Rusted Horns and a Broken Man
I hate my new gig, well; I shouldn’t use that barbaric word, ‘hate’. Let’s come to the conclusion that I… dislike my new gig. Forcing me to travel out here so late in the evening, a secluded music hall placed in the middle of nowhere.
Brilliant.
Gods could only remind me why I agreed to do this. Oh yes, it was only a week ago, another sleepless night as Vinyl blasted that distasteful music of hers. What did she call it?
‘Drob Step?’
Anyways, the Ponyville harmonic had been put on hold for the past couple months, all thanks to one person who has a knack for playing twenty different instruments at once. I forgot her name, starts with a P and ends with a pastry or something.
But back on topic, she single handily ruined a fine collection of brass and woodwind, so we are left music less until the problem is solved.
Me being me, I couldn’t stand not playing my cello for such a painfully long time, and practice wouldn’t help aid the aching I felt. So, I had been browsing the internet for a group of well-trained instrumentalists who would be willing to add me to their collection for the time being.
Nothing of proper suit appeared at first, but then I found it.
The Woodley Music Hall.
They had been posting ads in search for more string instruments, and I knew I would fit he critiques they were looking for.
So, I sent a pleasant email, asking if they would need my assistance.
Before long, they replied the very next morning, asking me to give them a visit that evening.
I of course was ecstatic; knowing I could play my precious cello again was simply delightful.
I told Vinyl of my plans, but she seemed far too busy stuffing her face into a ham ‘n cheese sandwich to even bother listening.
With a roll of the eyes and shrug of the shoulders, I prepared for what was to come.
I split that day up into both practice and research. Curious to learn more about this Woodley Music Hall, I turned to the internet for more knowledge. They seemed to be a fine looking group of musicians, but I felt a heavy pain in my chest when I found out where they were located.
About an hour drive out, somewhere in the middle of the forest.
Brilliant.
Now I became concerned, many questions swamping my mind.
First I cursed myself, unable to comprehend why I hadn’t just searched up the address before sending an email.
Well, it couldn’t have been too bad, a little drive would be worth the while if it meant I could fuel my musical desires. But why would a music hall such as this be in the middle of a forest? Of all places too.
I felt it rude to cancel my session with them on a whim such as this, just because I wasn’t so eager to set out on a long commute. So, with a halfhearted spirit and less energetic pride, it was decided that I would power through this.
The sun was drooping much faster than ever expected, and I was preparing my departure. Packing up my cello and music, it had come time to leave.
Vinyl had left about an hour prior, off doing some gig she had planned.
Before stepping out the door, I printed out a copy of the map, drawing in thick red sharpie the route I should take to the music hall.
I grabbed the car keys and was off, leaving a plume of smoke in my wake as the tired old contraption trudged ever forward.
I really needed a new car.
Before long, the lights of Ponyville stood behind me, only murky darkness ahead. The forest loomed before me, there twisted shadows morphing behind the setting sun.
Following the map, I tried to keep on course. The roads here were strange and seemed to go in circles. I questioned how anyone could possibly navigate their way through this maze of asphalt and dirt.
The trees, roots, branches, everything this forsaken forest had to offer delivered a fine amount of fright.
My eyes had been glued to the map for a good few minutes, and I had been praying to arrive at the music hall before dark, lest I wanted to be lost here.
My worry stricken gaze then spotted something, slowly moving beside the cracked road.
A man, what looked to be a leather case dangled from his hand, his head aimed down at the dirt.
‘Possibly another musician,’ I thought, slowing my speed to get a better look at him.
The case was most definitely holding a trumpet, his jacket worn and ripped. His shoes slapped the path with a thumb under heavy steps.
Opening my window, I was hoping to see if he knew the way to the music hall.
“Excuse me?” I asked, “Are you heading for the Woodley Music Hall?”
No response, his eyes seemed dead and I could feel the chilling cold that radiated from him.
“Sir?” I asked again.
He shook his head a few times before darting a surprised look at me.
“Oh, uh yes?” he stuttered.
“I was asking; are you heading for the Woodley Music Hall?”
He seemed to pause for a moment, lost in deep thought. “Yes… yes I believe so.”
A bit confused, I proceeded with my questioning. “Well, would happen to know the way? I’m the new cello player and I don’t want to miss my first rehearsal.”
After another strange moment of silence, he furrowed his brow, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if suffering a headache. “Just keep going straight,” he replied, “The hall is that way.”
The booming sound of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance, the slightest drizzle tapping the roof of my car. “Would you like a ride?” I asked.
He shook his head frantically, the rain water streaming down his face. “No,” he said quietly, “I’m fine.”
“But it may start pouring,” I insisted, “Are you sure you don’t—“
“No!” he snapped.
I quickly closed the window and darted off, leaving the deranged man behind.
Feeling rather shaken, I began to have second thoughts about coming here. Yet, I stayed on course, following the directions given to me.
As expected, the rain came down in mighty proportions, clanging against my car with heavy thumps. The forest seem to rattle under the storm, tree tops shaking after each boom of thunder in the distance.
Then, I saw a sign looming up ahead, standing just beside the road.
It read, “The Woodley Music Hall.”
The words looked to be written in the finest of cursive, the green letters dripping as the rain water washed away the paint.
I gulped, feeling like a pawn in some sort of director’s idea for a horror film.
The road morphed into a dirt path as I turned the corner. When I approached what must have been The Woodley Music Hall’s parking lot, I swore my eyes had been playing tricks.
For all I saw was an empty lot.
Just a big, flat, plot of land, an opening surrounded by these ominous woods. My mouth remained agape as I looked over the map a dozen times. This must have been wrong, it must be.
Could I have taken a wrong turn somewhere? Or did I veer off course without noticing?
I sat back in my seat, still trying to comprehend all this.
Then I heard something. It was faint, yet presented itself well through the thumping rainfalls.
I thought to have heard a trumpet, sounding out in the distance like a wolf howls at the moon. The note was ear piercing, shaking my insides. I seem to freeze as the mystery musician blew his horn a second time.
This time much louder, much closer.
That is when I had had it. This was all too surreal to take in.
Jamming the key back into the ignition, I turned it. Yet the car didn’t start. A plume of smoke spat from the hood, and it had become apparent my only escape had died on me.
I didn’t even need to think before throwing the door open, jumping out the car and running the way I had come. The rain pounded against me as my body seemed to tense up in fear. Another trumpet wailed in the distance, this time much closer.
I didn’t look back, the screeching noise hurting my head.
As I darted down the path, my black skirt had gotten caught in a protruding tree branch. I tripped over my feet, hitting the floor hard.
My vision was blurred and my mind scattered. I could taste blood seeping from my nose as I struggled to sit up right.
Another horn bellowed, the man causing the sound must have been hiding just behind the closing in shadows.
I tugged and yanked on my skirt, praying that it would unknot itself from the branch. Finally, I tore off a large portion of it, regaining my balance and continuing to run from what must have been death itself.
The trumpet seemed to grow further in distance, and I felt as if I just might escape this living nightmare. But then I saw something, two small lights glowing far down the road.
The glowing beams grew closer and I realized it had been a car. I started jumping frantically, waving my arms, trying so desperately to pull it over.
As the car became greater in detail, the biggest breath of relief escaped my cold lips.
It was Vinyl’s car.
She stopped beside me, rolling down her window. She scanned her worried eyes over me, taking notice of my soaking clothes, ripped skirt, and the dead look in my eyes.
“My god, Tavi,” she uttered. “What happened to you!?”
I didn’t answer her question, only jumped into the passenger seat, screaming at her to drive. She did as was told and we bolted out of those woods. Never looking back.
+++
The next morning, I explained my entire situation to the police. I told them about Woodley Music Hall, the man I saw in the woods, the open plot of land I found, and the trumpet I heard.
The police sent two cruiser’s into the forest to find my car, for I had left all my belongings in it. My cello, music, phone, money.
They told me they found the empty lot I had parked in, but nothing remained of my car, or any of my valuables, it had all disappeared.
As for the man and the horn I heard, a rusty old trumpet was found by the road. It looked to be run over multiple times, the copper rusted to nonexistence. But fresh saliva had been found on the mouth piece. The man was still not discovered.
After a long, tiresome day of explanations and stories, I thanked the police for their help. They told me they would continue the search for my car and the man, but I had a feeling that would forever remain an unsolved mystery.
Vinyl and I had a long talk too. She told me that when she noticed I wasn’t home after returning from her gig, she went out to find me.
I thanked her for being the greatest friend a woman could ask for, and we shared a warm hug with a side of tea.
That night, just as I was about to rest my head for yet another sleepless night, I received an email.
It was sent by the ‘Woodley Music Hall Hiring Program.’
It read…
Dear Octavia
We here at The Woodley Music Hall couldn’t help but notice you didn’t arrive for yesterday evening’s rehearsal. You seem to have left your cello and other belongings here after your sudden departure. Well, if you ever wish to pick them up, we will hold onto them for you until then. Hope to see you next week!
We’ll be waiting.
Yours Truly- The Woodley Music Hall Hiring Program
