The Phantom Sonata Chapter 2

Scared? I didn't have time to be scared.

The Sterling Symphony was holding auditions in a month. I wanted to be a pianist there more than I wanted to breathe.

My professor always said, "Harper, your technique is flawless, but you lack... soul."

That invisible, intangible "soul."

"Listen to Elias Thorne," he’d say. "That man didn't just play; he bled into the keys."

Elias Thorne. The former prodigy of the Sterling Symphony. He debuted as a teen genius, sold out global tours, and was the god of the classical world.

But geniuses burn out. He developed severe mental health issues, retired early, and jumped off a hotel roof six months ago. He was only twenty-six.

The audition piece was his signature track: Opus of Dreams.

I cranked my speakers, blasting Thorne’s recording, then tried to replicate it.

Night fell. The complex was pitch black, save for my lone window.

I was pouring my heart into the keys when a voice barked right in my ear:

"Annoying! The fourth measure is wrong! Wrong! WRONG!"

I spun around.

The door was locked. The room was empty.

I walked to the balcony. Just the wind and a few flickering streetlights.

"Who's there?" I shouted.

A crow flew past. Silence returned.

Hallucinations. Great. I need sleep.

I sat back down. Focus, Harper.

I played the first few bars.

"You could play it a hundred times and it’ll still be trash! STOP!"

This time, the voice was clear. A man’s voice. Deep, angry, and right next to me.

"Who are you?" I stammered, gripping the bench.

"Does it matter? Listening to you butcher this song every night is torture. I’m losing my mind."

Excuse me? I graduated with honors. I’m not trash.

"If you don't know music, shut up," I snapped at the air. "The fourth measure is exactly what’s on the sheet music."

The air went silent.

See? A pretender.

I put my foot on the pedal.

"If you didn't play it wrong," the voice sneered, "then the sheet music is wrong."

I paused. Even I felt the disconnect. I could never capture the flavor Elias Thorne had.

"This is the official score from the Symphony..."

Clink.

A piano key depressed. By itself.

My hands were in my lap.

Clink. Clink.

I watched in horror and awe as the keys began to dance. Invisible fingers were running across the ivory.

It was Opus of Dreams.

My eyes saw nothing, but my ears saw everything. The power, the aggression, the sorrow. It was a live performance that eclipsed any recording I’d ever heard.

The song ended. The room vibrated with the aftershocks.

A long, heavy sigh echoed in the room.

"Did... did you play that?" I whispered.

"Who else? Casper the Friendly Ghost?" The voice snapped.