A Supernatural Fantasy Story
Willie Ratcliff put on his battered top hat and tucked his violin under his arm. He hummed a jaunty tune as he walked to the park, his moth-eaten coat swishing. He strolled past peddlers selling flowers and trinkets and food vendors offering candy and roasted peanuts, finally stopping at the gazebo where jazz bands played in the summer. It was a chilly, autumn afternoon, too cold to expect people to stand around watching a concert, but he was confident that everyone would want to see him. His shows offered more than just music. Much more.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, gesturing with his bow, “while those peddlers offer you useless flapdoodle, I have something wondrous to share on this blustery day. Please join me to experience absolute proof of life after death!” He tucked the violin under his chin and began to play. It was an old folk song played faster and livelier, remade into something to grab the attention of even the most cynical city dweller.
The song rose, twisting and swirling, until it became visible strings of light. Purple flames appeared, transforming into translucent figures dressed in old fashioned waistcoats and gowns. They joined hands, dancing a reel in the air. People ran over to watch in wide-eyed wonder. This was far more than some street magician sneaking a ball under a cup. This was a genuine miracle.
A crowd gathered, staring and pointing. A woman fainted, landing in a flowerbed. Dozens of shocked voices called out.
“It can’t be! It’s Grandfather!”
“There’s my dear Auntie Rose! I’d recognize her double chin anywhere!”
“That looks like my mother-in-law! She must have learned to dance from Ol’ Scratch himself!”
Willie whistled. The strings of light plucked the hat from his head, carrying it to the audience. The astounded crowd tossed coins inside, even a silver hatpin and broach. People shouted out requests to see the ghosts of Parson Thomas or Great Uncle Peabody, and he did his best to oblige. A slight shift in the melody changed the ghosts’ faces, drawing oohs and applause, as if the crowd were watching a fireworks display instead of a musical haunting.
As the show went on, some of the crowd left to get out of the cold, but most were so fascinated by the bizarre spectacle that they didn’t want to miss a moment. Finally, as the sunlight began to fade, so did the music. Willie took his final bow. The ghosts looked relieved as they blew away like smoke, but the crowd didn’t seem to notice.
He dumped the coins and jewelry in his pockets and put on his hat. Another great show. Sure, there were the usual doubters, but they always shut their mouths as soon as the dancing ghosts appeared. Even the copper sent to arrest him for “causing a disturbance” and “blasphemy” had ended up just watching in slack-mouthed silence.
When he left the park, the lamplighter was just beginning his rounds. As he worked, the gentle glow of the gas streetlights followed him down the street. Willie nodded in greeting and pulled his collar up against the cold.
He walked to a nearby pub to spend the night’s profits on beer. He bought drinks for himself and for anyone willing to listen to stories of his life as a “wandering troubadour.” As the night wore on, his stories grew stranger, until he told the whole pub about the strange shop where he had found his violin.
“The building had appeared overnight!” he said, gesturing theatrically, his drink sloshing on the floor. “When I asked the shopkeeper how such a thing was possible, the old coot claimed to be a wizard. I know, I know, I laughed too. At first, I thought the codger was simply crazy, but it turned out to be true. He was a modern day Merlin, and that’s the bottom fact. There were will-o’-the-wisps in the air. The animals on the wallpaper moved like living creatures. There was even a skull in a display case that could answer questions, just as plainly as I’m talking now!”
The bartender shook his head. “You’re off your nut, pal. That’s enough hooch for you.”
“Magic is real, and I can prove it! Let me play you something.” Willie tried to summon his violin with a whistle, but he was so drunk that he could only manage to blow a raspberry. Sighing, he picked up the instrument with his hand instead.
The other drunks jeered, tossing napkins and peanut shells. His money had run out, and so had their patience. “Aw, go home! Ain’t nothing magic about no fiddle! Vamoose, will ya?” Scowling, he slid the silver broach to the bartender to cover the rest of his tab. He headed for the door and, bowing to his unappreciative audience, stepped back out into the cold night air.
After a couple of blocks, he tripped over an uneven patch of sidewalk. Stumbling, he dropped the violin into the street. The case fell open, and the bow fell into the dirt. When he went to retrieve it, he saw that the bow was cracked. He touched it to a nearby tree. Purple strings of light reached out from the bow and stripped a bit of wood from the tree limb, filling in the crack until it was good as new.
He chuckled to himself. “I wish the violin could teach my boots that trick! Every time I step in a puddle, my toes get wetter than a sailor on a cardboard boat. If I ever figure out where that strange shop disappeared to, I’ll have to stop by again and steal some magic shoes. Something fancy. Maybe the old coot has some wingtips with actual wings…”
Daydreaming about flying like Mercury, he staggered to the boarding house. It was a rundown place with cracked windows, peeling paint, and rooms that smelled like horse stalls. He had even seen a rat in the kitchen large enough to be the maid, not that anyone ever cleaned the place. The glasses were gray, and the silverware was nearly as greasy as the meat pies. He refused to eat in such filth, but would occasionally have a drink there, as alcohol was a good antiseptic.
He trudged upstairs to his room. Dropping the violin by the door, he pulled off his coat and threw himself on the bed. He passed out before he had even removed his shoes.
He awoke in the night to see a group of faces at the foot of his bed. There were a dozen beings floating there, glowing, angry things as insubstantial as the lace curtains. They were his spirits, the same dead folks he had been calling up at every show. Somehow, their fury had given them enough supernatural energy to materialize on their own, without the help of his magic. “Give us that accursed violin!” they demanded. “This ends tonight!”
He glanced over at the floor. His coat was still covering the violin. They hadn’t seen it. “I’m just trying to give folks a moment of comfort by bringing back their lost loved ones!” he said. “You shades wouldn’t be so cruel as to deprive grieving folks of a little peace, would you now?”
A bearded ghost sputtered angrily, like a campfire in a storm. “Peace?” he spat, jabbing a translucent finger in Willie’s face. “Ya mean booze! Yer nothin’ but a lazy drunk. Every damn night, you use stolen magic to pry us from our graves and make us dance for yer next bottle. But no more! We’ll teach you to respect the dead!”
The ghost lunged for his throat, but Willie whistled and the magic violin flew into his hands. As he began to play, the song forced the spirits into another dance. The ghosts groaned as the spell took hold once again. The magic dragged them around the room like glowing marionettes.
“I’ll snuff you out!” Willie cried, playing faster. “All of you! By the end of this tune, you won’t have the energy to burn a matchstick!”
He played faster and faster, the ghosts dancing in a mad whirlwind, until the violin’s enchanted strings finally snapped. The spell was broken. The ghosts turned to face their tormentor, their eyes flaming with rage.
“Wait!” he said. “Just give me a moment now! Why don’t we go downstairs and talk over some new business terms? To start, you can take the rest of the week off. That’s fair, isn’t it? I’ll even buy you all a pint!”
He hugged the violin to his chest, waiting for the magic to repair it like it always did. The cursed instrument could restring itself and even make its own catgut, but it needed materials to work with. Unfortunately for him, the nearest intestines were his own.
The next day, a small five-and-dime shop appeared on the other side of town. There was no indication of what it sold, or even a name, but it didn’t need one. The right customer always found it. Right before it opened for the day, the elderly shop keeper placed a sign by the door. “Thinking Of Shoplifting? One Way Or Another, People Always Pay.”
