Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

        Donatella tended to find music everywhere.  When she strolled in the park, birds serenaded her.  When she dined in fine restaurants, the tinkle of silverware on plates and the clink of glasses sang to her.  Even late at night, when the dishes were done, the quiet hum of the appliances was like a gentle, soothing lullaby in her ear.  Yes, Donatella had an ear for music, and it couldn’t hide from her if it wanted to.

         So it didn’t surprise her then, when at the moment of her greatest fear and peril, she discovered music where others found horror.

         The evening had begun to stretch its long fingers into shadows on the sidewalk when Donatella met Giovanni. Crickets and other night insects were chirping and squealing a song,  and an owl hooted a bass line accompaniment to this late night insectile jam session.  A heavy breeze, not unpleasant, whistled through the trees, rattling branches that was like the scratch of a snare drum, and a smile stretched across Donatella’s face as she did a little sashay and twirl to this concert that nature had provided her.

         So enraptured was she in the music of this great chorale that she almost didn’t see him standing there.  He stood on the street corner, hat hung low upon his brow, collar turned up at the neck, the light of a cigarette glowing ominously amid the darkness of his face.  Under the streetlight, he was but a darkened silhouette, with only the orange-red glow of the cigarette as an indicator that the silhouette was something more.

         Ever cautious, Donatella was about to cross to the other side of the street when the man under the street light said something to her that stopped her in her tracks.

         “I am the maestro,” he said, voice gruff from perhaps too many years of smoke down his throat.  “I’m conducting this little concert here that you’re enjoying.”

         “Excuse me?” Donatella said. 

         “I am the maestro,” he repeated.  “And if you’re enjoying this concert, I’d be delighted to host another concert for you…in private.”

         Donatella’s looked to her left and her right, noting the quiet of the street.  Darkness had snuck up on the dusk and now held it firmly in its grasp.  The windows of the few cars on the street spoke only of murky blackness,  and somewhere far away, a trashcan crashed to the ground with a harsh clang. Further still, sirens pierced the sky and gave chase to an unseen villain far way.

         Donatella took a few steps backward, clutching her purse under her arm a little tighter, while stretching her jacket closer around her torso.  “I’m sorry, it’s late, and I really need to go—“ 

         She wasn’t able to finish her sentence.  He didn’t give her a chance.



         Little rat feet scurrying across her face brought her instantly, sharply awake.  She sat up with a jerk, screaming and scratching and swatting frantically at the vermin crawling on her body when suddenly a face—dirty and grimy with stringy, rope-like hair—appeared before her. 

         “Ooh, yea, they’re going to eat you too, you know.”

         Donatella’s breathe surged in and out of her at an erratic pace.  She tried to push herself back away from this person, this thing, before her, but she had barely gone a centimeter before her back pressed against cold, hard stone.

         “Wh..what?” she panted.  “Wh-who are you?  What is this place?  Where am I?”

         The dirty face cackled, and in the dim light, blared teeth that had not been white in a long, long time.  “There’s going to be a concert tonight, girl!  A concert!”  Suddenly, the dirty face produced a pair of hands that began to clap and applaud.  In the darkness, they seemed to float:  a pair of disembodied hands underneath a disembodied face.

         “I don’t under-understand—“

         Dirty face reached out and slapped Donatella.  She cried out, startled, rushing to put her hand to her bruised cheek.  If she could have pressed herself further into the wall, she would have.

         “I’m sorr—“

         Dirty Face scampered back away from Donatella a few feet.  “They’ll cry, you know.  They’ll cry and moan, but that won’t stop them.  They’ll come for us anyway, and there’ll be music—“

         Because she was still disorientated, Donatella was not prepared when she heard what sounded like a heavy door being slowly pushed open.  A grayish kind of light began to fill the space where Donatella was trapped and Dirty Face began to screech with such pitch and hysteria that it sounded like the voices of several people.  But how could one person make such a—

         There were more people in the room.  And as the door opened ever wider, casting its band of light more and more into the chamber, Donatella realized that they were all screaming. 

         And then he came in.

         The maestro.  In the dim light, he was still mostly just a silhouette, face blacked-out, with only the light of the cigarette glowing in the darkness of his face.   

         Donatella’s mind was on the verge of snapping.  But before she lost it completely, before her sense of reason left her forever, she had a crazy thought, and before she could stop herself, she yelled out:  “At least you can put out that cigarette!  Oh, god, put out that cigarette!”

         To which Dirty Face suddenly, obtrusively responded:  “That ain’t no cigarette, girlie!  That’s a mouth!”

         And with that, the maestro opened his mouth of fire, making an opening the size of a basketball.

         Dirty Face, laughing and screeching, applauded, and the others began to moan and groan.

         And that was when Donatella found it:  among the screams of despair, the cries of madness, the crack of bone, and the hiss of burning flesh:  a song of death.

        A concert for the damned.