Ghost of the MountainA Story by BarnetteIf you ever hear the sound of banjos in the woods... that's a lonely old ghost who just wants someone to share his music with.PART ONE: LONELY His sigh was the only sound in the lonely old cabin. Specks of dust floated through the air in the shafts of cool sunlight slanting through the cracked old windows. The old man's rough, calloused fingers ran along the neck of a banjo, which was propped comfortably in his lap. The wooden chair creaked beneath him as he readjusted his position. PART TWO: GHOST The old man's eyes fluttered open and looked up at the rickety ceiling of the cabin. He felt an odd sensation - a lightness, blitheness he'd never felt before. He no longer felt stiff and cracked, but he also felt.... empty. He propped himself up on the bed, noticing with surprise that he couldn't feel the quilt beneath his fingers. The man got off the bed and looked around, his eyes landing back on the cot behind him. He gasped, a raspy intake of breath that seemed to leave his lungs instantly in a tickling whoosh. On the bed lay his own body, wrinkled and pale and ancient. The man stared for a moment, terrified, at the body which no longer belonged to him. He held his hands up, and his eyes widened when he realized they were transparent - he could see straight to the floor through a white haze that was now his hands. His gaze moved to his feet, which were also see-through and had a smoke-like swirl around the edges. His legs, too. He was still wearing his stained, torn white shirt and overalls, but they seemed to fade into non-existence at the edges, as if he was blending into the air itself. He was a ghost. Suddenly, it didn't feel scary anymore. He no longer felt sad or angry, or brittle or hurt. Just... empty. And it wasn't just that he literally didn't have any bones or guts inside him - he was still lonely, even in death. The man's fingers yearned to play music. He turned and glided over to the chair, where he had leaned his banjo before he died. The banjo shimmered and swirled, just like his hands. He reached out and picked it up - and somehow, he felt the smooth wood of the body, the rough calfskin spread across the drum. His hands didn't go straight through the banjo, like they had done with the quilt. They became one with the instrument, which he had crafted himself several years before. The man smiled and began to play the happy tune he'd written for his wife, but was confused when no music unfolded from the strings. He frowned and made a low chord, dragging his finger down the strings, and a melancholy sound pierced the silence. The man tried his happy song again, and once more, despite his translucent fingers moving deftly along the silver frets and strings, no sound came. Then, when he played a sad, low chord, he felt the soundwaves reverberate through his ghostly form. The old man realized something, and his heart broke. He was cursed to only be able play sorrowful, despondent music in his death. Never again would his fingers race along the strings to the sunny tune of the song he'd written for his wife. His wrinkled, pale face fell and he despaired all over again. All he had wanted was to be able to share his music with people again, like he had in his youth. Or at the very least, play familiar, cheerier songs to himself as he sat in his dusty old cabin. The man hugged the banjo to himself and stood straighter. Anger rushed inside him, suddenly - anger at the people who had ignored his music; anger at the people who had taken his house in the city; anger at the people who hadn't helped him when he was sick; anger at himself for not trying harder to make friends. The man made a decision, then and there. While in his ghost form, in which he could not feel pain and tiredness, he would travel the mountains, unlike when he was old and weak. Though he was still wrinkled and sunken-faced on the outside, he felt young again inside. He turned, swept one last look around his tumble-down cabin, and strode outside, into the cool Autumn hills of the Appalachian Mountains. And so, the Haunting of the Old Man with the Banjo began. © 2024 BarnetteFeatured Review
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2 Reviews Added on October 31, 2024 Last Updated on October 31, 2024 Tags: ghost, ghost story, mountains, Appalachian mountains, banjos, music AuthorBarnetteAboutHi! Thanks for stalking me :) I'm Barnette (not my real name haha) and I'm a teen. I write adventure, fiction, nonfiction, mystery, etc. I also run a chicken sanctuary! If you want to see videos of.. more..Writing
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