if he had allowed it.

  “Milo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s it like out there?”

  Surprised, I return the guitar to its case and glance over at her. She’s seated against the wall, arms locked around her knees, with her chin balancing on top.

  “What do you mean? Out where?”

  “Out there.” She swings her hand toward the doorway. “In the world.” Her cheeks pink, and I feel badly if I’m the reason, but I still don’t follow. She clears her throat. “Sorry. What I mean is, I’ve been sick for so long. I never got to experience anything, and it seems like you’ve had the chance to do everything.”

  I blink and look away. What I wouldn’t do to trade places with her. “You’re not missing much, trust me.”

  Her expression is impossible to read when I look back. She pushes up from the floor and settles beside me.

  “I want to hear it,” she says, taking my hand. She lies down on the blanket and tugs me until I join her. We face each other, inches apart.

  “Hear what?” I ask, searching her eyes.

  “Everything.”

  “No, you don’t,” I say with a harsh laugh.

  But she doesn’t flinch. If anything, she just looks impatient. It makes me smile.

  I let out a sigh. “What specifically do you want to know?”

  “What’s snow like?”

  I laugh. “Um… cold. Wet.”

  She rolls her eyes and yanks on my hand again. “You’re a poet. You can do better than that.”

  Groaning, I shift to my back and stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

  “So think about it now. What’s snow like?”

  “Okay… well…” I close my eyes, trying to remember the last time I interacted with that annoying form of precipitation. Annoying. Maybe my answer’s in there.

  “I hate snow,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s so easily corrupted.”

  Her thumb that had been casually running over mine stops. I don’t look at her when I force myself to continue. “When it first falls, it’s the most incredible thing. It’s a baptism, you know? A blank canvas. A fresh start that grants immunity indiscriminately for as far as you can see. The chaos stops for those few brief moments, and there it is, this landscape of purity.”
<
br />   “It sounds amazing.”

  “It is. You’ve really never seen snow?”

  “Not where we are in California.”

  I focus back on the ceiling, my mood settling at the next part. “But then the monster awakens. The cars, the plows, the intruders and their dogs. Footsteps become clumps of slush, roads become soiled arteries, and in a flash, the pristine canvas becomes a sponge for the world’s filth. There’s almost no white anymore. The landscape is now a collection of dirt and grime, a muddy reflection of how we abuse our existence.” I close my eyes. “You know the worst part?”

  Her voice is a whisper when she responds. “What’s that?”

  I blink up at the ceiling. “The beauty at the start lasts only a second. The filth? That lingers for the rest of the season.”

  I don’t move as she wraps her arms around me. I don’t move when she rests her head on my chest and holds on. I don’t move because I’m terrified that maybe some seasons last forever and mine is only beginning.

  Chapter Twenty-One:

  Haunted Melody

  Rachel takes to dancing again when I retreat back into my head. She’s right, I am a poet. Of the most dismal, despairing kind, apparently. Lucky us. Still, even my dreary brain can’t stay dark when my angel dances around me, now singing along as well. Hands lifted above her, expression serene, she’s a displaced forest nymph again. Wait, what’s that on her head? I squint up from my sketchbook and almost laugh at the ring of dried flowers. Did she swipe those off the shelves of dusty old crap? Only Rachel would find beauty in that trash heap. I add the flower tiara to my drawing, though my version pictures them as vibrant and alive as the woman wearing them. She belongs in a palace ballroom, not in my shitty basement.

  I’ve just started on the ivy-wrapped marble columns when the cry rings out. Alarmed, I glance up in time to see her buckle to the floor. I toss my notebook aside and rush to my fallen angel. She’s already pushing herself to her knees, sending me a wobbly grin that forces my pulse into a sprint.