The Haunted Bassoon
The boy with a haunted bassoon stood in the center of a gravel parking lot, watching the diner burn. Only now did he remember what he'd come here to do--it had nothing to do with arson but things have a way of going horribly wrong when you own a haunted bassoon.
Demons and wraiths and spectral fiends rarely choose to possess bassoons. But when they do look out, for behind every bassoon reed lurks an inherent capacity for unspeakable cruelty.
"Oh Bassoon." The boy whispered as grease-fed flames billowed high into the night. "What have you done?"
The bassoon chuckled woodenly. "There was one rule Boy, when first we met. Do you remember what it was?"
The boy lowered his head and fought back tears. "Oboes are the enemy."
The bassoon grinned wickedly, showing all its keyholes. "And..."
The boy's voice broke just a bit. "And so are all who play them."
"That's right." The bassoon leered. "And so are all who play them."
The bassoon jerked its stem in the direction of the smoldering diner.
"An oboe burns inside those flames along with a red-cheeked girl. She picked the wrong instrument so into hell she's hurled."
The bassoon looked up at the boy. "Did you love her Boy?"
The boy looked down at his bassoon, swallowed hard and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. When at last he spoke his voice was steady. "How could I? She was a filthy oboe player."
The bassoon laughed then. It rumbled the length of his hollow form.
"That's right Boy, she was--she was a filthy oboe player, and thus an enemy of bassoons."
The haunted bassoon vibrated his reed seductively. "What shall we play now to celebrate?"
The boy shook his head numbly and raised the stem to his lips. "No doubt something repetitive and incomprehensible."
The bassoon flexed his keys. "I know just the thing."
posted by Latigo Flint @ 12:06 AM
11 comments
11 Comments:
Jeez. What would that reeded SOB do to a trombone player?
Hi Latigo, despite knowing in my heart that the bassoon is right I can't help feeling a pang of sorrow for the filthy oboe player.
I got chills.
You, sir, are a true Master of Horror.
I think all woodwinds are inherently evil. Thus:
Brass Kicks Ass, Reeds Bleed.
LBB: As a former trombonist, I have to tell you this - not only do we fear no one else in the band or orchestra, we have no natural enemies but the baritone horn/euphonium, which occasionally tries to muscle in on our turf. The bassoon is nothing but a barking bedpost, and even haunted ones know they are forbidden by the ghost of Richard Wagner to so much as contemplate taking any action against the mighty trombone.
Oh, and Monkeypotpie nailed it. Brass does Kick Ass!
If the boy doesn't want the bassoon, I would love to have it.
Bassoons always despise in others what they themselves display: double-reeded sqottysoundedness. Hence, some of them go horribly wrong. Therefore, don't go to the band hall at night unarmed.
There are only a few things more unsettling that a boy playing an oboe while he cries and watches a burning building. They are:
1. A Man and woman in outdated swimwear filling a children's pool on their front lawn at 2:00 AM.
2. Taxidermy
3. A 60 year-old man who is dating a 20 year-old boy. The 20 year-old calls him "daddy".
4. The thought that dogs might be on an equal level of self-awareness as humans.
However, if the oboe happens to be possessed, it easily overtakes all four.
Now when I listen to or watch PETER AND THE WOLF, the image of the grandfather killing the duck will be inescapable.
God only knows LBB. (I'd put my money on it being something unspeakably cruel though.)
That makes two of us Peter, that makes two of us.
Thank you Isaac. I frighten myself sometimes.
I'm going to agree with you Monkeypotpie--but not wholeheartedly, for reasons I don't feel like divulging at this time.
I have great respect for former trombonists Ghost Dog. I have always said, "give me seven stout trombonists, each pure of heart, and I shall deliver you every demon hell can spawn in a plastic baggie." (Okay, maybe I haven't always said that, but I've thought it a time or two.)
What the boy wants and what the boy must do are not necessarily the same thing Bottle Steve. And trust me, you don't want this bassoon--not this one.
Not to mention 'Squarkful malice' Ari.
I agree in theory Trev--but it actually wasn't the oboe that was possessed. The oboe burned in the diner alongside a red-cheeked girl. It was in fact the bassoon that was grim and haunted.
Peter and the Wolf haunts me MJ. I'd say something funny now except that I'm much too haunted.
You are a master of all genres, horror among them. The first line, whispered in my ear, will melt my panties. Just keep that in mind. You know, in case they turn out to be possessed, too.
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