The old Tudor had presided on the knoll for as far back as I could remember. It had perched there imperiously long before our house or any of the others in the neighborhood had sprung up around it. And always it had stood out—not only because it loomed above us, its lesser subjects, but because it was the sole survivor of a more refined and dignified era.
I was studying the house now.
When I was younger and had the idle time to be imaginative, I used to make up all kinds of wild, fantastic stories about the house, which despite being vacant, had never fallen to ruin. This in itself fascinated me—that no one wanted to live in the house, and yet someone went to great pains to keep it intact. Occasionally I witnessed a maintenance crew cleaning out the gutters, checking the roof, that sort of thing. And more frequently, landscape workers came by to clear out the weeds and prune the tall hedges that surrounded it. But in the seventeen years I’d lived next door, not once had I ever seen anyone set foot inside. Which was why, at two in the morning, I was staring out my bedroom window in utter astonishment.
Insomnia had made another unexpected and unwelcomed visit. And with the air having grown thick in my room—probably due to the exertion of tossing and turning—I’d flung the window open in anticipation of a cool breeze, which I got. What I didn’t expect was the gentle strain of music that drifted toward me from what was supposed to be an empty house.
Peering into the night, I suppressed an involuntary shudder. I was too old to be so easily spooked. At least that’s what I told myself. So like a mature adolescent, I reassured myself that there had to be some sort of logical explanation. Maybe the music was coming from somewhere else? But I’d lived in our neighborhood long enough to know that none of its residents were likely to disturb the peace by means of classical music. They were working folk and retirees who went to bed at a reasonable hour, and I imagined that the musical tastes of my peers would lean toward something more irreverent?
I strained my ears to listen carefully. It was a violin, I soon determined—one that was played with great skill and eloquence. Which led me to wonder if it was live or merely a recording. Regardless of the answer, someone had to be in the house playing it. Because that was one thing I was now sure of—the music was definitely coming from the Grand Dame of the neighborhood. Our generic, ranch-style house sat closest to it, at the bottom of the knoll, so there was no mistaking the source.
The music halted for a moment before picking up again. I knew then that it was no recording, because someone had wanted to replay the last few notes, and did so with greater vigor. I listened on, entranced…but troubled as well. There were no lights on in the knoll house. A ghost, or a blind musician maybe? Only when my eyelids began to drop did I return to bed, where I fell asleep to a most haunting melody, wondering under whose masterful hands the mysterious violin was being manipulated.
The following Tuesday found me staring at the house from the driveway. I’d just returned from my temp job at Starbucks and now faced a long summer evening. My friends had made plans to go to the drive-in, again, but that wasn’t for another few hours. These days the sun didn’t go down until nine, and at the moment it was barely past six. As for the house on the knoll, it was completely silent and still, with no evidence of an occupant—no movement through the undraped windows, no potted plants or welcome mat on the front step, no sudden appearance of a TV dish on the roof. Nothing. I stared for another minute or two, but the old Tudor merely stared back blankly. With a shrug, I headed inside my own house, never noticing the expensive black sedan parked across the street.
Hours later I was sitting in bed, having been roused from a fitful slumber. My window was wide open, and floating through it the song of a violin. Across the way, the Tudor was completely dark. No light, not even the faintest glimmer—unless you counted the moonlight, which bathed the old house in silvery white. My fingers thrummed against the windowsill, as if to accompany the stringed instrument. What I was actually doing was contemplating something rash and highly questionable. Despite the fact, my decision didn’t take long to make, and I blamed its lunacy on the full moon.
In moments I was standing outside, dressed in gray sweatpants, a navy tee shirt and matching flip-flops. It was a warm night, so I opted to leave my hoodie behind, though I hadn’t neglected my bra. Corporeal or not, I wanted to be decent should I run into the covert violinist.
With a deep breath I stole through the scant shadows, playing hide and seek with the moon as I made my way toward the grounds of the grand, old Tudor. I had no intention of trespassing. My sole plan was to skirt the property, locate the source of music, and thereby satisfy my curiosity. Oh, and put to rest the fear that a specter had taken up residence next door!
Dart in, dart out—as stealthily as a cat burglar.
As I neared the stately Tudor, however, my nerves began to disintegrate, each step causing my heart to accelerate. The next time I looked up at it, the house had transformed into something eerie and sinister, evoking a Fall of the House of Usher sort of dread. I nearly doubled back right then and there, except that the music abruptly changed—to something sweet and utterly enchanting.
Like a siren’s call, it snared me. I stood rooted to the spot, drinking it in. Dancing is my passion, and music is the air that a dancer breathes. And this sweet, soul-stirring melody made me want to breathe in deep.
With renewed determination I pressed on, intent on discovering the identity of the mysterious musician.
Soon, I was at the rear of the house. Through a gap in the hedges, I spotted a faint light shining in one of the bottom windows. So it was safe to dismiss any concerns of paranormal activity! Just then a movement in the window caught my eye—a pale face and a flash of gold bearing an elegant instrument. It was a young man, close to my age. His fair hair and fair face were bent over the violin on his shoulder, the bow in his right hand gliding back and forth across the strings. I just had time to register that he was medium of height and sleight of build, before he disappeared from sight.
Waiting expectantly for him to reappear, the obvious questions arose in my mind. Who was he? and What was he doing here? He looked too clean and well put-together to be a squatter. And wouldn’t a squatter be more careful than to play before an open window, even in the dead of night? The young man appeared…then disappeared again. He did this several times, pacing back and forth as he played, causing the music to swell or wane each time he neared or retreated from the window.
Eventually the music stopped altogether, and the evening rediscovered the song of frogs and of insects. The boy was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered if maybe he’d finally decided to turn in. The clock had read two-fifteen when I’d exited my house. When the light shut off, confirming my suspicions, I reluctantly turned away. I’d gotten my answer, hadn’t I? And what an intriguing one it was!
Carefully, I picked my way across the barren ground that bordered the barricade of hedges. Here and there, gaps in the foliage provided glimpses of the silent house beyond it, though I kept my focus fixed directly before me, not wanting to stumble or twist an ankle on any of the rocks littered about.
“Hey.” Quiet, low, unthreatening.
I still jumped about a foot as a blood-curdling scream ripped from my throat.
“Stop! Hey!! It’s okay!! Stop!! Please stop!!!”
I did stop, but not to heed the frantic pleas. I stopped because I recognized the pale face of the one who’d uttered them. A face I hadn’t noticed in the dark gap between the hedges.
“You startled me,” I gasped, gazing wide-eyed at the fair violinist.
He raised a brow. “There’s an understatement,” he said wryly. “I think you just startled the entire neighborhood.”
“I’m sorry,” I returned, still flustered and worriedly wondering if I had.
The boy was looking me up and down, and I was grateful for the wisdom of wearing a bra, especially under the scrutiny of such observant eyes, which I noticed were light in color. Fair hair, fair skin and light eyes. Quite a contrast to my tawny complexion and sun-bleached tresses. Nevertheless, he looked sharp in his jeans and polo shirt. I would have considered him attractive, except for fact that he was so…pale.
“What are you doing sneaking around in the dark anyway?” he asked bluntly.
My face burned and my tongue suddenly felt as thick as a brick. “I-I heard music,” I stammered.
“And you came out to investigate…in the dark…on your own?”
“I was curious,” I said, struggling to subdue my mortification.
“You heard what that did to a certain furry, little animal, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I know. The scare you just gave me nearly accomplished the same thing.”
He laughed. It was a cheerful chuckle. “It could have been worse. How do you know I’m not an axe murderer?”
“At least you’re not a ghost.”
He looked amused by this. “Did you actually consider that a possibility?”
Regretting the admission, I refused to confirm it. “Are you here alone?” I asked instead, attempting to shift the focus.
“Before I answer that, are you an axe murderer?”
“No,” I replied, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Then yes, I am alone,” he admitted.
“Why?” It was a valid question. After all, what was a boy—okay, a young man—doing alone in an old house, playing his violin during the witching hour?
He pondered the question with a sigh and began to gaze about him. All at once it occurred to me that perhaps I was keeping him from something, and he was too polite to say so. Red-faced, I reminded myself that I’d been trespassing, if not on his rightful property then on his privacy and time.
“Never mind,” I said hastily. “It’s late. I should go.”
“Wait!” he exclaimed, with a look of dismay. “Do you really have to?”
I gazed at him uncertainly. “Are you suggesting I stay?”
“I wouldn’t mind some company,” he admitted shyly. “Besides, you asked me a question and I was planning to respond, but it’s sort of a long answer so I thought it might be better if we sat down inside.”
My eyes strayed to the ghostly pallor of the moonlit house behind him. I never imagined I would ever step foot inside of it, but I guess I was wrong.
I hesitated briefly before entering the gap, as if taking just one step into the hedge meant there was no turning back. This was ridiculous, of course, but moonlight and madness will do that to you.
We crossed the yard that separated the hedge from the house, where the nameless boy led me to a back door. Upon entering it, I was immediately ushered into a cool, dark and musty room. Exactly what one would expect of an old, abandoned place. Our footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden floors, and from the silver glow that streamed through the undraped windows, I saw that we were stirring up a cloud of dust. We passed into a hallway, where a light shone at the very end. Here was the room where I’d seen him playing his violin.
“Make yourself at home,” the boy said, gesturing to a lone settee. The only other stick of furniture was a lamp, possessing a very dim bulb.
Sitting down at one end, I spotted a violin case lying in a shadowy corner.
“I’m Sarah,” I blurted, by way of introduction.
“Charlie,” the boy replied, remaining on his feet.
“So…why did you break in here, Charlie?” I asked, gazing around at the bare walls with its peeling floral wallpaper.
“I didn’t. This house has been in our family for generations.”
I looked up at him in surprise. “Really? How come no one’s ever lived here?”
“Most of the family’s on the East Coast now, but the Blackwells are a sentimental lot,” Charlie mused. “No one wants to sell a historical California landmark.”
“I see,” I replied. So that explained that. “But why are you here?”
“Me? I just needed a little escape.”
“So you came here?”
“I suppose I could have gone somewhere more exciting, but I guess I was feeling a little Byronic.”
“Byronic?”
“You know, moody and brooding and all that,” he replied, with a self-deprecating smile. “Besides, they’d never think to look for me here.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The orderlies.” He said this so matter-of-factly, the hairs on my arms stood on end.
Fear must have been obvious on my face because he began to laugh. Before I could hurry to my feet, however, he spoke again.
“My parents,” he quickly corrected. “It’s my parents I’ve escaped from, not the ward. I can’t believe you took me seriously.”
“I’ve only known you for about ten seconds,” I chided.
“More like thirty, but you’re right. I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking properly repentant.
“Your parents don’t actually lock you up, do they?” I questioned dryly.
“They don’t need to,” he replied. “I’m already a prisoner. But yeah, I suppose you could say I feel confined by their excessive concern for my well-being.”
“So you ran away because your parents are overbearing?” I frowned, trying to understand, especially the part about him being a prisoner.
“Overly overbearing,” he confirmed.
“I still don’t get why you chose to stay here, in an abandoned house,” I insisted, glancing around again. “It’s hardly livable.”
“Not true. I turned on all the utilities.”
“How did you manage that?”
Charlie dropped himself onto the settee. It was so small it left barely any space between us. “The house is under my name. I inherited it from my grandfather. But I’m still a minor, so it’s a good thing I’m also an excellent forger.”
“Is it really that bad at home?” I asked. Overbearing parents could be challenging, but it didn’t sound as if they were abusive.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said dismissively. “You probably have all the freedom you want.”
“I have all the freedom I need,” I admitted. “So are you enjoying yours?”
“I have gotten a lot of practice on my violin,” he said, not really answering the question. He then turned his eyes on me. They looked blue, blue and piercing. “But I will say that I’m glad you showed up tonight.”
My stomach fluttered briefly. “There’s nothing like a prowler on your property to break up the monotony,” I said lightly.
“A fearless, ghost-hunting prowler at that,” he added with a laugh.
“Well, I never would have shown up if it wasn’t for your playing…which is beautiful, by the way.”
“Thank you,” he said, a hint of a blush on his white cheeks.
“But why do you always practice so late?” At his questioning look, I added, “I heard you the other night, too.”
“Maybe I should ask why you’ve been up listening to me?”
“Just a good old-fashioned case of insomnia,” I replied. “You?”
“A very rare and extreme case of Gunther’s disease.”
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“Look it up some time,” he said nonchalantly, dodging my look of concern. “I won’t bore you with the details. Besides, I’d rather talk about something interesting. Like you, for instance.”
There was a long pause as I gazed at Charlie in quiet bewilderment. The mysterious musician who it seemed possessed a mysterious ailment. I’d met him less than five minutes ago, and yet here I was sitting with him in his century-old, moonlit house. Moonlight and mystery, a magical combination. Not the hocus-pocus variety or the witchcraft sort, but the kind that leaves you feeling keenly alive past the midnight hour. Certainly it was far more interesting than lying awake and alone in bed.
Charlie was waiting, and so I obliged him. “What is it you want to know?” I asked.
That fateful, full moon night was the first of many after-midnight trysts with Charlie Blackwell at the Tudor house. There was something thrilling and irresistible about our clandestine meetings, and the fact that adventure had been found in the unlikeliest of places. In my case, at the lonely, old house I’d lived next door to for nearly two decades.
I did look up Gunther’s disease and suddenly understood the reason for the pale skin and late night hours. Charlie was no ghost or vampire. He’d been born into a wealthy family, though his existence had been far from privileged, being restricted all his life by a condition that banished him from the light. A prisoner of darkness. I thought it a tragedy, and found myself feeling sorry for him. Really sorry. But Charlie wouldn’t have any pity, and it seemed he didn’t need it. He radiated an energy, humor and zest for life that was absolutely magnetic. I couldn’t help being pulled in.
“Let’s do something naughty,” he suggested the following night, out of the blue.
And so we rolled up in his black Mercedes to TP the houses of those who’d wronged me. Not just their houses, but their cars, their trees and whatever else lay in our path. Anything was fair game. The worst offenders—a girl named Amy who’d told everyone I slept with my last boyfriend, and the ex-boyfriend Jack who’d confirmed the false rumor—received the added bonus of shaving cream and egg on their windshields.
On the third night, after discovering I was a dancer, he insisted I sneak out one of my ballet outfits, though he wouldn’t say why. After cajoling me to don it, he’d pulled out a high-end camera, taking a series of artistic photos of me in various poses beneath the moonlight.
“These will look amazing,” he said. “You can put them in your portfolio for when you audition for principal ballerina. Just don’t forget to give me the credit.”
“Can I see?” I asked, taking the camera from him. Then under duress, I proceeded to photograph him with his violin, ignoring his grumbling and complaining the entire time. “And you can use these for when you audition for first string,” I returned.
Much of the time, we merely sat around and talked. Our lives were so vastly different that it was fascinating to hear how the other had grown up, to learn what he’d heard and seen and experienced. These, in my opinion, were some of the best times. I hung on his every word. Especially when he talked of his travels, something I’d done very little of.
By the sixth night, I felt like Charlie and I had known each other for far longer. Hours of late night conversations in dim light and hushed voices had created an immediate intimacy that would have been impossible by the glaring light of day. I’d never talked to a boy so easily and candidly before. It was different and refreshing.
From the settee, I gazed down at the floor where Charlie sat cross-legged, applying rosin to his bow. As I watched him, I found myself wishing that we’d met sooner. On the heels of that thought, however, a more sobering one followed. Eventually he’d have to leave, a realization that put me out of sorts.
“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked, glancing up to see the consternation on my face.
“Oh, nothing,” I lied.
“You sure?” he pressed, studying me thoughtfully.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I insisted. Then, hoping to distract him, I added, “I was just wondering if you’d play something for me.”
“I always play for you,” he said with a puzzled frown.
“I never get tired of it.” This, at least, was true.
“Well, I’m flattered,” he replied, laying the bow on top of his violin case. “But can I make another suggestion?”
My chest felt tight and my hands were clammy. I took a deep breath and wrung them out, like some damsel in distress. Charlie was in the other room, waiting for me. What had I agreed to? Peering around the corner down the darkened hall, I saw him, just as I’d seen him that first night—all paleness and milky white. Though something had changed since then. He turned, sensing me. At his smile, I almost melted. I almost backed down. Instead, I straightened my spine and approached with resolve.
Soon, I was standing before him, while he looked on expectantly with his piercing blue eyes. Before I could change my mind, I plunged right in, losing myself to the passion of motion and flight. I’d never danced for a private audience, and quickly pushed the paralyzing thought from my mind. Instead I pretended I was alone, and that an orchestra accompanied my silent steps. But as I dipped and twirled, his eye inevitably caught mine. A glimpse here, a glimpse there. The unmistakable expression of rapture on his face. I finished with an arabesque, the moment feeling suspended in time. Then Charlie was on his feet, clapping enthusiastically.
Later that night, I made my retreat before dawn, as usual. Stepping out from the gap, I was just about to dart down the knoll when Charlie pulled me back between the hedges. Startled, I looked up at his face, faintly visible in the shadows, and was suddenly overwhelmed by his presence. Though he remained silent and unmoving, I could feel a restless energy emanating from him. The next thing I knew, his lips were touching mine. The kiss was soft and deep, and blissfully unrushed. I didn’t want it to end. But it did.
The following night, I hurried along the now familiar and well-worn path to the Tudor, listening to a serenade of frogs and crickets. Something about the raucous chorus bothered me, though I couldn’t immediately pinpoint why. It was only when I reached the back entrance that it hit me. No song of a violin had summoned me. And no light in the window now greeted me. It was completely dark and silent.
With a rising dread, I began to knock. Before long, knocking turned to frantic pounding, and even shouting. An hour later, however, I realized it was no use. Charlie Blackwell had left, vanishing just as abruptly as he’d appeared. No note. No explanation. No goodbye. Leaving only one question behind—Why? It tormented me as I numbly returned home.
Years later, I’m still waiting for an answer. I’ve long since moved from my parents’ house, of course, though they still live there beside the old Tudor. On the few occasions that I visit, I’ll stand on their driveway and stare up at the old house, vacant and inscrutable once more. Sometimes I’ll catch faint whispers of a violin on the wind. And often—most vividly on moonlit nights—I’ll remember hushed tones and quiet laughter, pale skin and piercing eyes, the sweep of my pointe on a dusty floor. But most of the time I simply wonder…
