Standing for Weirdo

Chapter 39

Trevor hadn’t gone upstairs, thank God. I didn’t think the stairs would have held his weight if he’d tried. Instead, I found him in an empty room on the main floor. I figured it was right under the study room that we had moved and turned into our decor for Lady Windermere’s Fan. The idea sat sickly in the pit of my stomach, even as the vision of him sent a shiver down my spine.

There was a flashlight planted on the floor, giving the whole scene a surreal tinge. He stood in the middle of the room, the guitar plugged to his red rack, which was in turn, plugged into a set of portable computer-style speakers. The sound wasn’t as loud as it would be with an amp, but it was loud enough for whatever was happening there to happen.

The air was thick with the frantic music, and it flooded me with fear and sorrow and regret as soon as I entered the improvised concert hall. Something beyond the notes nagged at the back of my mind, telling me to turn around and leave this little bit of Hell, to forget that I ever saw it.

I took a step into the room.

“Trevor?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. His head was bent, his eyes closed, and his fingers danced up and down the guitar’s neck with lightning speed. His shoulders hunched over from the tension, and his mouth was set in a rigid line that had nothing to do with the serene look that always shined through when he played his other music. His real music.

“Trevor, what are you doing? You have to stop… Listen to me, you have to stop!”

I crossed the room to stand in front of him, to try to get his attention, but he was lost in his melody. It was as if the playing was the only thing that kept him going. I reached out to forcefully stop his hand, as I had done before.

He took a step back, avoiding me.

I barely had time to register that he was aware of my presence before I felt hers.

Trevor and I were alone in the abandoned house, but I could feel Beatrice as if she stood right in front of me, right by his side. Her hate pressed in on me from all angles, mixed with a dark sense of glee, so intense that I took a step back before I could check myself.

The song evolved into a new movement, frantic and broken, the darkness that belonged to the ghost creeping in the shape of discordant notes here and there as it slowly conquered the whole song. Trevor fell to his knees, depleted.

But he kept playing.

In spite of the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin and the grimace of pain in his lips, his fingers moved as deftly as they ever had and even faster.

Beatrice’s presence grew in intensity, making my hair stand on end and my breath hitch in my throat. I got a gloating feeling from her.

Understanding hit me like a wall of bricks, and I found myself screaming at thin air.

“Bitch! Let him go!”

She wasn’t just enjoying Trevor's torment. She was feeding off him, each note strengthening her soul and draining his.

She saw me connect the dots and laughter appeared in added layers below the frantic notes.

That was about as much as I could put up with.

I shattered.

Fear stopped being a factor as I charged forward. That time, Trevor couldn’t dodge me. She screamed bloody murder when I closed my hand over his wrist, but I gritted my teeth and wrenched his hand away from the guitar.