Playin' The Blues

By: Eric J. Krause
September 10, 2008

Sebastian White, Bastian to everyone who knew him, walked up to his front door, key in hand. Before he could turn the lock, though, his neighbor and landlord, Fred James, called out to him.

"Bastian, my man. How'd the book business treat you today?"

Bastian smiled and waved. "Just fine, Mr. James." Bastian worked part-time at a big chain bookstore downtown.

"Good to hear. C'mon over here real quick. Got a couple of things for you."

Bastian took his key from the lock and hurried over to the James' house. He was used to being called over, as he was the primary handyman-slash-caretaker of both small houses. He couldn't complain one bit, as the James' gave him free rent. He was only responsible for his utilities.

"First off," Mr. James said, as Bastian walked up the steps. "Our bathroom sink is running slow. Henry's going to buy some chemicals at the store tomorrow, but if that doesn't work, we may need some plumbing duties from you. Hell, it's probably just clogged with her hair anyway."

Bastian nodded. "No problem. I'm off all day tomorrow, so if it doesn't work, I can fix it tomorrow afternoon."

"That'll be fine. Second, I have something of yours." Mr. James opened his door and whistled. Nothing happened, so he whistled again. "Henry must be feeding him. Henrietta! Bastian's here! You feedin' his dog in there?"

"Radish is in there?" Bastian asked. "Is something wrong?"

Mr. James put his finger up to quiet Bastian. "Henry! You hear me, woman?"

"Let the dog finish his dinner. The boy can wait a minute." Bastian suppressed a chuckle.

Mr. James shook his head. "I'm surprised I didn't have to roll your dog over here, the way she feeds him."

"So is everything okay? Why'd you bring him over?"

"Poor thing was barkin' up a storm."

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry, Mr. James. I don't want him to bother you two."

"You don't need to play coy with me, boy. We both know strange things go on in that house, even if we've never discussed 'em. I just wanted to make sure your old dog was okay. He's a good boy."

Bastian just nodded. Strange things did happen, though he'd largely been able to ignore them. Things happened on their own. Lights turned on and off, doors opened and closed, things moved by themselves, strange noises sounded out. The strangest sounds of all were bluesy guitar solos, usually very quiet and almost inaudible. He'd pretty much been able to always write these things off with some sort of explanation, but Mr. James knew something, too, and he wasn't one to poke fun.

"Here he comes," Mr. James said. Seconds later, Radish, Bastian's golden retriever, ran out and jumped on Bastian.

"Hey, boy! Something bothering you today?"

"You want me to go over there with you?" Mr. James said.

"Nah. No need. It's an old place, you know that. He probably heard something through the pipes."

"Well, you be careful. I'll let you know if we need your plumbing services tomorrow."

Bastian led Radish back home. "No problem. I'm not going anywhere tomorrow. Thanks for worrying about Radish. And thank Mrs. James for feeding him."

Mr. James waved and went inside. As Bastian approached his front door, Radish started to bristle and growl. Bastian hushed him and frowned. When Radish got into his moods like this, which wasn't often, there was no consoling him. He should have just let him spend the evening with the James'.

As he opened the door, cold air slammed into him like a speeding train. Radish sunk behind him and whined. Had he turned on the air conditioner before he left? It had been a mild spring thus far, meaning no need to touch the thermostat one way or the other. But that wouldn't explain Radish's reaction. He stuck his head into his house, but nothing seemed out of place. In fact, it wasn't even as cold as he first thought.

"Hello? Anyone here?" Bastian knew he wasn't going to get any sort of answer, but something just wasn't right. He took a few steps into the house. The air conditioner wasn't on, as the air felt room temperature.

"What the . . . ?" That bluesy guitar riff sounded from somewhere near the back of his house. He wondered if it was his guitar, but it was too quiet. He cocked his head to get a better location on it, but it died away. Probably traveled through the pipes from one of the neighbors somehow. He looked back at Radish, who walked in the front door as if nothing had happened.

"Okay now, boy?" Bastian said as he scratched Radish on the head. "Well, you seem fine now." Bastian walked through the entire house. Nothing was missing, or even out of place, except his guitar. He found that lying on its face in front of the stand. A quick inspection showed it okay, if a bit out of tune.

The rest of the evening proved uneventful.

#

"So what's going on in there?" Bastian asked Mr. James as he worked on the James' bathroom sink.

"You tell me. You're the one living there."

"Nothing is going on that can't be explained somehow. By the way you were talking yesterday, though, it leads me to believe I may be wrong."

"No other tenant has ever said everything can be explained, and I'm including Henry and myself in that."

"So you're saying my house is haunted?" Bastian said as he removed a big clump of hair from the pipes.

Mr. Jones shrugged. "I can't say for certain, but it would seem to me."

Bastian chuckled and replaced the pipe.

"Laugh all you want," Mr. Jones said. "Do you hear creeks and groans in the night? Ever lose something for a few weeks, only to have it turn up somewhere you know you didn't put it? How about the footsteps? Or have you ever seen someone out of the corner of your eye only to have no one be there? And what about that guitar music? Huh? Any of this sound familiar?"

All of it did.

"I can tell those hit home with you," Mr. Jones said. "You know exactly what I'm talkin' about."

Bastian wiped off his hands and ran the water. No clogs and no leaks. A job well done, if he did say so himself. "What can I say, Mr. James. I don't believe in ghosts."

It was Mr. James' turn to chuckle. "Don't mean they don't believe in you."

#

Bastian woke with a start. It was cold. Too cold for this time of year. He could hear Radish growling at the foot of his bed. It was too dark to see, so he fumbled with the lamp next to his bed. He could hear something in the room rustling around. Probably rats. Ah, hell. He didn't want to see that in the middle of the night, but they'd probably scurry away when the light hit them anyway. He could get some traps in the morning.

After a couple of clumsy passes, he turned on the lamp. Three things happened at once: the rustling stopped, Radish quieted down, and the chill in the air subsided, leaving a more expected temperature.

"What was that about, boy?" Bastian said to Radish, who leaped up onto the bed. Radish came up to Bastian's face and started licking him with a reckless abandon, almost as if he were just thrilled his master was okay. Bastian let Radish kiss him for a minute or so and then squirmed away and sat up. Right away he saw that the wastebasket in the corner by his guitar was tipped over. Not only that, but some of the papers he'd balled up had been smoothed out.

Something crashed in the kitchen. Bastian hurried out to see what it was. Just as he stepped out of the bedroom, though, a gunshot blasted. He ducked into the spare bedroom, which was mostly used for storage, and quickly located his aluminum baseball bat. Not that it would do much good against a gun, but at least he wouldn't be unarmed.

Poor Radish lay next to the spare bedroom, whining. Bastian reached down to comfort the dog and found Radish to be shaking almost uncontrollably. He wished he could lie down and calm his furry pal down, but first he needed to find out what was going on.

Bastian stuck his head around the corner. Nothing looked out of place, and there didn't seem to be any sign of anyone or anything. Certainly no gunman. That's when he heard what sounded like a man crying. It was coming from his bedroom. Radish now stood rigid with a low growl coming from deep in his throat. Bastian gripped the bat tight and peered around the corner of his bedroom door. An older black man sat on his bed with the barrel of a gun pushed inside his mouth. Before Bastian had any time to react, the man pulled the trigger, and the gun let out a loud bang. Instead of having his brains blow all over Bastian's room, though, the man disappeared.

"What the hell?" Bastian said. "What's going on?" he called out to the house.

Radish had stopped growling and was now sniffing into the bedroom. He then looked up at Bastian as if asking his own "What the hell was that?" question.

Bastian reached down and patted his dog on the head. "Don't ask me, boy. I have no idea."

Whatever it was didn't come back that night. Bastian even heard Radish snoring about an hour later. He, though, just sat in bed, staring at the walls. In the morning, he'd ask the James' if they'd mind watching Radish whenever he had to leave the dog alone. Something really was wrong with this house. He couldn't put blame on the old foundation or creaky pipes this time.

#

Mrs. James poured Bastian another cup of coffee. He'd just finished telling the James' about his strange night. Neither had seemed surprised.

"Is there something you should be telling me?" Bastian asked. "Or maybe something you should have told me when I first moved in?"

"We hoped it wouldn't bother you," Mr. James said. "Sometimes things don't really happen with some, and we hoped that would be you. You have to admit, though, things were pretty quiet until last night."

Bastian nodded. "I knew deep down that the place was a bit off, but I wouldn't admit it. To myself or anyone. Now, it's kind of creepy, but it won't scare me off. I'd just like to know what it's all about. Someone committed suicide, that much I can see for myself. But what do you two know?"

Mrs. James busied herself with something on the kitchen counter, leaving it to Mr. James to explain. He took a sip of coffee, took a deep breath, then began. "Sounds like you just caught the end of the show, although you heard more of it. Tell you the truth, we don't really know much except for the fact that the guy killed his wife and father-in-law, and then he took his own life. Why he did, that's a mystery. All we really know about him is he was a blues guitarist. We figure that explains the occasional blues licks you can hear in there, though you probably enjoy those."

"Yeah," Bastian said. "They used to be hard to miss. They were loud enough that I'd think I'd left a radio on somewhere, or sometimes that someone was playing my guitar. Now, I hear it about as often, but it's usually more faint, like a neighbor is playing the radio, and the sound is traveling through the pipes. Any idea who he was? Anyone famous?"

"His name was Artie Jefferson. I've researched him, but he wasn't anyone in the blues community. As far as I can tell, he was just a guy who played guitar in local bars around town."

"So no explanations about why he did it? Any old police reports or anything?"

Mr. James shook his head. "Everything I found points to Artie Jefferson being a kind, gentle soul." He shrugged.

Bastian stood up. "I wonder if that guitar riff is the key to anything."

"Huh?" Mr. James said. Bastian just mumbled that he'd explain later and hurried home, leaving Radish with the James'.

#

Bastian picked up his guitar and warmed up with a few simple chords. As he did so, he thought about the old bluesman. Not old, really; from what Bastian had seen, the guy had been in his late 30's or early 40's, although he wouldn't swear to anything. After all, he'd only glimpsed the ghost for a few seconds. The question wouldn't leave Bastian's brain--why had this man killed two family members and then himself? And that blues lick was the key somehow. He had no clue why he thought that, but he did.

Bastian tried playing the riff a few times, but it never quite came out right. If only he could hear it again, it would make it easier to mimic. He stopped, took a deep breath, and then started a simple blues chord progression. Maybe that would get him in the right state of mind. He was more of a hard rock player, but the lead guitarist from a former band taught him a thing or two about the blues.

Bastian never had been very talented when it came to playing solos, but he was a pretty good rhythm guitarist. After running through some chords in the key of E, he started playing around a bit with different keys and more difficult chords. After a few minutes, that bluesy riff sounded out, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Bastian kept up with his chords, and the riff changed as if the unknown player was jamming along. As he played, Bastian looked up and saw the shimmering image of the old bluesman. This time, though, in stark contrast to his suicide, the bluesman looked happy and at peace as jammed.

The impromptu jam went on for a few minutes until the ghost bent and shook a few notes in a way that exclaimed the song was ending. Bastian let his final chord ring out at the same time the bluesman's final notes played. He knew this was crazy, him jamming with a ghost, but here it was, happening. Bastian thought he should be a little scared, but he wasn't. He felt exhilarated.

As both guitars went silent, Bastian was about to speak up, to see if he could communicate with the ghost verbally, but before he could, it blinked out of existence. He set his guitar down and turned off his amp, wondering what the hell had really just happened. T

The room then went cold, not gradually, but all at once. A low hum came out of his amp. Bastian checked to make sure he'd really turned it off, and he had. The hum got louder and louder, turning into what sounded like a scream--a woman's scream. He ran over to the wall and unplugged it, but the sound didn't stop. Through the scream, it sounded like there might be some words in there, but he couldn't make them out. He sometimes kept a tape recorder next to his guitar set-up so he could listen to his playing later, but he didn't see it right off the bat. He'd seen in horror movies or whatnot that sometimes if you played ghostly voices at a different speed, or backwards, that you could make out what was being said. Hell, maybe that would actually work, and those people who wrote those movies had more than just an overactive imagination. But, damn it, he couldn't find the thing.

As he gave a quick search for the recorder, the screaming voice stopped. The room, already an icebox, grew colder. The small trashcan in the room toppled over, and one by one, the three balled-up pieces of paper inside straightened themselves out. The room then warmed up a bit, more to the icebox temperature, and a gunshot rang out from the kitchen area, just as it had last night. Then another sounded. Bastian resisted the urge to rush out there, and about thirty seconds later, the room grew even colder again. Just as he had the night before, the bluesman appeared on the bed with a gun in his mouth. Like the night before, he appeared to be crying, but this time Bastian couldn't hear him. With a loud bang, the ghost pulled the trigger and disappeared.

Bastian wasn't sure how it was possible, but the room grew even colder. He felt like the air was a cross between sharp daggers trying to puncture him and solid brick walls trying to crush him. He thought about zipping over to the closet and putting on a coat, but he knew that wouldn't help. The hum returned to his amp, and like before, it kept growing louder.

Then silence. The cold stayed, so Bastian knew it wasn't over. He glanced at his bedroom door and considered bolting through it, out of his house, never to return. He even took a step in that direction before the door slammed shut. Faint, evil laughter came from his amplifier. The bedroom door rattled, hard enough to where he thought it might fly off the hinges. All the while, the laughter continued.

Bastian later looked back at this moment with a bit of pride. Many people would have lost it and given into a screaming fit or simply fell to the ground crying. He, though, did his best to keep his wits about hi. He didn't want to damage his amplifier, as it was more expensive than he was able to replace at this point, but he needed to do something about it. Maybe he could tip it over, speaker-side down. As he put his hands on top of the amp, the door stopped rattling and a low, guttural growling replaced the laughter. He grabbed the top back edge of the amp and yanked it down, but it wouldn't budge. The growling erupted into a scream and a sparkling mass of energy flew out the front of the amp. It changed into the face of an angry woman and screamed at him again. This time the shock of it all knocked Bastian to the ground. Before he could comprehend anything else, the door burst open and the ghost of an old man, a gaping gunshot wound in his chest, stood looking in. Bastian saw right away this wasn't the ghost of the bluesman.

Both ghosts converged on Bastian, and he could just feel the evil intentions dripping off both of them. He still had the wits about himself to not scream, as somehow this would fuel them further. Before they could reach him, though, that blues lick sounded through the amp. Both evil ghosts stopped, and as it kept repeating, they dissipated. Only when the room warmed up a bit did Bastian let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The playing stopped, and the amp turned itself on. Bastian could see the dials moving themselves. A garbled sound, sort of like white noise and heavy machinery, played through the speaker. The blues lick returned, repeating itself over and over. Bastian just sat there, listening, not sure what to do, when an otherworldly voice came through.

"Learn it. Play it." The voice said the same thing half-a-dozen more times, and when Bastian just sat there, his guitar started to shake in the stand as if the speaker was trying to jumpstart him into action.

Bastian stood up, picked up his guitar and a pick, and listened to the simple riff, which continued to play. He did his best to ignore the white noise coming from his amp. Though his hands were shaking from everything going on, Bastian was able to double the ghostly solo, clumsily at first, but with perfection after a few run throughs.

The noise from the amp stopped, and after a few more seconds, the ghostly blues lick stopped, as well. That voice came back and said just four words before disappearing as well. "Make it your own." The room then returned to a normal temperature, and for the time being, the supernatural stuff was over. Bastian turned off the amp, returned his guitar to its stand, and walked out of his house to tell the James' all about it. Before he could get to the front door, though, everything caught up to him, and he fell to his knees, crying.

#

Two days later, Bastian stood in his bedroom, guitar in hand. He hadn't been able to come back since the incident, but now he was ready. That lick would become his. He didn't know exactly what would happen, but he needed to find out.

He started by playing the lick from memory. His fingers had it down. He played it again and added a trill at the end, then continued with an occasional note bend or a whole new measure. As he played, the room grew colder. The bedroom door slammed shut, but he ignored it and kept playing. Then the amp shut off. He gritted his teeth and went back to the original lick. He kept repeating it until the amp flashed back to life. He went back to his own variations, and soon the simple lick became a full-blown guitar solo. Though he'd never been talented enough to sustain a solo for long, this one flowed out of him. The bedroom door rattled so hard that cracks emerged in the doorframe. A scream shared time in the amplifier, while a voice sounded out lightly in his ear, "Go, boy, go." Bastian was so caught up in the moment that he didn't feel himself go light-headed, and he had no idea when he blacked out.

#

Bastian stood in his bedroom, though it wasn't his. All his stuff was gone and replaced by other things. It looked like antique furniture, but well-used instead of for collecting. Before he could explore further, two people burst into the room. One was his guitar playing ghost-buddy, while the other was a woman who looked vaguely familiar. He looked closer and discovered she was the energy face that had floated out of his amplifier. They had no idea he was standing right next to them; he was the invisible ghost this time.

"God damn it, Artie!" the woman yelled. "Why can't you just be happy with what you have?"

"Bertha, I need to try. You knew music was my life when you married me. Now I have the chance to record an album with an actual record company, a damn big one at that, and you don't want me to? This could make us rich, baby."

"Or it could break us," she said. "We live comfortable now. Better than most of our friends. You may not like washin' dishes during the day, but it pays. And you play at those damn clubs almost every night. That's steady pay, too! You ain't guaranteed that if you give it all up for a record and tour the country."

Another man walked into the room. Bastian recognized him as the other evil ghost. "Think of my daughter before you make your decision, Artie," the man said. "When you married her, you promised you'd take care of her. You doin' a great job of that now, so don't screw it up. You know I'm too damn old, too broken down, to provide anymore. So it's all up to you."

"But if this record is a hit, we're set for life. And I can't quit either job until we know."

"So you say now," his wife said. "You gonna get so caught up in this that you'll quit both high and dry because you're sure you're going to be a star!"

"Listen to yourself, Lil' Artie Jefferson," the old man said. "Some guy comes into your club and offers you a contract. Guy's probably drunk off his ass, first of all. Second, he's probably bullshittin' you anyway. Music is full of scams, and you about to walk right into one."

Artie just shook his head. "No, this is my dream. Damn. Listen, I don't want to be late for work. Them dishes ain't gonna wash themselves. We'll talk about this when I get home. That record producer said he'd be back tonight." Artie walked past his wife and father-in-law towards the front door.

"Ain't nothing to talk about!" his wife yelled after him. Bastian heard the front door slam shut.

"Damn, bull-headed fool," Artie's wife said.

"Now, now, Bertha," her father said. "You know we can do something about this. He done left that contract in here, didn't he?"

"Yeah. It's on the top of the dresser, right there," she said, pointing.

"Well, we got matches, don't we?" he said.

Her eyes lit up, and she snatched the contract.

"No!" Bastian yelled. He went over to grab the paper from her, but his hand went right through it. No matter how much he wanted to help Artie, he was merely an observer here.

Bastian followed the two into the kitchen, where they grabbed a book of matches and a big grey pot. The woman, Bertha, crumpled the contract up into a loose ball and tossed it into the pot. Her father lit a match.

"Let his dreams get in the way of our comfort," she said. "I don't think so."

The father-in-law said something, but Bastian couldn't make it out. Everything blurred and went black. He blinked and everything was back, but he could tell it was later in the day. Artie Jefferson walked in the front door.

"I'm home," Artie shouted. "Bertha, I've thought about it all day. You and your pa can come to the club tonight. Talk to the guy yourself. See that it's all on the up-and-up. Bertha? You here?"

"Sorry, Artie," Bastian said. "They want nothing to do with it."

No one seemed to be home. Bastian followed Artie into the kitchen, where there was a note waiting on the table. Artie read it, and as he did, his face hardened. Before Bastian could get to it to read, Artie balled it up and threw it against the wall. He then stalked out, went to his bedroom, and pulled out a lockbox from under the bed. Bastian knew what he was after, and sure enough, out came the pistol.

"C'mon, Artie, put it back." Bastian knew it wouldn't help, that he couldn't be heard, but he had to try. "No good will come of this."

Artie tucked the gun into his pants and put the box back under the bed. He then walked over to the trash can. "Maybe I can still salvage all this," he said to himself. He dumped the contents of the can out onto the floor and began unballing the dozen or so wadded pieces of paper. Bastian couldn't hear any intelligible words coming from Artie, just a bunch of grunts and groans. When all the papers were unwadded, Artie sat there for a few minutes, staring at the bottom of the trashcan, as if he could will the missing contract there. Finally, he stood up, calm as could be, and walked to the bedroom door, but went no further.

Bastian didn't know how long the two of them stood there; Artie a long-distant memory, and he an invisible observer. Dusk turned to evening, and evening turned to night. The phone rang at one point, but Artie ignored it. Bastian could only guess it was either the nightclub calling to discover the whereabouts of their guitar player, or the record executive trying to track down his newest future star. Artie didn't move at all, save for an occasional twitch. Bastian had a pretty good idea what Artie was thinking about, but he wasn't sure if those thoughts matched what was going to happen. Was Artie thinking about killing his wife and father-in-law, or where they just going to show up before he gathered the nerve to kill himself?

Artie stiffened, and a second later, Bastian heard the front door rattle and then open. Bertha and her father talked loudly as they walked in. From the bedroom, Bastian heard Bertha say, "I hope that damn fool has enough sense not to take another contract if that so-called record executive offers it."

That did it. Artie reached for his gun and walked out into the front room and kitchen area, with Bastian hot on his heals. Bertha and her father saw him and then exchanged a glance.

"What is your stupid ass doing home?" Bertha said. Artie answered her with a gunshot right between her eyes. He followed up with a shot to her father's chest. She was dead before she hit the ground, and the father-in-law lingered only a few seconds. Bastian had to marvel at the marksmanship. Had Artie been an expert shot, or had his intense anger simply guide the bullets to their marks? Another question he'd likely never know the answer to.

Bastian knew how the rest of the story played out. He followed Artie into the hallway, but not through the bedroom door. He listened as Artie wept, and braced himself for the final gunshot, which came not long after. Then everything went black, and Bastian found himself alone in his room his guitar strapped to his chest, with no signs of any ghosts or ghostly activity.

#

"I keep thinking there was a gas leak or something that made me imagine everything," Bastian told Mr. and Mrs. James over a cup of coffee in their kitchen. "There's just no way any of it could have really happened."

Mrs. James handed him a homemade scone. "Lots of things look to be unreal," she said. "This world, though, she's got a lot of surprises for us."

Bastian nodded. "Doesn't make it any less surreal. And what I don't get is why it's over. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad it is, but what happened to make it so? All I did was watch a vision, what happened that night he killed his wife, his father-in-law, and himself. I tried to do something, anything that could have stopped the whole, ugly mess, but it all might as well have been a movie."

"What makes you think it's over?" Mr. James said.

"I don't know," Bastian said. "I can't explain it, but I just know. Does that make any sense?"

"Does any of it really make any sense?" Mr. James said. "Anyway, maybe he just wanted someone to know the truth, what really happened."

Mrs. James chimed in. "So many strange things have happened in that house. We knew someday someone would get in there and figure it all out."

"So all these years and you two had no idea what was really going on in there?"

"We pretty much had it pieced together," Mr. James said. "But we didn't know what to do about it. You ever wonder why we gave you free rent? We could make some good scratch on that house."

"For my handyman skills?" Bastian said with a grin.

"Boy, you're an adequate handyman, but you ain't worth that much."

The three of them shared a chuckle before Bastian said, "Then why? Other than it was haunted and you wouldn't have been able to get much for it anyway."

"Oh, we could have rented it out," Mrs. James said. "People might not have stayed long, but then we'd have gotten someone new."

Mr. James took over. "You told us you were a musician, and more importantly, a guitar player. What if, we thought, you could speak to that ghost through music? It was a long shot, but it appears to have paid off."

Bastian nodded and was about to reply when he got a feeling that he should head next door, home. It was like a little itch in his brain that wouldn't go away. He stood up and decided to scratch it the only way that would be possible. "Thanks for the breakfast," he said. "Can you two watch Radish again for a bit? I don't know how, but I think I'm being called home."

They both nodded, and Mr. James said, "Make sure you come over as soon as it's done. We're curious, too, you know."

Bastian smiled. "You got it. I don't think I'll be long."

He headed into his house and straight for his bedroom. When he got there, Artie Johnson's ghost, guitar strapped on in front of him, stood inside smiling.

"Hi, Artie," he said. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

Artie shrugged.

"So, are the other two still here?"

Artie shook his head and played a quick lick on his guitar. Bastian could have sworn he heard, "They're gone," in it. Artie flashed a smile at Bastian, waved, and walked towards the far wall of the bedroom, where he disappeared. This house was now clean of ghosts. Of that, Bastian had no doubt.