June 19, 2025

Rise Up
by C.S. Fuqua

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.



Wynne shouted Bobby’s name.
The guitar case in the backseat bounced against the ceiling, then back down.
Undergrowth tore at the car, and a tree slammed into the passenger side. Airbags exploded.
Time suspended.


Bobby lifted his head off the steering wheel, groggy, confused, his right eye crusted shut. The deflated airbag slid slowly down the wheel. He raised a trembling, heavy hand and touched above his eye, damp and sticky. His head lolled back against the headrest as he tried to get his bearings. He swallowed hard and forced the crust to give way, his eye to open.

His head throbbed, but he remembered the deer. He’d yanked the wheel, and everything slowed—the car shooting into the woods, limbs and brush slapping the sides, Wynne shouting his name.

Wynne.

He groaned and reached for her in the dash lights’ emerald glow. His fingers found her hair, then her shoulders, and he grasped and pulled her as close as he could, her head flopping hard against him. “Wynne...” He tried to brace her up, but he didn’t have the strength, and her body slumped to the side. He felt her neck for a pulse that wasn’t there.

Bobby pushed open the door and struggled into the darkness, nearly fainting as he stumbled through the brush to the passenger side to find it curved inward against a massive oak. He clambered back around, falling twice in the thick growth. He crouched into the driver’s seat, reaching over to Wynne to shift her body so he could grip her under the arms to ease her out through the driver’s side. He braced, pulled, and collapsed. Darkness pressed in for several terrifying seconds before he regained full awareness. He held Wynne as close as possible, mumbling, “Don’t die, not now...”

Bobby buried his face in her hair, the essence of Wynne’s muted fragrance engulfing him the same as it had that first day he’d met her at Sharps & Flats, the dilapidated music shop near the docks. She was new there, a point of pride for the old woman who ran the place, a strangely fascinating coot rumored to talk to her instruments. What was it the old woman had told him that day? 

Music’s a conduit, son. Some even believe it has power over life and death.

Bobby checked again for a pulse. Nothing. With his strength gone, he prayed the old woman hadn’t played him for a fool.

Breathlessly, he began to sing.


****
Bobby spotted Sharps & Flats the first time the band played the derelict downtown performance center two blocks away. The band’s performance was the center’s last before being razed with neighboring bars and strip joints in the city’s effort to revitalize the area with upscale shops, nightclubs, and restaurants. The plan’s one exception had been the old music shop. Despite the building’s tired appearance, with boxes stacked before the small front window, each filled with sheet music dating back ten decades or more, the window always sporting the same beat-up Gibson rumored to have been played by Robert Johnson—despite all of that, or perhaps because of it, city bigwigs left the shop alone. It possessed a certain quaintness politicians hoped would attract other offbeat businesses to create a genuine bohemian section that could prove a boon to city coffers. Bobby soon became a regular at the shop, trying out instruments he could never hope to own.

Two years after the performance center’s demolition and the band began playing the new upscale clubs downtown, Bobby met Wynne. She’d been with Sharps & Flats about a week. He’d needed a set of strings, but when he spotted her through the window behind the counter, he decided to try out a few of the mandolins as an excuse to stay longer. The old lady who owned the place had perched herself as usual in a chair on the sidewalk next to the old boxes of sheet music. No matter how much of that music sold, the boxes never emptied. She grinned as he approached, bracing herself with hands on her knees, dress dipping between her legs as she sat forward with one eye squinting up at him.

“Heard y’all playing last night,” she said as Bobby came up.

He shrugged. “Nice club, but I miss the old joints.”
“They’ll be back,” she snorted. “People like what they like, and it all goes in cycles.”
“So what’d you think?”
The woman nodded appreciatively and leaned toward him, a probing seriousness playing in her eyes. “Just keep your head when the time comes.”
Odd thing to say, Bobby thought, and he glanced away.
“That newspaper reviewer sure did like you,” she said.
Bobby laughed. “I saw that. ‘The band,’” he quoted in an affected tone of superiority, “’approaches the performance and history of bluegrass music with creative sensitivity not evident since the New Grass Revival.’” He chuckled again. “I especially like how he said we blend genres into something ‘ancient, spiritual, and new.’ How it can be ancient and new at the same time beats me, but at least he liked us.”
“And that’s what counts.” The old lady straightened somewhat, her gaze going to something in the distance. “Where I come from, music’s got a lot of power. Folks—well, they don’t talk about it much, but some possess a special quality that sets them above others. Like you.”
Bobby shook his head. “We’re just lucky.”
“I ain’t talking about the band, and I ain’t talking about just musical ability.” The lines on her face deepened as her gaze came back to him. “Power’s power, son. I come from the Appalachians. Back home, folks recognize what’s special, and we’ve used it ever since our ancestors came from Scotland and Ireland and married in with the Tslagi Indians.” Bobby smiled, but the old woman fixed him with her glare. “Don’t pretend, boy. You’ve felt what I’m talking about. Music can lift up, drag down, inspire, destroy.” She swept her hand around. “Spirit runs through everything. You learn to channel that spirit, you can do wonders. Music’s a conduit, son. Some say it’s even got power over life and death.”

Bobby shifted and smiled uncomfortably.

The old woman gave a mildly admonishing shake of her head. “You’ll understand soon enough.” Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. Then she grinned, and the mood lightened. She nodded toward the door. “You ain’t here for an old woman’s talk. I got a new helper inside. She can take care of you.” She sat heavily back, fanning herself in the growing humidity and heat with the bottom of her long, billowy blouse.
“Well, then...” Bobby took a step up but misconnected on the stair’s edge and stumbled in, setting the old woman to chuckling as his face flushed embarrassment.
Beneath the damp, musty pungency of age, Bobby detected the subtle aroma of something comforting and eternal—perhaps the odor of wood instruments, the smell of perfection. Mandolins, banjos, and guitars lined the walls, interspersed with more exotic instruments such as ouds, shamisens, a saz, and even a lyre guitar. A couple of Taylors, Martins, Gibsons, and Gallaghers were there, but other instruments, as impeccably crafted or better than the best of the big names, bore no brand at all.

Bobby started toward the back, circling around the huge middle rack that crowded most of the narrow room’s space. A young woman straightened behind a small counter between him and the back wall that bore the most immaculate stringed instruments he’d ever seen. Their wood looked almost alive—he knew no other way to describe it—and Bobby sensed the wall resonating just beyond hearing range.
​
The young woman placed her hands on top of the case, her left hand clutching a dust cloth. “May I help you?” She was no beauty queen, but dimples punctuated a compassionate smile while downy chestnut hair framed dark, mysterious eyes that beckoned Bobby into a place where he knew he could lose himself. She stood about as tall as Bobby, a sturdy frame that exuded a certain calm strength.
He wanted strings, but he muttered something about looking for a new mandolin.
“In a band?”
“Pensacola,” he said, and he noted the spark of recognition in her eyes.
“I thought you looked familiar. I saw you a few months back,” she said. “You guys are good.”
“We do okay, I guess. You play an instrument?” he asked, but, before she could answer, other questions tumbled out even to his surprise. “You sing? What’s your name? Perform? Want to have dinner sometime?” He stopped suddenly, his face warming as she grinned.
“Name’s Wynne, and yes.”
Bobby’s brow narrowed. “’Yes’ to...?”
“The first, third, and last questions.” She chuckled. “I sing and sort of play guitar, but mostly sing. I haven’t been in a band yet. And I’d love to have dinner.”
Two weeks later, Wynne Seaver assumed management of Bobby’s band and started singing backup. The following week, she worked her last day at Sharps & Flats and moved in with Bobby.


****
Bobby stopped in at Sharps & Flats on Wynne’s final day, and the old woman waddled back to the counter where he was looking over the instruments on the wall.
“Beautiful, ain’t they?”
Bobby nodded. “What brand?”
Pride softened the age lines that wrinkled the woman’s face. “Brand don’t matter.” She selected the same teardrop mandolin he’d played the day he met Wynne. The headstock had a small blemish, perhaps a burn from some careless player’s cigarette pinched between the wood and strings, but Bobby was struck by the lightness and feel of the instrument. He strummed a few times, and then began to pick his own tune, “Mandostophales,” notes ringing with such sustain and clarity that he held his breath.
Abruptly, he stopped and handed the instrument back to the old woman, shaking his head. “I can’t afford this, so I’d best stop.” He glanced around, catching a glimpse from Wynne who was helping another customer with a guitar.
The old lady placed the mandolin carefully back on its hanger. “Ain’t it funny?” she said, huffing slightly from the effort. She turned back to him and braced herself on the counter. “Happy tunes like that one you just played can lift people out of the deepest holes. Sad ones can send them crashing to the bottom.” She leaned toward him, nodding slightly. “Like I told you, music’s got power. The right words, melody, sincerity...” She nodded again and waddled off to the other end of the counter. “Let me know if you want to try another one.”
Bobby sensed Wynne’s closeness before her hand touched his shoulder. Her eyes, deep and resonant, flashed between Bobby and the old woman. “You gonna buy it?”
“It’s a fine mandolin,” he admitted, “but cash is definitely a problem.” He stepped away from the counter, calling “thanks” to the old woman. He kissed Wynne on the cheek. “I’ll pick you up later,” he said and started out, a vague uneasiness gnawing.


****
Wynne and Bobby endured good-natured jibing from the other band members as their dependence on and attraction to one another grew, cultivating a deep, enduring understanding, an ability to anticipate and act without words. Under Wynne’s management, the band’s reputation grew as one of the hardest working groups on the circuit, delivering a unique sound bound for national recognition. Even Bobby began to believe the band would break out.
By the time Pensacola played Baton Rouge, a loyal fan base had begun promoting them as much as they promoted themselves. Wynne had invited a Sugar Hill Records producer to attend, and Bobby hoped the crowd’s boisterous cheering would help secure a record deal.
Bobby lost himself in the music that night, and he began to feel the power the Sharps & Flats woman had talked about. The final set ended after the crowd called the band back for two encores. Nearly two hundred of the band’s self-produced CDs sold that night—not bad for a bar venue where music usually competed with patrons shouting their intentions to their dates.
As applause died and the crowd turned to canned music and negotiations for evening company, the band’s members gathered expectantly around Wynne. She shrugged. “He couldn’t make it.”
“So why are you smiling?” Kyle, the guitarist, his voice thick with disappointment, dug in his pocket for a cigarette lighter.
“He couldn’t make it, but he called,” Wynne said, tapping her cell phone with her forefinger. “He’s flying in early tomorrow to meet with us, which means we have to load up and drive back tonight.”
Kyle groaned. “Long drive.”
“For a record contract, it’s worth a little lost sleep. Bobby and I can drive back tonight. We should get home around two or three in the morning. We can meet with him first thing tomorrow to go over business aspects, and, if you guys would rather drive back in the morning, we can play for him tomorrow night.”
“Sounds good to me,” Kyle said. “It’ll take a couple of hours to pack up anyway.” Frank and Richard agreed, and they told Wynne and Bobby to head out, that they’d take care of the equipment.
Shortly after ten, city lights faded behind them as Bobby eased down on the gas once on the interstate. Wynne placed her can of root beer in the cup holder next to the gearshift between the seats and slipped off the seatbelt. She drew her feet into the seat, curled her legs under her, and nuzzled close to Bobby. He put his arm around her and didn’t take it away until shortly after one a.m. when he directed the car down the exit toward town and home.
Still well north of the city, a mesmerizing tangle of limbs and leaves flashed past in the edge of the headlights’ beam. His eyes began to close.
He nodded, startling himself, and jerked the wheel slightly. He drew a deep breath and shook his head violently to fight the drowsiness.
Wynne sighed and cuddled against the door, head resting on the glass.
Bobby shifted in the seat, and his knee knocked the open drink. He grabbed for the can as it fell, his foot going down hard on the pedal as a deer bounded into the road. Bobby yanked the wheel hard to the right and hit the brakes. The car careened, and the tires hit the soft shoulder, fishtailing into the woods and slamming sideways into a tree.


****
“Don’t die...” 
Bobby checked Wynne’s neck for a pulse and then rummaged frantically through the car, finally locating his cell phone in the floorboard, crushed. He struggled again to get her out, but fell back as blackness rushed in, threatening unconsciousness. His throat swelled with emotion. He buried his face in her hair as the Sharps & Flats woman began to murmur softly in memory. Voices argued in his mind, one deriding the notion, the other insisting he had nothing to lose. What did it matter? If it didn’t work, he’d lose nothing more, but if it did work...
Softly at first, words emerged in a shaky tenor.
“Rise up,” his voice quavered. “Rise up, my lovely darling.
“The powers must hear this cannot be.”
With each word, his voice and the tune gained strength, settling into a compelling pattern and positive melody.
“Rise up, rise up, my lovely darling.
“Give her back, restore her soul to me.
“Life is short even when it’s long.
“I cannot accept this wrong.
“Deals I’ll make and spells I’ll chant to bring her soul back home.
“Love is the music, the music in our hearts.
“Rise up, rise up, my darling’s soul.
“Love is the key, the key in our hearts.
“Hear me, powers, let her go. Let her go.
“Rise up, rise up, my lovely darling.
“The powers must hear this cannot be.
“Rise up, rise up, my lovely darling.
“Give her back, restore her soul to me.”
His voice faded in the snap and pop of metal cooling and the chant of forest insects. He wept into her hair, grasping at her, trying to draw her even closer, only to stop in an abrupt gasp.
Wynne shivered and moaned softly. She raised her head, eyes cloudy.
“It’s okay...” Bobby’s chest pounded. “We had an accident.”
The old woman...
He shook his head in denial of the thought.
I missed the pulse. That’s all.
His fingers traced Wynne’s cheek, bruised and pallid in the dim light, and for the first time, he noticed blood on his hand from a long, shallow cut that ran from elbow to wrist. “We need to get to a hospital.”
“No.” She shook her head slowly and sighed, “Home.”
“Wynne...”
“Home.”
Bobby turned the ignition key, and the engine kicked over once, twice, caught. He shifted into reverse, and the metal on the passenger’s side protested as it pulled away from the tree. The car made it home, and he parked in the backyard where it would be out of sight and question, at least for now.
Bobby’s head throbbed as he forced Wynne’s door open and helped her out. He slammed the door shut as Wynne leaned against him for support he could barely give. They walked stiffly, as though each step had to be planned. Inside the house, he helped Wynne remove her jeans and blood-streaked blouse due to a cut on her neck that had crusted over. Her skin shone milky in the cold bathroom light, and faint bruises dotted her arms and back, but what worried Bobby were her lower legs and feet. They appeared pale purple and swollen.
“We need to see a doctor.”
“Tomorrow,” Wynne said in her raspy voice.
She stepped into the shower, and steam boiled up around her as she clutched her arms tightly across her breasts, shoulders rounded, bloody water cascading off her body, swirling down the drain. Her lips had turned a deep shade of blue in a gray face by the time she stepped from the shower into the towel that Bobby wrapped around her. He dried her carefully, worried about the depth of the gash on her neck, although stumped as to why it wasn’t bleeding. He helped her to bed.
“Wynne,” he began.
“Just let me rest.” She closed her eyes and rolled away, drawing the covers up.
Bobby returned to the bathroom and stripped, leaving his bloody clothes in a pile. He braced himself against the sink and stared into the mirror. His skin glowed like fresh strawberries compared to Wynne’s. He showered quickly and dried, feeling somewhat revived by the steamy bath. The vertigo had lightened, but he was convinced that they both should see a doctor. He glanced at the clock near the medicine cabinet. Already three a.m. He remembered the producer, but the record company would simply have to wait. He and Wynne needed medical attention.
Resolved, Bobby pulled on clean briefs and came out of the bathroom to find Wynne sitting against the headboard, covers clutched around her. Bobby settled on the bed, and Wynne moved into his embrace. The covers cascaded to the mattress. His hand appeared blazingly pink against the pale violet of her skin. Wherever he touched her, he left marks, as though he’d pressed the blood into other areas.
“My fingers are stiff.” Wynne’s words slurred slightly. “The cuts don’t bleed. There’s no pain. Bobby,” she whispered, “I’m scared.”
Bobby moved around for a better look and found Wynne’s eyes half-open, her face clenching.
“When we went off the road,” she said, “things went black. And then I was floating...” She closed her eyes and her head tilted slightly back. “Something’s wrong, Bobby. Something terrible.”
Bobby held her for several long moments and then eased her down in bed. He drew the blanket up around her and rose to dress, but Wynne caught his hand, and he grimaced as pain shot through the cut on his arm.
“Look at me.”
Bobby met her pleading eyes, and he saw the milky fog of death seeping in.
“I’ll get you to a hospital.”
“It’s too late,” Wynne murmured. She looked up, her face drawn and wan. “Look at my body, the cuts, my skin. I’m...” She struggled for the specific word, but what she tried to say would not come. “What happened? What have you done, Bobby--what?”
He settled back on the bedside, his head hanging. His voice quavered.
“You weren’t breathing. I couldn’t find a pulse, couldn’t get you out.” 
He avoided her eyes, but that didn’t allow him to avoid the truth. What could—what should he tell her? That the Sharps & Flats woman’s mountain magic had pulled Wynne’s soul back into a dead body?
“I shouldn’t be here,” Wynne whispered. “Why did you...?” The words slurred unintelligibly, and her arms drew awkwardly inward. “Bobby...”
Bobby rose and dressed quickly.
Wynne stretched her neck back and struggled to extend her arms. She gazed up through fogged eyes. “Dead...and alive.” 
Bobby detected sad amusement in her voice. She rolled her head around, stretching the neck muscles, then lay still to stare at the ceiling. Deep sorrow and guilt threatened to suffocate Bobby for what he’d done to Wynne.
“I’m going to the old woman.”
Wynne reached toward him, the effort showing in her face.
“Take me with you.”
Bobby trembled with possibility. How could the witch refuse him with Wynne at his side? 
With his strength returning by degree, he lifted Wynne into his aching arms with a grunt and carried her to the car to lay her in the backseat, her body gradually contracting in on itself.
Winded, Bobby slid in behind the wheel and started the engine, his mind centered on the Sharps & Flats woman.


****
With a final shake, the engine went silent. Music wafted through the streets from the upscale bottle clubs. These places afforded the band occasional work, but the jukes they’d replaced had provided steady gigs without the wannabe pretenders to whom the new clubs catered. What irritated Bobby most were the ones who believed that mere conversation about music with a musician qualified them as artists.
Wynne moaned, and Bobby twisted around in the seat. Her eyes had become increasingly glazed, the pupils milky and cold.
“Where...?” she managed.
“Lie still. I’ll be right back.” Bobby opened the door and crossed the sidewalk, raising a fist to bang on the Sharps & Flats door, but the knob turned before the first knock, and the ancient door opened on rusty hinges. The squat old woman stepped into the dark doorway, a soft whisper of music emanating from within the store.
“I need help,” Bobby said breathlessly.
The old woman’s mouth puckered in consideration, and she nodded toward the car. “You believe what I told you now.” She sighed heavily.
“Make her right,” Bobby pleaded.
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t undo what I didn’t do.”
Bobby’s shoulders sank under the weight of desperation. “Then tell me how I can.”
The old woman stepped down from the doorway and, with a gentle hand, turned him back toward his car. He felt a vague tingle where her fingers touched, a cold fire igniting the molecules.
“You called only her soul back...”
Bobby’s thoughts reeled, and he realized the song never mentioned the restoration of life to Wynne’s body. “I’ll do it now. I’ll sing for—”
“What’s done’s done,” the old woman said. “Her body’s dead.”
Bobby trembled before the woman, his head shaking in denial of the obvious. “I didn’t know...”
“Ignorance don’t make it right, son,” the old woman said. “Give it thought this time, and the words will come. Do what you have to do for her.”
The old woman turned and, with a soft grunt, stepped back into the store. She closed the door, giving it a good shove to lock it in place. The light inside winked out, leaving Bobby drenched in the amber glow of streetlamps.
A car lurched out of its parking space down the street and revved past a few seconds later, the driver leering out the window at him, all eyes and teeth, gleaming in a wretched grin. As the car accelerated away, Bobby glanced skyward, wishing for an alternative he knew did not exist. The paleness of the eastern sky hinted the coming new day.
Bobby opened the backdoor and lay down in the seat with Wynne, molding himself to her.
“Where are we?” Her words were barely audible, strained and raspy.
Bobby’s caress tightened, his eyes clouding. He held her for several long moments, delaying what he knew he had to do, the coldness of her skin emphasizing the inevitable. Finally, he drew a breath against the tightening in his throat, and began to sing, his voice fractured and trembling, the tune mournful and filled with regret.


“I could not take the sudden loss 
“and called you back home.
“The powers that guide sent back your soul
“but failed to make you whole.
“Someday my time must come to an end
“when our story’s told.
“Perhaps we’ll both understand
“and then join souls.
“When the body is only a hollow shell
“and time here should be gone,
“we can’t trust dreams or wishing wells.
“Our love’s soul must go on, go on.
“Lie down, lie down. Rest your soul.
“Lie down, lie down, my love. Be whole.
“Be whole.”


As he sang, Wynne’s milky eyes closed, and she whispered something, but he could not make it out. He tried to convince himself that she whispered her love for him, but she could have been damning him for all he knew.
As the words passed her lips, the Sharps & Flats interior ignited in a single, brilliant pulse of light, then went dark once again. Bobby’s voice fell to silence as Wynne lay dead in his arms for the second time that night.
As he held her with his face buried in her hair, several cars passed, their drivers leaving the bottle clubs that were closing despite the night’s hopeless struggle to survive the coming dawn. Bobby drew a deep, steadying breath and slipped his arm out from under Wynne’s body. He got out of the car and straightened slowly, his eyes still on Wynne, now a bizarre illusion of calm even as her muscles continued to tighten and contract.
Abruptly, he circled around the car and pried open the passenger door. He came back around, lifted Wynne’s body out, and returned to the passenger side to place her in the seat. He slammed the battered door closed twice before it locked. He got in behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove slowly away.
City lights vanished vanished in the rearview mirror. Bobby settled back, arms aching, hands clutching the wheel as his foot pressed the accelerator down until it rested against the floor. Sign markers and trees flickered past in the headlights’ margin. A sign warned of a sharp curve ahead. In Bobby’s mind, a drink spilled and the terrified eyes of a deer appeared in the road.
He yanked the wheel, and woods rushed in.


****
Bobby’s chest rose, fell, rose, fell. With each forced breath, each beat of his heart, wretched, dull pain bled into Bobby’s consciousness—his arms, then his shoulders and head, chest, legs. He tried to swallow, but realized something was in his mouth and down his throat.
Air rushed in, flowed out.
Sadness saturated his mind with realization he was still alive. His eyes fluttered, and the lids pulled apart. At first, he saw nothing but vague shapes in a mist of bright light.
“Hey, buddy.” 
One of the shapes moved closer.
Kyle.
“Not sure if you’re with us yet, but, if you can understand, you had a wreck. You’re gonna be okay.” The anxious words broke off. The image shifted. “Someone’s here to see you, bud, so I’ll talk to you later.”
A shuffling of feet blended with the medical equipment’s rhythmic cacophony, and a new image entered Bobby’s vague field of view. Round and dark, the image began to sharpen as it drew close—the face of the Sharps & Flats woman. She nodded appreciatively, her mouth neither smile nor frown.
“Come by the store when you’re better,” the old woman said. “Do you understand? Come by the store.”
Bobby blinked.
Then came a sudden bustle of activity around him, and the old woman drew away as medical technicians probed and examined. Within moments, they’d removed the tube from his throat and replaced it with a plastic cannula blowing cold oxygen into his nostrils, and he once again breathed on his own. The last nurse in the room raised the head of his bed to a thirty-degree angle and smiled.
“Glad you’re back.”
Bobby closed his eyes.


***
Insurance restrictions on hospitalization sent Bobby home as soon as he could lift himself from bed, even though his doctor argued that Bobby was in no condition to be discharged. Bobby wobbled out under his own power, refusing a wheelchair, instead using two canes for support. Kyle had come to drive him home, but Bobby told him he wanted to visit Wynne’s grave, that he would go alone by taxi to the cemetery.
“You got a phone?” Kyle asked him. Bobby shook his head no, remembering that it had been destroyed in the first crash. Kyle slipped his phone into Bobby’s front pocket. “Call me at home if you need anything.”
Twenty minutes later, Bobby stood beside the lane where the cab dropped him, his gaze locating a mound of fresh earth about forty yards in. His arms throbbed as he started for the grave, each step a struggle. His strength ebbed as he reached the settling mound, and he lowered himself to the ground, laying the canes aside, his jeans soaking in the ground’s dampness. Memories of the last few months cascaded in at once, only to end with him staring blankly at the simple headstone that bore Wynne’s name.
Bobby didn’t know how long he’d been there when he finally used the canes to lift himself back to his feet, the effort tearing at the stitches in his arm. With Kyle’s phone, he called for a cab that arrived a few minutes after he emerged in the lane from the rows of graves. The taxi drove him to the Sharps & Flats music store where Bobby asked the driver to wait. He got out and hobbled up the three stairs with difficulty, arriving in the doorway to find the old woman waiting behind the side counter. He stood there for several long moments, saying nothing, simply returning her gaze.
Finally, the old woman nodded. “You’re right.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed questioningly.
“It’s unusual for men, but it happens. Bobby Hayes, you’re special. Back where I come from, people’d seek you out. And in time...” She drew a deep breath. “In time, you’d accept. But, for now, you have to be careful.”
“Of what...?” He made no attempt to mask his anger and resentment. “Putting souls into dead bodies?”
“Music’s got power,” the old woman said. “You didn’t now how tto use it with the first song, but you learned. I think you understand now. And Wynne’ll never be far from you as long as you have those songs.”
The old woman bent low behind the counter and fussed with something. Faint music resonated through the room, as though ghostly fingers had breached the barriers to pluck the strings of those special instruments lining the store’s back wall. The old woman straightened and set a small case on the countertop. She popped the clasps and opened it to reveal the beautiful teardrop mandolin that Bobby had played the day he met Wynne. It wasn’t ornately decorated or inlayed, but the impeccable craftsmanship was irrefutable.
“Wynne was paying on this for you.” The woman withdrew the instrument from its case, and Bobby’s arms threatened to collapse. He swayed on the canes. “Sit down,” she said.
Bobby negotiated his way to a stool near the doorway and lowered himself as she came around the counter with the mandolin. He lay the canes aside and took the instrument as gently as he would a newborn. The wood felt inexplicably different from the first time he’d played the mandolin, something he couldn’t quite describe, a sensation akin to touching flesh--a trick of the mind. His fingers began to work, coaxing from the strings the melody of the song that sent Wynne’s soul onward. His eyes closed, and the image of Wynne rose in his mind. The air around him softened, and her scent wafted over him.
He stopped, and the illusion vanished.
Bobby handed the instrument back to the old woman. He struggled up, bracing with his canes, as the woman placed the mandolin back into its case. They did not speak again as she followed him out of the store and set the case beside him on the taxi seat. The old woman closed the door and backed a step onto the sidewalk. Bobby opened the mandolin case and took the instrument into his hands. The cab pulled slowly away.
Bobby closed his eyes and played, summoning Wynne’s presence, consuming and eternal.

                                                                          💀💀💀

C.S. Fuqua’s books include Fatherhood ~ Poems of Parenthood, Walking After Midnight ~ Collected Stories, Big Daddy’s Fast-Past Gadget, Native American Flute ~ A Comprehensive Guide, and White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems. His work has appeared in publications such as Year's Best Horror Stories XIX, XX and XXI, Pudding, The Horror Show, Pearl, Chiron Review, Christian Science Monitor, The Old Farmer's Almanac, The Writer, and Honolulu Magazine.