“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” –Friedrich Nietzsche
High in the Allegheny Mountains of central Appalachia lies PocahontasCounty. It is serviced by modern highways and follows the US250 westwards along valleys and ridges of a scenic route. The old turnpike no longer exists, except on certain back roads of the original roadbed crisscrossed by seven rivers, which owe their birthplace to the high mountains. Between Cranberry Glades and the famous Pearl S. Buck historic manor, which gets frequent visitors, lies a small town tucked in the foothills. It houses a post office, a tavern, and some old farmhouses, skillfully preserved.
One day Crane Buda, a doctoral student from a small village in Poicha arrived at this location to take up residence in an abandoned farmhouse. The wooden structure was available, fairly well preserved, and with minor work looked as good as new. Crane was handy with tools. He was working on his ethnomusicology dissertation at Yale which related Indian sitar music to western classical piano.
The remoteness of the location suited his needs, whether banging away at piano keys, or plucking on sitar strings, or blasted out of loud speaker amplified radio. Sometimes cracklings at an unregulated pitch would intrude. There was a particular metallic screech downloaded from bluetooth, and chromecast on tv, that sounded like a demented bird on a live wire, which freaked out all the farm animals, giving some neighbors body spasms for a week. When simultaneously executed, it was like cats and raccoons mating with chainsaws in an ironsmith’s foundry.
In time the local community grew tolerant of the jarring noises, although to do Crane credit he did play musical instruments fairly well. A year ago he even gave his first sitar performance to an appreciative audience at the concert halls in Vienna and Warsaw. However, a year later, this same brilliant musically inclined doctoral student from Yale, would be mentally severely traumatized.
Three weeks ago Crane Buda first noticed all was not well with him. He may have known of it prior, but this was when he decided to do something about it. He turned to the first psychiatrist he found in the nearby town of Mold. His only choice Dr. Benjamin Cuthbert, the local expert, of several years’ practice.
“Doctor, I can’t explain what ails me, I’m not even certain you can help me.”
“Let’s hear it first. And let me be the judge of what you have to explain.”
“I think I’m losing my mind.”
“What is it you see?”
“Every night I awake and in my room I see a large metal hand. Can you help me doctor?”
“A hand?”
“A smooth shiny metallic hand, with long shaped fingers.”
“How large is this hand?”
“That is what worries me Doc. It’s large–all of three feet.”
“And when did your hallucinations start?”
“But they’re not hallucinations. I see the hand–as real as I see you.”
“When did these sightings start?”
“A year ago, but not as frequently.”
“I see. How often do you ‘see’ the hand now?”
“Every night.”
“And what does the hand do?”
“It watches me intently, then expands and bloats filling half of the piano keys in unparalleled movement.”
“Ah, a musician’s hands? Are they yours?”
“Yes–no.”
“How do you mean? Who does the hand belong to?”
“A year ago I was in Warsaw, part of a music ensemble to perform at the concert hall. We were taken on a tour of the Percy Pepin Museum of Music.”
“Oh yes, now I see what you mean, that hand, rather macabre I must admit, but so beautifully delineated, down to the fingernails, don’t you think? I’m rather a fan of Percy
Pepin myself and have visited the museums often.”
“But the hand does not leave me Doctor. The visitations recur nightly.”
“Do you come from a musical family Mr. Buda?”
“Since I was three I have played nothing but the piano, pounding at the keys for all I was worth. My mother’s doing. It’s been the only life I know. Till I mastered the sitar.”
“Was anyone in your family musically inclined? A conductor perhaps? Using hands?”
“My mother was a keen fan of old Hindi songs. You know Bollywood? She knows them all. And my Dad was an inductee in the Music Hall of Fame. He signed up the Titans.”
“Titans?”
“All three–the best. The sounds they produce are out of this world. They’re the reason I’m onto my thesis. You will notice several antennas set up around my farmhouse. I am this close to capturing their music of the red planets, from space.”
“I see. Are these um…err Titans…space creatures? alien life-forms?”
“Musical geniuses, Doc! Sellout performances all the way to Newfoundland. Haven’t you heard?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. But do go on–”
“Last I heard they had taken up residence on the bedrock and flowstone of caves, like they are welded to the stone, playing the stalactites to such perfection the music fills the cave chambers.”
“I see. And what was your father again?”
“My Dad juggled professions–once as expedition leader researching the mitaka.”
“Geckos? Interesting. I have a friend into taxidermy, he–”
“Reptiles! Long after he left Poicha. He had set out to Keflavik to locate the missing huldu-folk in their natural habitat. No rock was left unturned. That’s when he met the Titans, and a different kind of music was born.”
“Huldu-folk? I’m afraid you’ve quite lost me–”
“Elfen musicians, Doc, song of the grasses, the crevices, they’re everywhere, visible–”
“Never mind! I get it– And you say you wake up every night. You are absolutely sure
of this–that you are awake and not dreaming? These mix-ups are common in my experience.”
“Oh yes Doctor, I wake up all right. Sometimes I’m so wide awake I lie still in my bed for a very long time just staring at the moving hand.”
“Moving? …err on a piano I mean–”
“It frightens me. The fingers thump, claw, scratch, reach out, expand, curl, inch, expand like the opening of the mouth of a serpent about to swallow a rabbit. You could call it piano playing I suppose, although the execution of movement is deliberately contrived.”
“And do you hear music when the hand moves? Nocturnes? Arias?”
“I hear the reptile squealing like a mouse. Sometimes I hear loud screeching.”
“So let’s see…you do not come from a traditional musical background, none that I see. You have heard some wondrous music of the Titans, and a singing lizard introduced by your father, which I put down to folklore tales fed by your mother. Except for the fact that you enjoy Bollywood songs true to your culture, and are yourself musically inclined, I find you to look perfectly all right–”
“But how do I make the hand go away, Doctor?”
“Does it threaten you?”
“It seems sinister with a metal and plaster cast. When it moves, it darts at me. I sit up in fright and when I next look, it has vanished. I jump up and search my entire bedroom but I cannot see the hand anywhere.”
The physician laughs at hearing this. “Mr. Buda,” he says trying to smother his guffaws “what you are describing is the legendary hand of Percy Pepin. It is a timeworn old story. I have heard it often. The whole word has. Plaster casts of Pepin’s famous hand are found in most museums of Europe.”
Crane sits up, his interest perking. “Wasn’t there something suspicious about Pepin’s death?”
“Well yes, but that is over two hundred years ago. That’s how they commemorated famous composers. Plaster casts of Pepin’s hands were taken on his deathbed. His body was buried in Paris. Heart sent to Warsaw. Skull shipped to Vienna, where it remains to this day. And a plaster cast of his face lies in Berlin. Highly intriguing history I must admit, but you are basically invoking Pepin’s ghost.”
“You must believe I know nothing of these details. I was but a sitar player of three and twenty when I went to Warsaw for five days, in the accompaniment of my teachers and other performers such as myself.”
“And are you quite sure you have no theories of Pepin’s rather remarkable hand?” The doctor stared hard at Crane in a penetrating gaze, as if willing the truth. “Percy Pepin died mysteriously at the age of twenty-nine from what the world considers to be a strange debilitating illness, likely related to tuberculosis. Physicians and sculptors were rushed to his bedside when death was imminent. There they made a cast of the genius composer’s left hand, the one that could expand and contort so dexterously it was thought to be possessed. That hand was metal coated. Later upon an examination of his body, bite marks were found on his neck, puncture like wounds which resembled small pin pricks. We all have our theories. The whole world in fact. Don’t you?”
“I? How can I? It’s but only now I’m learning the details, from you. Such horrifying matters did not interest me when I viewed the hand at Warsaw. I did not know of this story. Neither is it my place to build a theory around something I know so little of.”
“Surely a theory must have now formed?” The doctor hammered at Crane relentlessly, hard pressed it appeared to elicit a confession out of his patient–vocal in his denial.
“Doctor, I believe you’ve forgotten why I’m here. I have come to be cured of the ghostly hand. I’m here to know what ails me. What has your bizarre story to do with me?”
“All in good time Mr. Buda. But first your theory. I’d like to hear it if I may.”
“Theory?! Theory I have none,” yelled Crane agitated beyond control. “If you must know what I think, I think the hand was possessed. I think it was the mitaka reptile possessing the composer’s hand. Satisfied? Now you have it–my theory of a music genius I so greatly admire.”
“There, there, you may relax. You see, that was easy, wasn’t it? You do have a theory, just as I suspected all along.”
The smile on Dr. Benjamin Cuthbert’s face was gentle, not in the least reproachful, indicating the session was at an end. He rose from his chair and escorted Crane out the door of his offices.
“I cannot diagnose what ails you in a rush. I need more time. Perhaps tomorrow we may know more. In the meantime these are my plans. I will spend the night with you, with your classic music collection, which it would please me greatly to hear, being a bit of a music connoisseur myself. Please have your dinner as usual and go to bed. Don’t wait up for me. Leave the door unlocked–the front door and your bedroom door. I can find my way. Is your bedroom on the top floor?”
“First door to the right at the top of the landing. You can’t miss it. The other rooms upstairs have not been fixed and don’t have doors.”
“Leave the lights on, to the porch, and the living room, which is where I’ll spend the night. As for the lights in your bedroom just do whatever you usually do in preparation for bed.”
“I turn the lights off before I go to sleep.”
“Is there any way you can signal me when the apparition occurs, without leaving your bedroom?”
“Yes, from my cell phone.”
“Good. We are all set then.”
Comfortably installed in a weather-beaten arm-chair the psychiatrist stared moodily into the glowing coals of the fireplace, which had been lit in anticipation of his arrival. Occasionally he arose and paced impatiently about the room, listening intently. Not the smallest of sounds–not even animal whispers of coyote or farm animals astray. This division of PocahontasCounty was frequented by grizzlies which crossed state lines regularly. He was not expecting an invasion, but did not know what to expect either.
Then he fell to alternating between resuming his seat for short periods of time, listening to music on headphones, or hovering near the window, gazing thoughtfully outside. Nothing stirred. His eyes idly fell on ‘An Autobiography of a Yogi’ laying open at a page which diverted him to the metaphysics of life and beyond. He began to read softly
“You may control a mad elephant; You may shut the mouth of the bear and the tiger;
Ride the lion and play with the cobra; By alchemy you may earn your livelihood; You may wander through the universe incognito; Make vassals of the gods; be ever youthful;
You may walk on water and live in fire: But control of the mind is more difficult.–”
Eventually he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke it was well past midnight. He peered at his watch in the half-darkness. Something had awoken him, although all was quiet. He strained to hear but could not pick up any noise. The fire had died out and needed to be re-stoked. He took care of the logs before turning to the window.
At that moment a long wailing sound came in, like a giant rat squeaking in the depths of a deep and dark woods. It sounded near. Startled by the unusual screech the doctor turned, mid-stride, for the unearthly cry drew nearer, its mournful notes filling the old farmhouse. Perhaps it was the mitaka reptile after all. Perhaps it was the Titans. Perhaps it was a dream. Was it a dream? It was a dream! For the good doctor was asleep.
Some hours later he awoke. The lights were out. The fire had died out. In the darkness he strained his eyes to see, what, he knew not. His senses grew alert. His breadth came out in raw gasps, his blood congealed in the pit of his stomach. What had awakened him? Or who?
Suddenly the house shook violently. The wooden paneling and floorboards creaked as if in anguish. At the same moment he heard, or fancied he heard the light soft PING on the cell phone. The signal he was waiting for. A strange blue comet of light streaked into his eyes, and in an instant disappeared. Momentarily blinded, he remembered the antennae wiry dish installed circling the house, stretching to the skies. Crane had spoken of it. Had aliens infiltrated the aerial sound waves? Was the farmhouse haunted beyond repair? He felt terrified beyond the power to cry out. He tried vainly to call out Crane’s name. He strained to stretch his hand forward, to tell the young man he was near. His throat was powerless. His arms felt like lead. His feet had turned wooden.
Then occurred something else most frightful. An unseen hand grabbed at his throat so viciously it squeezed the oxygen out of his breathing pipe and he was left gasping for air. In a dim haze he heard the fall upstairs, as of a heavy body or chest of drawers, and the house spun, shaking repeatedly with the impact. The strange blue light appeared again, hovered for an instant and was gone. A babble of voices filled the air; a rising crescendo of musical instruments in discord like train wheels scraping on metal tracks; a scream–similar to the death-defying aria of a tenor, bursting his vocal chords. More voices joined the chorus, filling the air.
Struggling to get his bearings Dr. Cuthbert staggered to his feet. He flung his hands at his throat. Nothing was there. With no focus of his actions, he trudged up the stairs as fast as he was able to the landing above. He sprang at the bedroom door and got a surprise. The door was locked. With scarcely a moment’s hesitation he rammed it with his shoulder with such force that the door gave way splintering inwards on the third try.
He swiftly turned on the light, blinded by the vivid illumination from the single naked bulb. What met his gaze in those first few seconds was a horrendous sight. An enormous metallic hand, its fingers curled tightly in unwavering grip, was wrapped around the thin throat of Crane dragging what looked like the dead fellow off the bed. From within it a black serpent, tongue flicking, appeared–its teeth fixed on the man’s neck. Then just as suddenly the room was plunged in darkness again, followed by a strange silence, as of the tombs.
When Dr. Cuthbert got the lights to function again, since he had to locate the basement, it was almost morning, with the sun streaming through the window and the birds singing outside.
On the floor near the window lay the inert body of Crane, where it had fallen when the doctor had first appeared, still in his night clothes which was deranged. The bed was disheveled indicating a wild struggle. Death had been virtually instantaneous in the very manner the student had described it would end.
The doctor raised Crane’s head from the floor and observed several unsightly bruises on the throat, which clearly appeared to be severely lacerated. Knowing the struggle he had witnessed, he was not at all surprised.
“I should have expected this,” were his initial thoughts, still wanting to believe the death to be suicide, which as a psycho-analyst was his first suspicion of the case.
However, clenched between the dead man’s teeth was a fragment of the reptile’s tongue, bitten clean off. A closer examination would disclose the unmistakable finger marks as of a garrote like strangulation and the puncture wounds of a reptile’s fangs, deeply sunk into the jugular vein.
But the presence of a hand or reptile – there was none.
—
Rekha Valliappan is a multi-genre writer of short fiction and poetry. A former university lecturer who has taught at three colleges in two countries, she has won awards, been shortlisted and long-listed for her writing and published online and in print.
A scary and original tale. Love the Nietzsche quote at the beginning.