In the evening, you’d often find me on the back porch with my guitar. I’d play almost every night, for about an hour, sometimes a little longer, depending on how quickly she showed up, and how long she stayed.
What was she? Damned if I know. She’d poke her head out from the trees just before dusk; she was shy, or maybe just cautious. The music helped, though; I think she preferred classical, but she responded well enough to rock, jazz, or whatever I happened to be feeling. Sometimes she’d show up even without the music, but she wouldn’t stay unless I played.
When she was ready, she’d take a few timid steps into the yard, shuffling along on two bent, kangaroo-like legs. She’d pause and sniff around, perhaps to reassure herself that she was safe. But clearly she couldn’t help herself; if you watched carefully, you’d see that her tail was already moving in perfect rhythm with the music.
She’d never take a direct line to the porch; she’d weave back and forth across the lawn in a pattern that, strangely, reminded me of the invading alien ships from Space Invaders. She’d bob her head as she walked, like a turkey. When she turned sideways, you could see how short and stubby her arms were. T-Rex arms. She rarely used these.
When she’d finally reach the foot of the stairs, she’d set her long, thick tail on the ground and use it like a kickstand, to take a load off her feet. She’d listen for a while. Her long, rabbit-like ears would twitch and adjust to better catch all of the subtleties of the music. She’d sway back and forth in time with the music, becoming more and more connected with each passing note. And then, eventually, she’d sing. Her song always brought a tear to my eye; she told a story with every note, and every story she told was sad.
#
Things got dicey for a while when she developed her taste for blood. She still showed up every night; it’s just that sometimes she would be carrying something awful in her mouth. Her rows of razor-sharp teeth were clearly visible when she sang. A pair of particularly nasty-looking fangs on the bottom could almost have qualified as tusks. She liked to impale the carcass on these fangs, carry it to the foot of the stairs, and drop it unceremoniously at my feet. Reminded me of a damn cat presenting a dead chipmunk to her master. I’d scold her, but usually I’d be suppressing a grin. Until the neighborhood pets started disappearing, that is; then I became worried. I tried to warn her: They’d hunt her down and kill her and if she didn’t stop. Maybe she listened, or maybe folks just stopped letting their pets outside alone at night. Eventually it stopped.
She only attacked a human once, so far as I know. One night, she arrived carrying a small log in her mouth, wagging her tail like a dog that’d successfully fetched a stick. When she got a little closer, I realized the log was a human forearm.
The music session was very short that night. It’s hard to play while you vomit.
I thought then that I might have to take action; I thought I was going to have to put her down. I told her I wouldn’t suffer any more attacks on humans. I refused to play again unless she agreed to my terms. It pissed her off something fierce, but in the end she listened. I think.
To this day, if you ask the man whose arm she stole, he’ll tell you “It was an alligator took my arm, I tell you!” But I know better.
I tried to recover the forearm that night, thinking to put it on ice and take it over to the ER–perhaps a talented doctor could reattach it–but she wouldn’t let me near it. That was the only time I ever heard her growl.
#
When she started dying, she tried to hide it, but I knew. She wouldn’t stay for long anymore, and sometimes she wouldn’t even show up. She missed a whole week once, and I feared the worst. But she was back on schedule the following week, looking a little tired but otherwise okay. Her hair began to fall out in patches, and she grew thinner by the day. Still, she’d sing, and her voice was just as piercing and beautiful as ever.
#
One evening, a plaintive howl from deep in the forest told me her time had come. I didn’t hesitate. I slung my guitar over my shoulder and ran off into the darkness. She didn’t cry out again, but somehow I found her on the ground near a small stream, panting softly. I swung the guitar around to my back and picked her up. She was large, but not very heavy, especially in her emaciated state. I looked into her eyes, and she nodded towards a small waterfall just upstream, trickling down over some mossy rocks. Behind this water, I could see the outline of a small cave. I understood. She wanted to go home. I waded through the pool and carried her into the cave.
The cave was dark, but she guided my steps. We walked straight for a while, then the tunnel curved to the left and began to descend. The path curled around several times, like a corkscrew, then opened upon a vast cavern. The cavern was well lit, although the source of the light was a mystery to me. We continued to descend along the wall of the cavern, finally coming to a halt at the bottom.
The cavern was remarkably circular. The floor was solid stone, as were the walls. In the center, the floor rose slightly, then sunk abruptly, like the crater of a small volcano. The sunken area was filled with water.
Dozens of the creatures lined the rim of the crater. They were watching, but I sensed no malice.
As I cautiously approached the crater, the creatures opened their ranks, allowing me to pass through. I stopped at the edge of the water, placing her gently on the ground. She looked up at me, and although her face wasn’t really made for smiling, her eyes were full of warmth and trust. I looked to the other creatures; they were waiting expectantly.
Suddenly I understood what I was supposed to do.
I sat down next to her, took my guitar off my back, and began to play. The acoustics of the cave played tricks with the notes, producing a sound quality I’d never before experienced.
When the creatures joined in, their voices evoked purest emotion. We made music together for a good while. Eventually, she reached over and touched my arm, and I understood: It was time. I stopped playing, and the cavern went silent.
She sang; one last beautiful, haunting solo.
As the song’s final note echoed around the cave, she took her last breath, and her gaze became empty.
The other creatures came to her. Each of them shed a single tear on her face. The largest of the creatures–perhaps the leader–picked her up, fangs protruding through the piebald fur of her chest. He walked to the edge of the water, then turned to look at me. Our eyes locked for a few seconds. Then, abruptly, he turned and dove into the water. I watched as he descended into the depths, dragging her down with him. He moved through the water with a grace that seemed impossible given his physique. They soon faded from sight.
When I turned away, the remaining creatures had closed in around me, blocking my escape. Had I done something wrong? I didn’t understand, not until I felt the blinding flash of pain behind my right eyeball.
Then I knew.
She’d been preparing me for this since the day we first met, right after my diagnosis.
I’d been dying too, you see.
I’d never consciously connected her presence to my own decline before that final moment. But on some level, I must have known.
We’d both been dying. We’d helped each other through the process, channeled our suffering into something beautiful; converted horror into music.
Together, we’d composed our death song.
The creatures closed in on me. I didn’t fight them. They performed the transformation. It hurt, but not as much as you might think.
#
I hear her music.
Her notes ring out, sad and clear, in my ears. She plays the piano. She misses some notes; she still hasn’t fully recovered from the shock she received at her routine check-up earlier. Pain and confusion taint her music.
It is beautiful anyway.
She hasn’t seen me yet, but she’s heard me sing. I’ve been coming for weeks, singing to her even before her diagnosis. She doesn’t yet understand what she hears, but she’ll figure it out, in her own time. When she’s ready, I’ll be here, and then we’ll sing together.
Until then, I sing alone.
I suffer; my time, too, grows short.
I hunger.
Sometimes I kill.
But mostly, I sing.
—
What a story. Absolutely wonderful.