Chapter 1

"James, please ... That's so naïve. Costume parties are just a chance for chicks to wear the slutty clothes they wish they could wear every day!"

Regrettably, I had to endure this foul assertion from Jeremy at just such an event, in mixed company no less. Oktoberfest girl Jessika, who was posing nearby, gave him an offended whack on the chest.

"Jeremy!" she cried. "You're such a crude asshole!"

Was she really offended? I had not a clue. Her breasts were significantly amplified this evening, so perhaps she was not in the best position to argue her case, though I agreed with her opening statement. Jeremy was a repeat offender in this domain, so lately it had been tedious to watch him get a rise out of the ladies with the stupid shit he said.

"I'm heading out," I announced amid the din of drunkards and stale rap, but if anyone heard me, no one gave a damn. Neither did I, frankly. I wasn't sure of late why I was where I was. My junior year of regimented college life was taking a hard tack towards boredom, and sucking on the teat of sorority parties was a new low for me. It was one thing to have the occasional fling with a cute stand partner in orchestra, since there existed the possibility of a connection. Yes, Joelle was quite ... musical, I had to admit, even if she had moved on quickly. But there was an element of sadness to the scene from which I was currently retiring. Why I'd ever let Jeremy start dragging me out this semester, I will not ever know.

I slipped out the side door of the house, squeezing past significant swathes of bare flesh. Living in a warm clime meant that the costumes could be much more revealing than those that might be worn at the higher latitudes this time of year. There was hardly a chill in the air to goose-bump legs or nip at cleavage, the latter of which was plentiful and sometimes profound.

Hmm, maybe Jeremy did have a point. Half the guys here weren't even dressed up, and yet the girls dangled their bodies around the place clad in all manner of burlesque and baroque outfits. Strategic rips and outright omissions gave the boys a chance to see an extra ten percent of flesh that they might not see the rest of the year, even with the usual prevalence of short skirts and tank tops on campus.

Tiresome. How was someone supposed to cut through the display and talk about anything beyond red plastic cups? Jeremy had promised that the girls were easy. This was an exceptional state of affairs if you were primarily horny, but then what? How many times was 'easy' going to have any meaning? Once, maybe twice. There was always the possibility of being surprised, of course. Jillian was a ballet dancer, but sadly I didn't find that out until well after the morning after.

"James. Leavin' already?"

I shrugged as Jeff emerged from the shadows smoking a thick cigar, with a petite face-painted vixen in checkered tights on his arm. I had no idea what her name was or what she was supposed to be. Jeff had made the slightest of efforts with a lazily placed trilby, or maybe he had simply stolen it from the girl.

"Yeah. Not feeling it tonight."

"Come on, you can't be bored!" he drawled exaggeratedly. "It's Halloween, bro! Look around you. Surely there must be somethin' fun to do?" He turned to his companion. "Any of your friends that might be into hangin' out with my friend here, Julie? He's a world-class fiddler, see, so he's probably real good with his fingers, if you know what I mean!"

I winced as Julie looked me over and grinned.

"I might know a gal," she said. "Depends on how long he's willin' to stay and play! I can introduce ya..."

There's always that moment of physical temptation. What might Julie's friend look like? Would she have that look that I like? Would she challenge me? Would she connect with me in some way that would blow my mind? Would I even be able to tell, with all the masks being worn?

"Don't worry about it," I muttered, deflecting the idea with a wave of my hand. "I'm out. Take care."

"Ya goin' to your aunt's house?" Julie called after me.

I turned and looked at her carefully. The question had been delivered a bit hastily. What did she know or care about my aunt?

"Yes, I am. Why?"

"Give her a howdy from me if ya like. I know her, from ... a long time ago. And maybe ya know this, but you can cut through the woods from here. Much shorter than takin' the way 'round."

"I know how to get home, but thank you all the same. Good night to y'all."

She nodded, and Jeff shrugged at her as I continued on my way. Costume parties. There were simply too many layers of fakery in place to ever find anything hidden within. I struck out along the road and eventually entered the Jeffersons' field, scything through knee-high grass with denim-clad shins. The insects screamed and whizzed continuously, hardly perturbed by my distracted trampling. Surrounded by the hum of nature, I immediately felt more relaxed. The sounds were cacophonous, but there was also a drawn-out melody to it that was beautiful. It was not to be made sense of, but enjoyed for what it was.

Perhaps I was just in a cruel mood this evening. It was unfair to hang my troubles on the underwired push-ups of others. After all, that house had been full of happy faces, expectant that a day of careful primping would lead to a night of reckless excitement. There's nothing wrong with having some fun, I suppose. Beer was guaranteed, and getting or giving some head was high in probability. Some would go further still. I wasn't forced to be there – indeed, I had left – and Jeff, Jessika, Jeremy and the rest would do just fine. That didn't solve my worries, but at least I would not be a burden to anyone tonight.

Ahead, the slivered moon was reclining on the mattress formed by the tree canopy that marked the beginning of my aunt's property. It was a loose boundary since she also owned the land we called Jeffersons', but the latter tended to it, acting as the human interface between poultry, pumpkins and populace since my aunt was too occupied to want that job. The dark forest slowly grew in stature as my uneven and wandering pace brought me closer. To my right, the old rear barn thrust itself up into the black outline of the land, hulking geometrically in front of the fractal mess of the giant corn maze that lay beyond. Many a day and night I'd spent in that hoary reverberant structure, playing the fiddle before it grew up and turned into a violin. A squeaky St. Anne's Reel took years to become Ysaye's obsession, and it had happened mostly in there.

What was that, now? That squeaky sound I'd just heard was too familiar. Was I imagining the young fiddle replaying in my head? Perhaps, but look there: a movement by the barn. A vagrant animal? Something graceful there had slipped out of sight. I stopped in the field, wondering if it was blessing, trouble, or simply run-of-the-mill. It was late for wanderers. The 49th Annual Autumn Festival had concluded hours ago. Next year's auspiciously numbered event was sure to be even bigger and better, but for now it was over. The hoagie truck and fresh-pressed cider van were parked in far away November fields, and the hogs were likely relieved to be out of their obstacle course and wallowing in their mud instead. Mist-dampened girls in short cutoff shorts and tied-up shirts had long since gone home to bed, taking the fantasies of every young guy in the field with them, to say nothing of the thoughts of older men. "Yes, grandpappy, that there was a fourteen-year-old ass cheek you just stared at. Now spit out yer cud in the bucket, friend, 'cause we ain't allowin' no drugs at the festival."

I knew, because I was taking tickets earlier that day. Why? Running the small farm cooperative and the roadside produce stand was within the Jeffersons' domain, but the added work derived from thousands of people windmilling about the farm this month required some extra help. I was glad to oblige and besides, it saved me the hassle of finding a costume for the party. Denim overalls, a five-day beard, and a fedora were enough to authentically man the ticket stand and also do double duty at the sorority party without drawing too much attention on either end.

All manner of folk had come to the grounds that day, but as the heat of the afternoon sun infiltrated my head I'd grown very woozy and delirious. This led to the slightest glimpse of the most remarkable gal I'd seen all day. She was tall and thoughtful, looking at me directly but standing behind a group of folks in such a way that I could only partially make out her face. Her cheek was decorated with a scar that was not enough to mute her palpable beauty, and a thin black ribbon encircled her forehead like the fine shadow of an invisible crown. Her visible eye carried a look that was too deep for her age. There was comfort in there, the real Southern comfort, something I had never known until I'd moved to my aunt's from the place I used to call home in the mountains of New York.

The girl was not real, of course. I'd imagined her, maybe even wished upon her for one moment, but then a man being herded by six rambunctious brats was most put out by my distracted distribution of faulty change. When I looked back but a moment later, she was gone. Another ghost, and instead I found myself staring at a guy waiting on line with a predictably pretty girl in white Keds. She clasped his arm like she might the family Bible, and yet his pseudo-gangster dress was the apparent underpinning of his perpetually challenging look that seemed to scream, "She's mine, bitch!" as if the way to keep her forever was to fend off others with a snarl of fake gold teeth rather than devote himself to her, directly and unconditionally. A decided waste of energy, fool.

On and on they came, trudging impatiently through the bottleneck of the admission gate. I'd stared at everyone that had come in that day and it was assumed that everyone got out. Maybe I was one short on the out-count, though, since the movement up by the barn was unmistakable, at least in my mind.

I liked the Jeffersons enough to alter my route and briefly investigate. The detour around the barn would not be lengthy, and I might even find something amiss and help the old man out. It wasn't a necessary assistance, since I was well past the point of needing to make up for past transgressions with Jakob Jefferson. He was a simple man and supposedly God-fearin', though I wasn't really convinced of that. Regardless, it had been some years since I'd had a bit of an incident with him over one of his lovely daughters. The younger Katie, rather than the older 'Jealous' Jenny as I sometimes called her, and it had happened in this very barn I was now approaching, to be precise. That was not unexpected; this was the most natural place for the two of us to be back in those days. For years we learned and played twin fiddles together, her and I. All manner of musical mountains were surmounted in that old byre. Alas, one day we were caught in a ... misunderstanding of sorts, yes, such that if barns had a back seat, we might have been caught about to climb over the front seat by a gun-wielding father. And God-fearin' my ass. If he truly was, he would have shot me on the spot and then maybe things would have turned out superior for everyone involved.

Wretched memories swiftly and unexpectedly flooded within me. Immediately, she had been forbidden to communicate with me and was sent away to a far-off boarding school, where she was subsequently killed by a drunk driver. The news had been severely devastating, even if I only came to learn it quite some time later through my aunt. Upon hearing of it I paid a visit to Jakob, with both confrontation and consolation on my mind. He blamed us both in equal parts and then told me to get the hell out of his sight, forever. I was not so easily swayed, though, so ever since that day I'd worked hard for him and his wife – June, a real sweetheart – at any job that wouldn't risk a hand injury, of course. Eventually he stopped viewing me as a thorn, and we found some peace, though his other daughter still seemed to have something against me to this day. No matter. I hardly saw her.

My chores included the continuation of my playing the weekly contra-dance in the old barn for them and their friends. Nothing like a bit of fiddlin' and a swig of the old crow for to kick up the dust and forget old miseries. There were some real people at these dances, I might add, costumed in their own way with twirly dresses and decorated hats. There were also the hard-stomping boots with heels that were practically bookmatched to the barn's wooden floor. What a visceral accompaniment it was! But it was lacking something significant ever since the twin fiddles had become one, and with time I fell away from it.

The barn loomed up as the twin-windowed front foreshortened into a towering face. I lightly stepped to the far end and peeked around the corner. The moon was just bright enough to faintly illuminate the clearing, and nothing violated the space here. I was about to continue on my way when I was halted by the mental image of the barn's face I'd seen just a moment ago. The mouth ... It had been open. Backtracking, my fingers quietly confirmed what my eyes had surely imagined, for the darkness of the interior was no gloomier than the ancient black paint of the sliding door. There was a gap, and it was wide enough for something graceful to slide inside. And now it came back to me, of course: that was the squeak I'd heard. The trespasser had fallen victim to the rustic alarm system. Indeed, it was the extra time provided by this very sound that perhaps had saved my life on that day that Jakob was pointing the twin-barrel shotgun at me.

I knew the barn well enough to enter confidently. Unless the Jeffersons had suddenly decided to make new use of it, the floor would be clear and sturdy. I stepped in, hearing my boots click and echo on the wood floor. There was no light to get acclimated to, so I went on sound.

"Hello?"

It was a lark, of course. What troublemaker would ever answer such a call in such a situation?

"Hello..."

Well, her, apparently. The immediate appearance of the calm voice left me thunderstruck for a moment.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Who are you?"

I chuckled. Some wayward teenager was frightened out of her mind and had taken to echoing my words as a childish way to slough off the nerves while she awaited her fate. Then again, the voice did not sound nervous.

"I'm James, if you must know. Are you lost?" I pressed, keeping it simple.

"Certainly not. Found, perhaps."

An odd statement. Her voice was clearly emanating from up in the loft.

"Do you need help, then?" I asked.

"What can you give?"

"Do you need a ride somewhere?" Not that I had a car, but something could surely be arranged.

"Not at all."

"Okay. Are you ... supposed to be here?"

"Are we ever supposed to be anywhere?"

I struggled to make sense of things, feeling suddenly disoriented in the darkness. Who was this person? If my memory served me right, there'd be a flashlight around here ... Probably right over...

"Are you lost, James?" she asked.

"Heh. No, I know this old barn quite well."

"Then why do you need light?"

My hand had just gripped the barrel of the flashlight as she said this. I took a sharp breath, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. I started to think that the voice was perhaps familiar. Someone had followed me home from the party, probably put up to it by that misogynistic prankster. Ah, of course. Why else would Jeff's new girl – Judy was it? – have inquired about my route home. The silly nymph had tipped their hand with that awkward question. The ruse was up.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I asked.

"Certainly not."

"Let me see you then. I'm turning on the light."

"You can do whatever you like, as can I."

I took up the flashlight and flicked the switch, aiming it before me. A quick scan of the barn revealed nothing, but I didn't have the height to see the far reaches of the loft.

"I'm coming up," I announced. "Is that okay, or is there a crowd of you waiting to scare the shit out of me?"

No answer, though the sliding sounds of someone moving about seemed to tickle my ear. I steeled myself, hoping I wasn't in for an ambush of some kind. Regardless, this was already several orders of magnitude more interesting than the depressing party I had just left. I pocketed the light and carefully climbed the lone ladder that led up to the loft, pausing on each rung, and once calling out to her with no reply. A vague thump made me pause for a little longer than I wanted, but everything remained quiet. As my head crossed the plane of the upper floor, I shined the light around again. Now this was strange. Nothing out of the ordinary to be seen here either.

"Hello?"

Silence. I finished the climb and hurried over to the side window. The pane was open, and I realized I had underestimated my mysterious interlocutor. It was quite a leap to get down, but not prohibitively high. It had to be the method of escape. I looked out over the grounds, but saw no one. She could not have gone far, though. Without further delay, I ran back to the ladder and exited the barn. A few sprints around the exterior left me breathing hard, but no closer to finding the creature I sought.

Perhaps it was all hallucination. Was I that lonely that I was reduced to inventing ghosts? I lived with my aunt, sure, but that was not always guarantee of present company. Janice was even more solitary than I was, a fact that was appreciated when I practiced my music. But withdrawn aunt notwithstanding, I was aware of looking for something that I wasn't finding of late. The resonance of my instrument was lacking somewhat. Practicing and playing had become dull. It had been months – no, I had to admit it, years – since the decline started. And what was the solution? To find another person who wasn't like everyone else, and could hear the world in the odd way I heard it sing to me ... Apparently I was now reduced to hearing voices in my head.

"Hello!"

I shouted several times both within and exterior to the barn. There was no further response, as much as I craved it. I huffed in frustration. If only I had another chance, I wouldn't have been so aggressive. I searched the barn carefully once more with the flashlight, finding an old round of rosin I had formerly discarded in a fit of anger at its poor quality. There was my first bow, hanging from a rusty nail, the horsehairs long since disintegrated into a waterfall of white tendrils. I took it up and felt its brutish balance, all lifelike spring lost when the tension snapped away strand by delicate strand in the desiccating heat of each summer since it became second-string so many years ago.

Ah, and there: the tallies, of course. A mark of how much time I had practiced in this most rural of concert halls. Still lying nearby were the heavy mallet and thick chisel, tools I had used at the end of each session to stamp out the hours on the exposed stud that ran at eye level around the barn. I had even started on the one at waist level when the first had been filled. Inch by inch the crude dents had inexorably marched down the line. That was until I had stopped coming here.

Now that I'd had some time to cast my memory back to before I became a conservatory rat, I realized that ghosts in the barn were not new. Whenever I had practiced in this structure, so solidly built by the Wheeling brothers back in 1811, I would see ... things. They were the gremlins of practice, perhaps, but then again they had never followed me to the studios I now had the opportunity to use. Those studios, which seemed to be sucking the life out of me with their hard, sour walls and stuffy ambience. Two-hundred year old lumber was much more appealing as a critical audience. It's been said that it takes many thousands of hours to become a master, but even if my tally surpassed this unlikely number, a violin master I was not. In fact, the idea of it was steadily slipping away with each year of disenchanted rehearsal. Perhaps it was worth a visit to the old barn with the instrument again, I thought. I had verily put it out of my mind.

But enough! All this was living in the past, and darker, sadder thoughts were welling up that I dared not face in this dusky place. I shut up the doors to the barn, savoring the squeak, and walked around it once more. Finally, I turned an eye up to the side window and wondered where it might have led the shy spirit. The fields were clear and free. This was surely all in my head.