October Paranormal Fiction Entry #4
Quasi Una Fantasia
By: Travis King
The full moon hovered above a stand of birches outside and shone its light through the window of William Metzger’s study, illuminating his corpse. He was slumped over the keys of his baby grand piano, his head bloodied and mangled. At his feet lay a pistol, the weapon with which he had done himself in.
His three children, all in their fourth decade of life now, stood just inside the entrance to the room, their faces mirroring one another’s horror and confusion. Time seemed to stand still, and all was silent in the aftermath of the gunshot that had brought them barreling into the room, until Geoffrey, the eldest, managed a monosyllabic whisper.
“Why?”
***
Metzger had been a child prodigy. His renditions of classical piano pieces were technically flawless from a very young age, and by the time he had entered his late teens, his study of the music’s meaning and personal understanding of the emotions encapsulated by the music lent a passion to his performances that went unmatched by any other. By the age of 21, he had won numerous awards and was paid handsomely to display his skill at venues worldwide. If it weren’t enough that he had played for three heads of state already and that his name was spoken among music aficionados around the world, his fame was most assuredly secured in New York City on the night of June 27, 1953.
It was a Saturday during the hottest summer on record, and the Met was hosting a gala fundraising event in Central Park. From 6:00 p.m. until 10:00 p.m., the guests enjoyed an evening of cool temperature, food, drink, conversation, speeches, and music. Most of the music was provided by members of the Met’s own orchestra, though a few soloists had been chosen to fill out the program.
It had been expected that Roberta Peters, the renowned coloratura soprano, would be the highlight of the evening’s entertainment, with three solos that allowed her to display the full extent of her range, and that Metzger’s fifteen-minute performance of Liebesträume at the end would serve simply as an enjoyable coda to the whole affair—but something magical happened that night beneath the light of the full moon. As Metzger himself described it later, it was a spontaneous decision, an inspiration in the truest sense of the word; in fact, for almost a full minute after he sat down at the piano, he hadn’t even realized what he had done.
Metzger’s name was announced, and as he took the stage that had been erected in the park, even as the master of ceremonies told the gathered crowd that the night would end with that well-loved piece by Liszt, the young man raised his head toward the heavens. The full moon was high in the sky, nearly halfway to its zenith, and its white light shone down above the trees in the park and the towering buildings of the city, and it embraced him. He was, he later said, overcome by its power. At that very moment, unbeknownst even to himself, he changed his plans. He took his seat at the grand piano, waited for the applause to fade, and then touched his fingers to the keys and played a piece he had never performed publicly before, though he had practiced it many times: Beethoven’s 14th Piano Sonata, the one known popularly as “Moonlight.”
It was as if a spell had been cast over the whole of the crowd. Their initial confusion was quickly replaced by rapture as they listened in total silence from the first few steady bars of the adagio to the final note of the presto agitato, all of which Metzger played with light, deft fingers. For a moment afterward, the silence continued, as the audience came to their senses. One critic described his feelings in the aftermath of the emotional barrage as a sense of rising through a turbulent sea, unable to control one’s movement, yet comforted with “the peace that passeth understanding” brought by the certain knowledge that the surface would soon appear and all would be well.
After that moment of silence had passed, after the spell had been broken, the audience applauded with fervor unrivaled that night, and from that moment on, it was expected that Metzger would play the Moonlight Sonata at every recital he gave—though never again did his rendition of the piece have such a captivating effect on a crowd.
***
In 1962, on Metzger’s eighth wedding anniversary, his wife, Lorraine, tragically succumbed at the young age of 27 to a two-year struggle against cancer. For a year, Metzger avoided the public, and many were beginning to wonder if he would ever perform again when his comeback recital was announced in 1963. He played at the Philharmonic Hall in the new Lincoln Center to a full house, sincere applause, and rave reviews. There was disappointment and confusion, however, when he made it clear both in interviews and again directly to the audience before his performance that he had removed the Moonlight Sonata from his repertoire; he would not play it in public ever again.
He gave no explanation for this decision. It was his prerogative, he claimed, as if that were enough to satisfy the public’s curiosity. It wasn’t, of course, and for the rest of his life, it remained an unexplained mystery within the world of music. When Metzger was discussed, it was almost inevitable that the subject of the Moonlight Sonata would arise; everyone wanted to know one thing.
“Why?”
***
“It reminds me of you, you know. It describes our life together,” Metzger said to the ghost of his dead wife, who sat beside him on the piano bench, as his fingers randomly repeated bars of the first movement.
“Oh?” she replied. “How’s that?”
He started again from the beginning of the piece. “Listen,” he said. “The slow and magical melody of the adagio—that’s the night we met. Central Park, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” said Lorraine’s ghost with a smile. “I haven’t been dead that long. When you think about it, a decade is nothing compared to eternity.”
Metzger smiled back at his wife and then closed his eyes and recalled that night’s events.
***
Everybody wanted to congratulate Metzger on his performance that night at Central Park, but though he was generally a happy-go-lucky person and enjoyed mingling with the crowd, tonight he just wanted to go home and ponder what had happened. He hadn’t planned to play Beethoven, and he certainly hadn’t expected to have that effect on his audience. He managed to sneak away and was just getting into the car the Met had provided him for the night when he heard a young woman’s voice call his name.
He turned to look and saw a raven-haired beauty coming his way. She was around his age, perhaps a little younger. He stood in stunned silence as she walked toward him.
“Mr. Metzger,” she said when she had drawn near, “hi, hello, um.”
It was obvious to Metzger that she was as taken by him as he was by her. He composed himself and decided to take the lead.
“Hello,” he said, extending his hand.
The woman gripped his hand lightly, the star-struck gaze of her green eyes never leaving his face, and she introduced herself. “I’m Lorraine,” she said. “Er, Lorraine Greeley.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Greeley,” Metzger replied. “What might I do for you this evening?”
After a brief silence during which she looked down at her foot as she lightly skidded it back and forth in a nervous manner along the gray concrete of the sidewalk, Lorraine then looked back up and said, “Well, gee, I just wanted to say that you played beautifully tonight. Your music had me in its thrall.”
“Oh? Why, thank you. You were in the audience then? If I’d seen your pretty face, I wouldn’t have left so quickly.”
Lorraine blushed. “Gee, that’s real nice of you to say, but no, I wasn’t there.” She frowned. “I’m new to the city. I want to be on Broadway someday, but for now I’m just a waitress. I couldn’t afford such an affair as this, but I love music, really love it, so I was listening with the security men down by the barricade.”
For the first time, Metzger noticed Lorraine’s clothes. Her skirt and short overcoat, though nice, were hardly attire befitting a formal function. He was accustomed to moving in wealthy circles, but he didn’t judge those less fortunate in their financial affairs. If it weren’t for his own musical talent, he would probably be dressed in similar middle-class apparel—and probably still working his family’s ranch back home in Iowa, not here on the streets of New York with this lovely new acquaintance.
“Well, I’m certainly glad you enjoyed it,” he said sincerely. An awkward silence ensued, during which both fidgeted, and then Metzger spoke again. “Hey, listen, you know, I know a lot of people in the arts. Maybe I could get you an audition. You do have talent, right? What do you do? Singing, dancing, acting?”
Lorraine’s eyes widened more than Metzger thought possible, and she nodded rapidly and repeatedly as she rambled her response. “Yes, yes, I can do it all. Singing, especially. I love to sing. I love music. I think I said that already. Anyway, do you really think you could do that for me? I sure would appreciate it. I mean, gee, it’s been my dream forever—”
“Forever?” Metzger interrupted with a chuckle. “And how old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen years is hardly forever.”
“Well, not really forever, then, but you know what I mean. Anyway, I packed my bags the week after my birthday, and I came out here from Indianapolis. I’ve only been here a couple months now, and I’m not really—”
Metzger interrupted her, chuckling once again as he said, “Whoa there, little filly. You sure can talk. Let’s go somewhere and discuss this, eh? I mean, we can’t just stand on the sidewalk the rest of the night.”
“Oh, right. Er, sorry, Mr. Metzger.”
“William. Call me William, please.”
“Oh, okay. William.” She smiled as she said his name.
He smiled back and said, “So, Lorraine, are you hungry?”
“No, not really,” she replied. “I ate after my shift at the restaurant.”
Metzger thought for a moment and said, “Well, then, if it’s not too forward, how about drinks at my place? Coffee? Wine? I have the hard stuff, too, but I don’t imagine that really appeals to you.”
Lorraine giggled. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried it. But I like coffee—and wine.”
“After you, then,” he said, gesturing toward the door, which the chauffeur had been holding open during the entirety of the conversation.
Once they were in, the chauffeur closed the door, took his own seat in the front behind the wheel, turned on the lights, started the car, and pulled away from the curb.
***
The two shared a bottle of Merlot in Metzger’s expensive 40th-floor apartment, and they talked for over an hour that night about their respective pasts and Lorraine’s career plans. It turned out that the girl could, in fact, sing quite well, and Metzger complimented her on her skill, saying, “There’s no reason they shouldn’t want a voice like that on Broadway.”
It was nearing midnight when Metzger asked if he could call Lorraine a cab to take her home.
“Actually,” she said, giving him another of her shy looks, “I was…well, I was kind of wondering…that is…I was hoping—I’d really love it if you’d play the Moonlight Sonata for me. Just for me, before I go. If you don’t mind, that is. It’s just such a beautiful piece, and I’ve had such a nice time here with you, and—”
“Shh,” said Metzger, as he placed a finger lightly over Lorraine’s lips, to which she responded by falling instantly silent.
Metzger rose from the comfort of his plush armchair and strolled across the room to the upright piano, where he took a seat and acceded to Lorraine’s request, losing himself in the music and the moment.
When he was finished, he saw that, at some point, his guest had come to stand at his side. It was late, almost midnight, and the moon was reaching its highest point. Its light spilled in through the apartment’s windows, framing Lorraine’s face in its spectral glow. Her eyes reflected the moonlight. Tears—just a few—traced their way in rivulets down her cheeks.
“Beautiful,” Lorraine said.
Metzger stood, put a finger to Lorraine’s chin, tilted her head upward, and said, “So are you.”
Their lips met, and after a moment of kissing, parted, allowing tongues to explore each other’s mouths with gentle passion. Before long, they found themselves in Metzger’s bed, bare bodies pressed together, their slow, tender lovemaking illuminated by the pale radiance of the moon above.
***
“I knew then,” said the apparition at Metzger’s side, “that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you—that I would spend the rest of my life with you.”
“And I knew the same, my love,” Metzger said with a wistful smile, which soon disappeared, to be replaced by a slight quiver of his bottom lip. “Such a short life together, though, ours was.”
“Short,” said the ghost, “but sweet.”
Metzger managed a half smile and said, “Just like the second movement of the sonata” as he began playing exactly that.
It lasted only a few minutes, but it was long enough for Metzger to call to mind joyful scenes from his life with Lorraine: the year of courtship before their marriage, during which the young woman began her Broadway career; the very day of their wedding and the honeymoon following; the birth of first one, then two, and finally three children; the places they traveled together, the sights they saw, and the people they met.
“Too soon,” he said, as the end of the movement drew near. “Over too soon.”
Without pausing, Metzger launched into the third and final movement.
“Presto agitato,” he said. “Fast, jarring. Just like the cancer eating away at your body, attacking your cells.”
He played straight through, violently, tears flowing like waterfalls from his eyes to his hands and the keys below. When he was finished, he went back to the slow beginning movement. If he stopped, Lorraine would disappear, and he wanted to enjoy her presence for as long as he could, until the sun rose to drive the moon away.
***
June 27. That was the only day each year that Metzger indulged himself in the memories the Moonlight Sonata brought to mind, the only day he yielded to the desire to play the piece, the only day he allowed the magic of the music to possess his soul. The date had special meaning; so much had happened on the 27th day of June over the years. It was the date he had met Lorraine after performing at the Met’s fundraiser; it was the date, one year later, that he and Lorraine were bound together in holy matrimony; it was the date, eight years after that, that Lorraine had died.
He played the piece each year after Lorraine’s death, on that day only, spending hours in his study, reminiscing until midnight, when the 27th officially became the 28th.
Over the years, Metzger’s children had grown accustomed to their father’s habit of retiring after supper into his study on the 27th of June and playing the Moonlight Sonata for hours on end. They would remain awake for a while, listening to the graceful melody that their father brought forth from the instrument, and after that while had passed, they would allow it to lull them into slumber’s embrace. As they grew older, they wondered about this, and Metzger refused to give details, telling them simply that he did it because of their mother, that it reminded him of her. They accepted this as children must when a parent’s tone brooks no discussion, and they pressed him no further, instead just allowing themselves to enjoy the rare occasions the music of the Moonlight Sonata resounded throughout the house until the witching hour.
Something different happened in 1972, though. When the children rose around 6:00 a.m., as was their wont, the sound of the piano still filled their home. The sun had not yet risen, and so they went their way down the stairs by the incandescence of electric light, curious as to why their father was playing the Moonlight Sonata again this morning—or, indeed, if he had even paused to sleep that night and was playing it not again, but still.
“Someone should poke a head in,” said Daphne, the middle child, as they stood in the front room.
“Not me,” replied 17-year-old Geoffrey. “You know Dad doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s in his study. It was your idea; you do it.”
“No way, Geoff,” Daphne said.
Jocelyn, the youngest, sighed as only a girl on the verge of adolescence can, and said, “I’ll do it.”
She crept slowly, like a spy on some TV show, overly careful of making a sound. Geoffrey rolled his eyes, certain that bare feet on a carpeted floor would not be heard through a heavy door from a room in which a piano was being played.
When Jocelyn finally reached the door, she placed her hand on the knob and gradually turned it until she could push the door open, which she did, in just as careful a manner, until it was ajar only enough to see her father seated at his piano, the same outfit he had been wearing the day before, slouched slightly as though he were tired, head turned almost 90 degrees to his right, lips moving in the pattern of speech. The girl watched her dad for only a brief moment before easing the door closed again and returning to her siblings, who stood in wait.
She described the scene to them.
“Talking to someone?” Daphne asked when Jocelyn was done. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” said the younger sister. “There’s no one there.”
“I don’t understand then,” said Daphne.
“Maybe he’s gone crazy,” Jocelyn suggested. “It’s been ten years since Mom died, you know. That’s an important number. Maybe he couldn’t take it anymore and it finally drove him nuts.”
“Jocelyn!” snapped Geoffrey reproachfully. “Dad’s not crazy.”
“Oh yeah, then you explain it to me. Why would he stay up all night playing? Why is he talking to someone who’s not there?”
Geoffrey shrugged. He couldn’t think of a sufficient answer either then or when Jocelyn spoke again a few seconds later. Though he doubted insanity was the answer, he didn’t know what the truth could be, and he wondered the same thing his sisters did. The very question to which Jocelyn gave voice was also running through his head.
“Why?”
***
Metzger had doubted his own sanity when his deceased wife first appeared to him, just as the full moon was rising. He felt her presence before he turned his head and saw her standing by the window. He stopped playing at that moment, and the apparition faded. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, and saw nothing. He told himself he must be hallucinating.
He gave himself a moment to recover from the surprise and then resumed playing. Again he felt the presence. This time it seemed nearer. He turned his head again, and this time the ghost sat beside him, wearing his wife’s face and the clothing in which she was buried. He was about to leap from the bench when the ghost spoke, its words sounding in Lorraine’s voice, just as Metzger remembered it. “Keep playing.”
Stunned, frightened, confused, he could do nothing but obey, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the spectral figure seated beside him.
The specter gazed back, a hint of a smile on its beautiful face.
“Is that really you, Lorraine?” Metzger asked after a few minutes had passed and the shimmering being showed no signs of leaving.
“It’s me, William.”
“But—but, how?”
“Magic,” Lorraine replied, her small smile growing. “The magic of the moonlight, of the music, and of our love.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Metzger said, his voice shaky. “I’ve played this piece every year on our anniversary, and you’ve never come to me before.”
The ghost shook her head. “I’ve been here, my love, listening. But only on a night like this, when all the conditions are met, can I manifest like this to interact.”
“Conditions?” Metzger wondered.
“I don’t fully understand it myself. I’m not even sure why or how I know. Afterlife is a tenuous existence. All I know is that it must be this night—the anniversary of the night we met—and the moon must be full, as it was then. It only happens every 19 years.”
Metzger sat in silence for a while, thinking about what Lorraine had told him. “And I have to be playing the sonata?”
The ghost nodded.
“Can you stay ’til morning, or just until midnight?”
Lorraine laughed. It was a very lively laugh, Metzger was pleased to note, just as it had been before she had died. “Like Cinderella, you mean?” she said.
“What? Well, no, I just mean, well, I usually stop playing at midnight, because that’s when the new day begins. So, if it’s a different day, see—”
“The calendar is somewhat of an arbitrary thing,” Lorraine interrupted. “I can stay all night, until the full moon sets—as long as you have the energy to play the music.”
“Of course,” said Metzger. “Anything for you.” He turned his gaze away from his late wife, closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the experience. He hadn’t played this piece in Lorraine’s presence in over a decade.”
For a single run-through of the sonata, all was silent save for the music; neither of the room’s occupants—either living or dead—said a word.
“That was beautiful,” said Lorraine, after the man who had been her husband finished the final movement and started again from the first note.
“It reminds me of you, you know,” Metzger replied. “It describes our life together.”
They reminisced about the moments they had shared, as he played the piece through once again.
He continued to play, over and over, never tiring of the notes, for they were the magic he wielded, the magic that kept Lorraine by his side.
“What’s the afterlife like?” he wondered.
It was, she told him, a tenuous thing—less a place than an experience. She did her best to describe it, lapsing into the rambling language he remembered from when she was alive. It was a state of shifting levels of light and sound, rarely clear, but entirely peaceful—at least, for her. “I’ve never met another ghost, so I can’t speak for the rest of them.”
Metzger chuckled at this. “I’ve missed you,” he said.
“And I’ve missed you,” Lorraine responded. “Tell me how things have been since my death. How are you? How’s your career? What are the children like?”
“It’s not the same without you around, but we’ve managed to make the best of it,” he began. The conversation continued the whole night through.
As the moon reached the horizon, Lorraine’s form began to fade.
“Don’t go,” Metzger said, and he began to cry. “Please, don’t go.”
“I’ll be back,” Lorraine replied. “I promise.”
“I can’t wait that long. It seems like forever.”
“Nineteen years is hardly forever,” said the ghost, just as the moon sunk below the horizon, and then she disappeared.
***
Metzger spent all of June 28, 1972, in his bed.
That was the day his children would later mark as the beginning of his onset of depression, which only got worse as the years went by.
Before long, he stopped playing the piano in public and turned to supporting himself with his savings and the meager royalties he earned from recordings of his performances. As soon as the children were fully grown and living on their own, he sold his spacious four-bedroom home and moved into something smaller. A single bedroom to sleep in and a study for the piano were all he needed, he assured them.
They checked in on him as much as they could, and at least one of them made sure to schedule time off from work and family obligations to be with their father around the time of his anniversary, when his depression was at its worst. As often as possible, they gathered together to support him on that day, to cook him dinner, reminisce about old times, and listen from the front room as he played his piano until midnight.
All three were gathered there that night in 1991, 19 years after their mother’s ghost had first appeared, unbeknownst to them. After only an hour of the dulcet sounds of their father’s piano, there was a prolonged silence followed unexpectedly by the clamorous sound of a gun being fired as William Metzger ended his own life.
They hadn’t known he had purchased a gun; they hadn’t even realized that he’d wanted to die. The depression seemed no worse than it had been the past few years, and so they wondered why he would do such a thing.
They found the answer handwritten on a piece of paper atop the piano.
“I can’t stand the waiting,” it said. “Though each year that passes brings me closer to your mother, the amount of time I must wait seems to grow longer. I love you all, my children, but you are grown and can take care of yourselves. You need me no longer, and I need her much more than I can explain. I saw her almost two decades ago, and I saw her again tonight. This probably makes little sense to you, and you are still quite likely wondering why I would take my own life. All I can say is that when it comes to a love as deep and abiding as the love I shared with your mother, nineteen years is indeed forever.
“Know this, though: We are not truly gone. We live on in spirit, joined by the magic of the moonlight and the music and our love. Wherever and whenever these three conjoin, there we shall be. Watch for us, and if you look hard enough, you may see us dancing to our song beneath the light of the full moon shining above.”
The End
Visit Travis King at “Apophenia: Stray Thoughts From The Mind Of A Writer”
