Strains of Salvation

TW: This story contains themes of violence, murder, and suicide.

Walking around this place had always brought me peace. It was like a magic button to me—I set a foot here, and inspiration comes in like a raging flood.

But not anymore.

With a heavy sigh, I packed my belongings and got up, scanning my surroundings one last time. I promised myself to never come back again and cause myself more disappointments. I know a site famous for frequent suicidal attempts is not exactly the place to go looking for inspiration, but the sadness that overflows me whenever I come here helps me come up with the most heartfelt songs. Unfortunately, ever since the railings were renovated, I haven’t been the target of inspiration at all. It felt as if the place had lost the authenticity I have always sought.

I spotted my older sister, Hilda, hanging her coat as I walked through the door.

“Why does your face look like that?” she asked concernedly. I looked up at her, perplexed. She got the hint and continued, “You went to the bridge again?”

“Yeah.” I sighed.

“No hope?”

“No hope.”

I didn’t wait to hear her reply and darted to my room. Slumping into the chair, I let out a heavy breath, angry with myself. Why can’t I just sit down and make music in my room like normal people? It’s outrageous!

✢✢✢

“Do I really have to come with you?” I whined.

“Helena.” my sister warned, glaring at me.

I just turned towards the window with a pout while murmuring, “You’re not a child for goodness’ sake.”

We were in the car, on our way to her new workplace. For some odd reason she wanted me to accompany her on her first day, as if she’s going to kindergarten. What makes it even worse is the fact that the office is one and a half hours away. The only way to tolerate this ride is to plug my headphones in and listen to music. And so I did.

✢✢✢

Somewhere along the line, an odd sound snapped me out of my daze. I’ve heard this song a thousand times before, yet I’ve never heard this sound, even though my ears can detect the faintest sounds in any musical piece. Suspecting it might be an outside noise, I moved my headphones back, listening carefully. The speed with which a smile crept onto my face was an obvious indication of the joy the sound brought me. I paused my music to hear it better; it was as if someone was playing music from a distance—merely audible, but spellbinding nonetheless. A melancholic tune that tugged at my heartstrings.

“Do you hear that?” I asked Hilda so abruptly she almost jumped out of her seat.

“Hear what?”

“The music!”

She looked at me questionably, “What music? You have your headphones on. How would I hear it?”

“No, no. Not my music. There’s music playing outside. Listen carefully.”

She concentrated for a moment, then shook her head, looking at me as if I just grew horns, which kind of disappointed me, but I was too overtaken with joy to let it get into my head.

Sitting back into the chair, I watched the roads pass by as I recalled the tune I just heard. I desperately want to use it in my own music, but I’m afraid I would get sued for copyright infringement.

✢✢✢

After my sister dragged me to her workplace multiple times throughout the month, I realized a pattern: I hear similar strains of music every time we pass by the same area. So, naturally, I decided to go on my own one day and investigate. The odd thing is, every time I asked someone and told them the story, they gave me the same reaction my sister did. It almost drove me crazy, until one old man told me there was once a boy who’d always sit near the mountains and play his lyre. Which, in fact, actually drove me crazy, but gave me hope as well. Dying to know the source of my bittersweet agony, I ran up the hills, looking for my newest muse.

I hadn’t realized I was in tears until I reached the top. The faint sound is no longer faint, it’s almost as clear as if I’m right next to the source of it. The saddening thing is, the clearer the sound got, the more disheartened I felt. There was no one in sight. No one.

Suddenly, the sound became so sharp it reeked of terror, as if someone was panting frightenedly through the instrument. Keen on getting to the bottom of this, I took my high-sensitivity microphone out, plugged it in, and began recording.

After a few minutes, the sound died down completely. Nevertheless, a smile was plastered on my face.

After I got home, I ran to my room, plugged my headphones in, and began listening. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. For a second, I suspected my microphone wasn’t working. But I was able to clearly hear the merest of sounds, like the subtle crunching of leaves and the creaking of the door of a cabin nearby. I began to panic, and remembered how everyone looked at me oddly whenever I mentioned hearing music. But how?

✢✢✢

I went back to the old man that led me to the boy with the lyre and asked him. He told me he himself doesn’t hear it anymore, but he used to hear it occasionally in the past. He even told me his curiosity once got him walking up the hills, and that’s when he saw the boy for the first and last time. “Remembering what happened then, he panicked when he saw me, and ran to hide.” he said. Connecting the dots, I had an epiphany: the cabin.

I instantly dashed to the cabin, keeping in mind that I’m looking for a man this time, not a boy, since the incident with the old man happened around 16 years ago.

This time, I didn’t hear that same ear-piercing music, but rather a whisper of an entirely different sound. Exasperated, I hardly managed to get myself to walk to the cabin. It was in a miserable state, yet it didn’t look abandoned.

✢✢✢

“Mom, I’m going on a trip for a few days.” I screamed from the top of the staircase.

My mom came running, “What? Where? Why?”

“Just some self-discovery trip. You know I have been struggling with making music. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be back shortly. It’s not so far from here.”

Before she had time to argue, I was out of the door. I had already talked to someone in the area and made arrangements. The person I asked to let me rent the cabin for a few days almost called the psych-ward. She told me nobody ever dared to rent such an isolated cabin, hence the lack of renovations. Nevertheless, my mind was already set, and my suitcase was packed, along with my recording equipment.

If I’m going to drive all the way every day until I discover something, I might as well stay there for a while.

Walking into the cabin, I noticed it was in an even worse state than it was last time I came here. The music sounded as urgent as it did last time, so I plugged in noise-cancelling earphones to fade it out a bit, which somehow made it worse.

After tidying up a bit, I laid down my equipment and began recording, making sure the microphone is on its highest sensitivity settings.

Unfortunately, once again, when I listened to what I had just recorded, there was absolutely nothing. I whispered a few words here and there in the middle of the recording to put the whole thing to the test. My whispers were as clear as if I was talking aloud, but no music. So, I decided to try a different approach. I started my DAW and began playing the same melody on it by ear. I am not exactly sure what happened at that given moment, but the silence that came after was deafening. That’s when I started to panic. Did the person, by any chance, hear me?

Suspecting they might have, I ran out the door, inspecting my surroundings. There was no one in sight. I wasn’t that much of a coward, nor a quitter, so I locked the door and went to roam around. I kept calling out to anyone, but to no avail.

I suddenly started hearing a soft melody, but it wasn’t like the ones I’ve heard before. It sounded as if someone was humming. Since it resonated from somewhere a bit outside of the premises of the cabin, I followed it.

Saying I was petrified is an understatement. The remains of a worn-out dress were hanging on a branch, flapping with the wind. It took me a few minutes to realize I had my hand clasping my chest, trying to contain the heartache I was feeling. Dried blood covered the dress, and the humming got louder. At a certain point, it engulfed me until it was all I could hear, feel, or think of. The excessive pain in my chest took me down until I was on my knees, as though if I made myself small enough, the remnants of the pain would escape the little space left in me.

Out of panic, I hauled myself up, ran back to the cabin, and locked the door shut. I may have left the agonizing sight behind, but the humming was still there, and the pain was still unendurable.

✢✢✢

For two consecutive days, I couldn’t sleep. The humming continued, and the melody I heard the first time with my sister was back as well. At this point, finding inspiration wasn’t my priority, getting to the bottom of this was. This wasn’t just a case of someone playing music near the mountains to connect with nature or whatever—nobody would be able to play an instrument or hum for two days straight.

In order to be able to think clearly, without the music interrupting my thoughts, I called up one of the security guards in the area to come watch the cabin while I go eat somewhere in silence.

✢✢✢

At the table across the room, I spotted the old man I have talked to before, looking lost in thought. And, as if he felt me staring, he snapped out of it and looked my way, greeting me with a soft smile before walking up to me.

After chit-chatting for a bit, I ended up telling him everything that had happened since I went to stay at the cabin. He did look shocked, but not surprised. Since his reaction didn’t go unnoticed, I urged him to speak up. It took me a lot of convincing, but he finally did.

“What exactly did you hear?” He inquired.

“I am not sure what to call it, but it sounded like someone was playing a cello or another bowed instrument or a hurdy-gurdy. I’m not sure.” I zoned out for a moment before I continued, “I also heard humming—it sounded like a woman.”

“Odd. I have never heard humming, just the bowed lyre.”

“Do you have any idea who this boy is, if he has any family, or where he lives?” He looked quite reluctant to answer my question, but, with a heavy sigh, he did.

He told me there was once a family of three living in a small house near that cabin; a woman, her son, and her younger daughter. They were quite isolated, so neither he, nor anyone in the area, knew much about them. The only thing they know is that the woman and the girl disappeared at some point, while the boy stayed in the same spot for years, playing his lyre, until he also disappeared. Nobody knows where he is now, nor whether he’s dead or alive.

✢✢✢

I managed to get him to tell me where that little house of theirs was, and so he instructed me. I did realize, after a few strolls in the area, that the music is more prominent around the cabin specifically, and the spot he led me to wasn’t that far from the cabin, nor the hanging dress I found. This time, I prepared myself for the worst, expecting the music to be at its loudest.

It was a spot right in the center, fully encircled by the mountains. The landscape extended far and wide. The wind was howling, and my heart was pounding with it synchronously. The pain I previously felt when I saw the dress intensified tenfold. Scorching heat enveloped my skin insomuch that I had to check if my skin was melting off my bones. If I was in any other situation, I may have been relieved, but the fact my skin was still intact scared me more than it should have. This feeling, this grief, this ache; what is the meaning of all of this? And, to my knees, I fell again.

Feeling the gaze of someone on me, I looked up.

I saw him. I finally saw him, but it wasn’t the way I had imagined. Seated in the middle of the mayhem, he was playing his lyre, his eyes boring into mine. I was shuddering with fear, trying to register what my eyes were seeing. A phantom. A reflection on the surface of water walking this earth … and staring back at me.

✢✢✢

It’s been a month since the incident near the mountains. I woke up the next day in my bed in the cabin and found the old man sitting next to me. Apparently, I passed out for hours, and when the security guard realized I hadn’t come back, he reported my disappearance. The old man, who I’ve learned his name was Alder, heard of the news. Since he knew where I was, he urged the security to check for me. When I regained consciousness, I quickly packed my belongings and came running back home.

For some reason though, I’ve been yearning to go back. I’ve been having dreams of the boy daily. Three specific dreams to be exact. One is a replay of what happened last month; another is of the boy sitting calmly, in flesh and bone, playing his lyre; and the last one is him taking my hand and leading me back to the spot where I found him.

I don’t know what had gotten into me, but I decided to go back.

And so I did.

I was so used to the music it started sounding like white noise. With a deep breath, I stepped into the cabin. The scene of the boy hiding beneath the desk in the corner flashed before my eyes. Although for a fraction of a second, it was so vivid I almost believed it was real. I already readied myself for abnormal incidents, so I wasn’t that fazed.

After setting my things aside, I immediately headed for my destination. On my way there, the visions kept coming up. Scenes of the boy playing with his sister, turning into scenes of him weeping alone. Scenes of the mom watching over her kids, turning into scenes of ashes covering the ground. Scenes of the boy with his singing sister by a tree, turning into scenes of the bloody dress. So many scenes of ecstasy turning into scenes of mourning. Each of them flashing like lightning.

But not when I arrived.

The world turned over,

and that’s when I realized I was never ready.

✢✢✢

I promised myself to never come back again, but here I am. Not beneath the bridge, but on top of it. The world looks so different from the top. There once was a time when I got all of my inspiration from this place, but I never knew what being beneath the bridge withheld from me. All the music I’ve heard here, they weren’t of my own creativity. It was heartbreak, suffering, mourning, loss, none of which was my own. While some people feel other people’s pain, I hear it.

And I’ve heard too much beyond my ability.

That day, I witnessed a massacre. That little, merry family came undone at the hands of a demonic being—a young man who was in love with the mother and failed to make her fall for him. I watched him as he burned her alive. I watched her howl in pain as her kid watched. And the poor, little thing wasn’t spared either. He rammed her into a branch and left her hanging. I watched the blood drip out of her guts for hours before she finally found peace. And the little boy was left behind to live in sorrow. For years on end, he sat there, playing his woeful tunes, until he finally faced his demise where his family lies.

He couldn’t speak, not in life, nor in death—the lyre was his only consolation. All he wanted was to avenge his family, and I helped him do it. I saw the face of that brute—it was Alder. It was Alder all along. Alder whose memory failed him while he lived with unrecognized remorse. He heard the music and knew a brutal ending was to come.

After what I witnessed, I became a captive of misery, and there’s no way for me to escape. And now I don’t hear the boy’s music anymore, but mine.

He was my ruination as much as I was his salvation. And here I am, standing on the edge of the railing. Now I know what the railings were for.