The Violinist
Dear guests, tonight you will see my new home and will hear my new story. It is about a spider, music and something else. But first, come in. This place is smaller than the old one, but here you can feel the night in a different way. High above the street the air is colder and the whispers are so far away that you can’t hear them. Come. Tonight we will use the balcony. The candle is already lit. Have a seat and let’s begin…
The view is fascinating, isn’t it ? And all you can hear is the music of the night. You do not know what I am talking about ? Of course. On the street, in the house, near the abandoned hotel – all you can hear are the whispers. The shadows murmur hopefully, thinking you would join them. The animals of the night stalk quietly but still you can feel them. People wander, but their voices are lost in the desert of the city. Up here ? Nothing like that. No cars, no animals, not a single living soul. Up here you can listen to the night. It sings, plays and whispers. Its words slip around you almost clear enough to understand. The mist covers the city until all you can see is white.
Just after midnight, when even the cats have gone to sleep, the silky darkness starts playing. Its instruments are the hands of a little girl, pushing away the nightmares, a twitch of a cat’s tail, a breath in the leaves. And when the Lady of Night desires, they all play for her. A scream, forgotten in a moment. A moan, left unnoticed. A night flower rustling with its petals, reaching toward the moonlight. The heartbeat of the night can be heard if you listen close enough. And sometimes, only sometimes, a violin can be heard in the darkness.
The melody cannot be followed, it can’t be recorded but if you try hard enough you can guess its source. Some nights, when the sky is clear and the full moon bathes the bones of the city in its silver light, and if you stand high enough, you can see it. The mansion of thorns.
It has been here since before my time. Even before my parents’ time. It hasn’t changed through the decades. And not everyone could see it. Even less people can enter it. Nobody has left it. Because even if you could see the magnificent building from your balcony, when you go there, it would’ve disappeared. You wouldn’t be able to guess the direction, around it there are no landmarks and the forest around it can be from anywhere. And nowhere. Because there hadn’t been a forest in this city since the middle ages. And that kind of trees ? Sharp, thorny and bare, their black skeletons ghostly reaching to the stars ? They have never excised. This is the house of the Lady of the Night. There she holds her balls where souls have to dance until the end of the eternity. There she controls her orchestra of damned that play for her every night. In these halls a lone violinist wanders, looking for escape and knowing there just isn’t one.
Her name is not important. All I can tell you is that she isn’t from here. Her dress carries the signs of long ago forgotten fashion that had never existed near this country. Her dark hair is twisted in an intricate style and after a closer look you can see the spiders. They crawl through the tresses, spinning webs and catching stray hairs, keeping her perfect. In her hand there is a violin. It looks new, but it is actually older than time. It is the violin of the mistress of the mansion and when she wants music, this is her instrument. She doesn’t play, of course. And the girl can’t drop it. She had tried. Tried to burn it, to throw it away. To stop playing. But the Lady of the Night wants her entertainment. And even after the girl’s fingers are cut, her blood colouring the fine wood of the instrument, she keeps playing. Because she can’t stop. None of them could.
Each of the occupants of the mansion has followed a shadow or a spider, a stray beam of moonlight or a kitty in the darkness. And once you enter the shadows, you are not in your realm. You are in the Thorn Mansion. And She owns you. You exist only for Her pleasure. And she makes sure you know it.
In the spiked halls, between bloody tapestries and grotesque paintings, wander children and elders, men and women, travelers from every time and place. Because the world is enormous and there is night everywhere. Through time and space She collects her puppets, creating a special collection you can see right after you become a part of it. No matter if it’s summer or winter, right after midnight or four in the morning, if you are on the North Pole or in China, you can see it. Looming above cities and villages, fire and ice, storms and seas. It is there. And in the house she it waiting.
For you.
Because her collection isn’t even close to finish. And in everybody she could find a piece she wants. So be careful when you wander at night. The Thorn Mansion may look like a horror movie stage or a normal house. With thorns and spikes or rose garden and a tiny lake. With warmly opened doors or hideous gates, made of bones and vines. Inside there is a warm place to sit and a bed of nails to rest. Good food and poison that leaks up the walls and follows you with its hisses. Puppies and snakes. Red and black roses. Eternal life in the clutches of the darkness. And do not forget the spiders.
Happy Halloween and sleep well.
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