The Cabin Concerto

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. At first, we had assumed some vagrant had taken the place as a shelter. Most of the townsfolk had paid it no mind, and for a while, so did I. I walked past that cabin almost every day for years, and it wasn't unheard of that some troublesome teens would use it as a hangout or that a dark drifter would come by and take up residence for the night. In fact, It wasn't until I heard the music that I paid any attention at all.

The most enchanting melodies filled the woods of Earl Springs, echoing from the tree trunks and spilling through countless leaves. The sultry soprano of the piano in tandem with the chirping birds was mesmerizing.

It was no concern; maybe a musician had bought the old cabin and was using it as a place to practice or compose. Plus, whoever it was wasn't bothersome. The surrounding area had been cleaned up, and the refuse of wanderers and college kids had been disposed of; the walls were restored and restained. That old cabin was starting to look good as new.

So “let them play.” I said. This musician was starting to be a most welcome addition to the old springs. Their music filled the town with splendor and joy; what could it hurt to have them around?

By the time people started going missing, no one had drawn the connection to the mysterious musician at all.

It started so slowly. It took days to realize that Old Mr. Mock hadn't been at bingo for the last few days.

You have to understand that Mr. Mock was quite the homebody. But when they checked his home, there was no body at all. It was as if he had left everything behind all of a sudden. His door was unlocked. Though in such a small town, that was hardly extraordinary. His bible was left open. Though such a man of god surely would keep his word accessible. No. These things were not out of the ordinary. It was his dog, Bruiser; that absence was odd. Old Bruiser was a mean thing. Stuck outside most days, he would growl and bark at passers-by causing many a noise complaint.

I suppose the quiet was pleasant. Perhaps that's why no one checked on Mr. Mock as soon as they maybe should have.

On the night of his disappearance, the town was filled with a funeral dirge most decadent, punctuated by a new sound.—a cello, deep and bassy in its growling tenor.

After his sudden departure, the town was quiet, aside from the tune. We hardly expected it when the local librarian, Ms. Fletchley, disappeared as I'm sure you can imagine, we were all quite shocked.

Ms. Fletchley had worked at the Earl Springs Public library for years and never missed a day. No vacations, no sick days, just decades of dutiful Dewey decimals. And yet, just the same as before. She was gone as if she had never been there at all.

It's hard to say if we missed her, the townsfolk, and I. She was a miserable old crone she was. Constantly shushing at the slightest of sounds in and out of the library. Her lips eternally curled up in a snarling “Shhhhh.”

Of course, we were curious about her whereabouts, But honestly, it was so lovely to have a nice uninterrupted chat in the library. So we didnt pay it much mind. After all. Who would want to silence such sensational sounds?

Shortly after, It seemed the magnificent musician must have been experimenting with a new instrument, no doubt trying to find something the composition had been missing. Though some complained, I thought the addition of the rainstick and its calming shushing noises was an inspired choice.

The music was ever-present now, its tantalizing melodies drifting through the streets of Earl Springs like bright ribbons in the wind. Who would ever want silence? When there was such beauty to be heard? Sometimes I would wander close to the old cabin and let the song wash over me. I swayed to the music. Letting it fill my soul until I was content. Such an Incredible rhythm, such an excellent tone, So compelling, who could dare to stop such a captivating concerto?

I had made up my mind. I would go to the cabin in the woods, and I would meet the musician, the magnificent maestro molding melodies so moving and marvelous. I would thank them for mixing such magic into their music.

So one day, on my way back from work. I got closer than I ever had before. To think, this old cabin I had passed by every day was now the source of such wonder. As I approached, the song swelled to an elegant crescendo enveloping me in its chorus. The door opened as I reached for the doorknob, and I was welcomed into its orchestral hall.

I had not seen such majesty before.

There was no musician at all! Of course not. No human could compose such an intricate and fascinating harmony. I looked around the cabin. Lit with its candles and light traces of moonlight and took in the ensemble.

Fused to its four walls were instruments of many shapes and sizes, all playing their respective parts. Beautiful instruments born of blood, bone and sinew stretched and shaped in such reverent reverberance. I understood what must happen now. Though its music was so lovely. It had always been missing something.

This place, this tune, had always brought such joy. It's only fair that I give something back. Become a part of something new, and so I join with my neighbors. I will play.

I will play so beautifully.