Page 7 of Masked March

Three

MELODY

Ican’t sleep. The thought of The Reaper here in my room keeps my eyes darting around in the darkness with my covers pulled up to my nose. Worse…part of mewantshim to show up and just take me. Even if I’m dozing. And I’m not sure what’s wrong with me for wishing that.

Like a smart, thirty-something woman, I checked all my locks, windows, and closets when I got home. Then again an hour later. And after it got dark. One of the dining room chairs fit nicely wedged under the handle of my bedroom door.

What if he’s so powerful, so menacing, that he could somehow filter in through the vents and enter the room, and then me?

No, Mel. Stop it. That’s absolutely absurd.

Somewhere in the very early morning hours, I fall asleep. Restless with dreams and nightmares of the masked man. I awaken with my fingers on my clit, just as he had them. Moans and whimpers vibrate my lips as I call for him.

This utter stranger that seemed like a man I’d created from my fantasies. And, yet, someone familiar. A person from my past.

My alarm buzzes. When I reach for the light, I brush the note I’d not dared read last night onto the floor. It opens as I sit up with my legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Like a natural disaster, I can’t look away from the written words on the card.

Your ears will hum from the thrill of the chase

Just as I dip my tongue in for one little taste

A sobering Melody on strings so thin

Secret places where you would walk right in

Notes of your past sing an ominous tune

And The Reaper will find you there at noon

My heart skips a beat. The Reaper… He wants to see me somewhere atnoon? That could be tricky with Jake being so needy. Especially with me just taking off on him like I did.

Some level of irritation rises inside me. How long has it been since I had a proper vacation? A sick day? I have savings and a hearty retirement account now. Maybe not enough to live off of until I die and I do still enjoy the work, but if Jake has a problem with me leaving yesterday, so be it.

With all the confidence I can muster, I call him, knowing he’s in the shower or still sleeping. I hope to reach his voice mail. Fortunately, it goes straight to it and I choke out a message.

“Hi, I’m sick today and won’t be coming into the office. I’ll be there tomorrow. I think your assistant can help you manage things.” Pressing the button to end the call in a hurry, I shake my shoulders to prevent myself from calling back and begging for forgiveness for lying. For playing hooky. And to make sure Jake has everything he needs today. Ugh! Will there just be a mountain of work tomorrow when I return?

As I get ready for a day of adventure, the worries of work leave while I contemplate the next clue. My belly flips thinking about seeing Reaper again and just what he’ll do to me. His note seems to make what he wants very clear: atasteof me. With excitement, I spend extra time preparing myself for the man in the mask and study the written words again as I dress in a short skirt and sweater. I mean, if he’s going to spend time down there, may as well give him easy access, right?

Ears hum, strings thin, notes, sing… It seems as if he’s hinting at a place with music. The only one I know is the record store I would go to alone when I was in high school. Some stoners worked the counter after class let out and it was the only time I could really find musicIenjoyed. Not what all the cheerleaders were listening to. It was so rare I got to beme. And listening to those records was one of those treasured times.

Everyone was into pop or rock. I found a deeper appreciation for punk and ska during those years. Albums none of my frenemies would dare listen to. Sure, I ended up making out with some of the grungy pot heads in the back from time to time, but mainly I was there for the tunes. Those harmonious notes that would have me dancing underneath big headphones in a glass listening booth.

“That’s it!” I gasp. He wants to meet in one of those booths, I’m sure of it. Was he one of the alternative boys that rode skateboards there that I hooked up with?

Just before noon, I wander into Earphonium and glance around with a smile. Not one thing has changed. It evensmellsthe same. All the plywood walls are coated with record albums signed by the artists. Even the kids behind the counter look similar, but younger than I recall.

One gives me a head nod when I enter, scanning my outfit and probably laughing to himself about what a stiff like me is doing in a store like this. The plastic sleeves covering the albums tickle my fingers as I saunter down an aisle until I find the one I want. Something I haven’t heard since back then.

Lifting it up, I wave it at the guys up front, but they don’t even pay me attention, talking about an apparent wild party that occurred last night. Like a rote memory, my feet head straight to the back where someone is playing a guitar in one booth. A tingle in my brain rocks my vision of me, at sixteen, sneaking down this same hall. Passion overwhelmed me as I would kiss whatever musician of the moment I had to hide from my popular friends and the jocks.

As I skirt past the door of whoever is playing the electric chorus, my heart stutters. With a flat palm, I press on the cold glass, absorbing the sound waves and urging the figure to turn around.

It’s a man wearing a green hoodie…

The knob is silent when I turn it and enter the small booth, but the player doesn’t stop his notes. In fact, it twists into a discordant refrain, a rendition of a song I should know. But the words are lost to me now.

Reaper hums a tune and I could sing along, but I don’t want to. If I do, I know it will only hold embarrassment of something done or said so many years ago. The melody is a wound left untouched by time.

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